Dreams That Burn In The Night by Craig Strete

smashed him into the ground.
    The black snake in
Blue Snow, the envious curve coiled around his spine, hissed in reptilian pleasure.
    Then Blue Snow
ground his foot upon the bird, crushing the helpless body into the hard ground. He spat upon the
hawk. He hated in as dark and black a way as the shaman from the north, Uhlat the eater of flesh,
had hated.
    Like Uhlat, Blue
Snow's blood was cold with hate, unwarmed by the sun. He stared down at the dead hawk in triumph,
proud of what he had done.
    A hard hand closed
upon his shoulder. Blue Snow jumped, looking up, scared to be found out. There was fear in his
eyes.
    The old one, the
demon-touched one, the one who watched the children, towered above him.
    "Let me go!" said
Blue Snow fearfully, struggling in the old man's grasp like a snake caught by an
eagle.
    The old one looked
at the dead white-head hawk and then he looked around him, at the green life, the eager young
trees and flowers and grasses. All around him he saw goodness, yet as he looked down upon the boy
and the dead bird, he found evil and death.
    The old one turned
the boy around, dragging him by his shoul­der until he stared directly into the old one's
eyes.
    Blue Snow stared up
at the old one with terror in his eyes and lies in his heart. "I didn't do it!" cried Blue Snow.
"I found him like this."
    "I saw you," said
the old one, and his voice was heavy and sad. "It is no use lying to me."
    "Let me go." Blue
Snow struggled against the old man's grip, but the one's hands were as strong as a black bear's
jaws.
    The old one pushed
Blue Snow ahead of him, forcing him to walk sideways until they stood over the dead hawk. Without los­ing his grip on Blue
Snow's shoulder, the old one bent down and tenderly lifted the dead bird up.
    Blue Snow snarled
and tried to kick at the old one.
    The old one paid no
attention to him. The old one smoothed the damaged feathers of the broken wings. He straightened
the broken neck, moved his hand slowly over the crushed body of the bird.
    He looked up at
Blue Snow, the dead hawk cradled like a baby in his hand.
    "You enjoyed
killing the crippled hawk. This is true," said the old one. "I know it is true, but my heart does
not know why it is true."
    "Let me
go."
    "Answer me. You
enjoyed this killing!" said the old man, and his voice seemed to ring with thunder. "Say it is
true."
    Blue Snow looked
into the old one's eyes. The lies he would have said melted in his fear of the old one. Like the
snake that knows its fate in the claws of the eagle, Blue Snow could not lie.
    "Yes. I liked
killing it! I hate it! I hate it!" Blue Snow swung his fists at the old one but could not hit
him. "Let me go!"
    "You knew what the
white-head hawk meant to Natina; you understood the magical gift of seeing that this white-head
hawk gave to Elk Dancer. You knew about the good magic, and yet knowing it you did this thing."
The old man looked away, deep into the forest. He seemed to see some place far, far away. "I have
come seeking you. I have been waiting for you, watching for you."
    Blue Snow was
frightened at those words. "You better let me go. They'll miss me. They'll come looking for me.
You'll be sorry when they catch up to you. You better let me go."
    "The way you are,
the only ones who will miss you, are the ones who do not know you," said the old one. "Have you
no shame in your heart for what you have done, for the darkness you bring into the lives of those
who loved this white-head hawk?"
    "I don't care!"
screamed Blue Snow, and he struggled desper­ately now to break free from the old man's grasp. He
was sure the old one was going to kill him. "Let me go!"
    If the old one
noticed Blue Snow's attempt to escape, he gave no sign of it. He stared down tenderly at the dead
hawk.
    "Such beauty should
not leave this world," said the old one. "We find enough bad things in the world, but good things
are rare and we cannot let them die."
    The old one lifted