Fire Along the Sky
Page 72
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She made herself turn her head, knowing what she would see: the boy's pallet was empty. His bow and quiver were gone and his knife and a small axe; he had taken one of the four pairs of snowshoes they had among them.
Gone to prove the words spoken over him at his birth: this one will be a great hunter.
She would have started out after him but they held her back while the blizzard screamed, all through the day. Walking-Woman did the work they put in her hands, cut strips of meat and turned them on the fire, poured fat into lengths of knotted intestine, took a little girl into her lap and rubbed snow on sore gums where a new tooth was coming. Through all of that she was casting her thoughts out into the world. She spoke to Strikes-the-Sky and he did not answer her.
Too busy looking for the boy, she thought and then: now he will turn away from me too. Now they are both angry at me.
The storm died late in the afternoon, but the wind stayed behind. It blew hard, moving snow across the lake in gusts and then back again, sending eddies swirling up into the trees. The sun showed itself, cold and serene, and played on the ice that weighed down branches, scattering rainbows for the wind to hurry away.
They went out to find her boy, the twins and two of the other women and Walking-Woman, who first searched all around the hillside looking for places where he might have taken shelter.
Then she heard the twins calling her, and in that moment something caught up in her throat. Something as hard as a bullet, something with the wet-penny taste of blood. She walked toward the sound of their voices, opened her mouth to call back and found she could not.
They were standing on the lake in the last of the light, two brown faces as alike as chestnuts. They had cleared away a dimpled spot in the new snow that blanketed the lake to find, first, a single snowshoe, then the axe and finally the truth.
Makes-a-First had chopped a hole in the ice in the shape of a moon not quite full. Just big enough to drop a fishing net; big enough to swallow a young boy blinded by a snowstorm. It was frozen over again, the new ice thinner and clearer, and caught up in it, like a fly in a piece of amber: the heron feather that Makes-a-Fist plaited into his hair.
In the end they went on without her. Walking-Woman had some clothes and furs, and they left her what they could: enough meat and bear fat to last a few weeks, a bow and some arrows, a knife and axe and whetstone, a pair of snowshoes, a few flints, some string, a little salt. Late-Harvest promised to send one of her uncles or brothers back with more supplies.
Walking-Woman stood at the mouth of the cave and watched them disappear over the next hill.
In the day she walked the lake, stopping now and then to scrape away the snow, more than three feet deep in some places and nowhere less than two, and stare into the ice and talk to the spirit of the lake, who never answered her.
When the food was gone she made herself a slingshot and began to set snares. Sometimes she found herself without a fire because she had simply forgotten to gather wood and on those nights she went to sleep wondering if she would wake up again.
The Hunger Moon came and went and Walking-Woman learned the shape of the lake by heart. The cold dug in, the kind of cold she remembered from winters in the endless forests: cold leached of color, cold that would not allow snow to fall. And still she went out every day to walk the lake. The snow had grown a crust as hard as glass, but not so fragile: she used the axe to clear a spot when she wanted to study the ice.
Toward the end of the next moon Walking-Woman realized two things: there had been no snow for eight weeks, and her ribs had pushed out against her skin so that she could trace the shape of each of them with the tip of a finger.
It was then that Strikes-the-Sky came back and began to talk to her again as if he had never stopped. At first he only pointed out practical things that she had overlooked: fallen branches for the taking, a good place for a snare. Then, when she had been in the cave for three full moons and the cold had begun to loosen its grip, she found a doe at the mouth of the cave with crows sitting on its head. They looked at her with their sharp black eyes.
Behind her Strikes-the-Sky said, Now you will eat. Walking-Woman chased the crows away and that night she slept deeply with the taste of fat bright on her tongue.
Another moon waxed and waned. On a morning warmer than the ones before it, a morning with the first smell of spring in the air, the lake spirit took Walking-Woman. She was moving across its center, following her own tracks, when the layers of snow and ice under her feet let out a sound like a tree falling and then simply opened. One moment she was standing in the sunshine and the next she was tumbling, loose-limbed, hard snow in her mouth, waiting for the bite of the water to snap her in two.
She thought, Now I will see him, my son, and, How bright it is in the shadow lands, and then she found herself standing, breathless and dry, on the bottom of an empty lake.
It was the sound of her own harsh breathing that made her understand that she was not drowning, could not drown because the lake water had drained away over the long dry moons. Overhead the roof of ice and snow creaked and sighed like a living thing, flexing in the sun. Walking-Woman stood and listened to the ice talking while her eyes adjusted to the odd shadowy lake-cave.
She took a step, cautiously, and stumbled on a catfish frozen into the rutted lake bottom. A few more steps took her out of the light from the hole she had broken in the ice, further into the shadows. She walked until she could no longer stand, and then she crawled in the dark, over bones and fish and other things she could not name and did not like to imagine.
When she came to the first grasses she used the axe and struck at the ice, bowed her head while it fell in great chunks that would leave bruises on her shoulders and back. Then she stood up in the sunlight, ice clinging to her bearskin coat, and saw that she had walked most of the way to the shore.
Gone to prove the words spoken over him at his birth: this one will be a great hunter.
She would have started out after him but they held her back while the blizzard screamed, all through the day. Walking-Woman did the work they put in her hands, cut strips of meat and turned them on the fire, poured fat into lengths of knotted intestine, took a little girl into her lap and rubbed snow on sore gums where a new tooth was coming. Through all of that she was casting her thoughts out into the world. She spoke to Strikes-the-Sky and he did not answer her.
Too busy looking for the boy, she thought and then: now he will turn away from me too. Now they are both angry at me.
The storm died late in the afternoon, but the wind stayed behind. It blew hard, moving snow across the lake in gusts and then back again, sending eddies swirling up into the trees. The sun showed itself, cold and serene, and played on the ice that weighed down branches, scattering rainbows for the wind to hurry away.
They went out to find her boy, the twins and two of the other women and Walking-Woman, who first searched all around the hillside looking for places where he might have taken shelter.
Then she heard the twins calling her, and in that moment something caught up in her throat. Something as hard as a bullet, something with the wet-penny taste of blood. She walked toward the sound of their voices, opened her mouth to call back and found she could not.
They were standing on the lake in the last of the light, two brown faces as alike as chestnuts. They had cleared away a dimpled spot in the new snow that blanketed the lake to find, first, a single snowshoe, then the axe and finally the truth.
Makes-a-First had chopped a hole in the ice in the shape of a moon not quite full. Just big enough to drop a fishing net; big enough to swallow a young boy blinded by a snowstorm. It was frozen over again, the new ice thinner and clearer, and caught up in it, like a fly in a piece of amber: the heron feather that Makes-a-Fist plaited into his hair.
In the end they went on without her. Walking-Woman had some clothes and furs, and they left her what they could: enough meat and bear fat to last a few weeks, a bow and some arrows, a knife and axe and whetstone, a pair of snowshoes, a few flints, some string, a little salt. Late-Harvest promised to send one of her uncles or brothers back with more supplies.
Walking-Woman stood at the mouth of the cave and watched them disappear over the next hill.
In the day she walked the lake, stopping now and then to scrape away the snow, more than three feet deep in some places and nowhere less than two, and stare into the ice and talk to the spirit of the lake, who never answered her.
When the food was gone she made herself a slingshot and began to set snares. Sometimes she found herself without a fire because she had simply forgotten to gather wood and on those nights she went to sleep wondering if she would wake up again.
The Hunger Moon came and went and Walking-Woman learned the shape of the lake by heart. The cold dug in, the kind of cold she remembered from winters in the endless forests: cold leached of color, cold that would not allow snow to fall. And still she went out every day to walk the lake. The snow had grown a crust as hard as glass, but not so fragile: she used the axe to clear a spot when she wanted to study the ice.
Toward the end of the next moon Walking-Woman realized two things: there had been no snow for eight weeks, and her ribs had pushed out against her skin so that she could trace the shape of each of them with the tip of a finger.
It was then that Strikes-the-Sky came back and began to talk to her again as if he had never stopped. At first he only pointed out practical things that she had overlooked: fallen branches for the taking, a good place for a snare. Then, when she had been in the cave for three full moons and the cold had begun to loosen its grip, she found a doe at the mouth of the cave with crows sitting on its head. They looked at her with their sharp black eyes.
Behind her Strikes-the-Sky said, Now you will eat. Walking-Woman chased the crows away and that night she slept deeply with the taste of fat bright on her tongue.
Another moon waxed and waned. On a morning warmer than the ones before it, a morning with the first smell of spring in the air, the lake spirit took Walking-Woman. She was moving across its center, following her own tracks, when the layers of snow and ice under her feet let out a sound like a tree falling and then simply opened. One moment she was standing in the sunshine and the next she was tumbling, loose-limbed, hard snow in her mouth, waiting for the bite of the water to snap her in two.
She thought, Now I will see him, my son, and, How bright it is in the shadow lands, and then she found herself standing, breathless and dry, on the bottom of an empty lake.
It was the sound of her own harsh breathing that made her understand that she was not drowning, could not drown because the lake water had drained away over the long dry moons. Overhead the roof of ice and snow creaked and sighed like a living thing, flexing in the sun. Walking-Woman stood and listened to the ice talking while her eyes adjusted to the odd shadowy lake-cave.
She took a step, cautiously, and stumbled on a catfish frozen into the rutted lake bottom. A few more steps took her out of the light from the hole she had broken in the ice, further into the shadows. She walked until she could no longer stand, and then she crawled in the dark, over bones and fish and other things she could not name and did not like to imagine.
When she came to the first grasses she used the axe and struck at the ice, bowed her head while it fell in great chunks that would leave bruises on her shoulders and back. Then she stood up in the sunlight, ice clinging to her bearskin coat, and saw that she had walked most of the way to the shore.
