Dreams That Burn In The Night by Craig Strete Page A

the dead bird up to the sky and, chanting, raised the hawk once in each of the four directions.
The dead wings covered his hand like a feathery fan.
    He lowered the bird
and held him to his chest.
    "Hear my heart, and
its dance shall be your dance. I look at the sky and hear the wind your wings have
loved."
    The thunder crashed
across the blue sky. The dead wings moved, slowly, ever so slightly until they moved away from
his hand, until they spread out like a bird soaring through the air.
    Blue Snow trembled
with fear.
    The old one lifted
the bird to his face and gently put the bird's head in his mouth. He blew softly, his breath
ruffling the tiny feathers behind the bird's head.
    He took the bird
away from his mouth and held him out to the sky. "With my breath, you will find the wind
again."
    The hawk trembled
in the old one's hand, the wings still out­stretched. His eyes opened and his mouth moved and his
legs slowly unbent until they were straight and strong beneath him.
    The broken bones
mended and went back into place. New feathers grew to replace some that had been torn out. The
bird seemed to shudder with new life.
    The old man opened
his hand, and the bird stood proudly in the center of his hand, his strong claws wrapped around
the old one's fingers. The hawk's wings were whole and beautiful.
    "My heart rises to
see your beauty back in this world," said the old one. "Go. Do not wait. Natina cries for you,
and Elk Dancer stumbles in the darkness your leaving has caused."
    The bird turned his
head and glared at Blue Snow, just for a second, and then like lightning, wings flashing golden
in the sun, he was gone, flying straight as an arrow back to the village.
    The old one watched
the hawk fly with joy in his heart that did not melt until he turned to look down at Blue
Snow.
    Blue Snow cowered
before him, shaking with fear, certain he was going to be killed.
    The old one
squeezed Blue Snow's shoulder tightly. But he was not angry. He was never angry. His heart lived
in a place between worlds, and anger did not live in that place.
    "Come." He jerked
the boy toward him, but behind his roughness he was as gentle as a leaf in the wind and sad like
the end of summer.
    "You hate me!
You're like all the others! They hate me! They all hate me! I hate you. I hate you!"
    "Walk," said the
old one, pushing the boy, kicking and strug­gling, in front of him. "We will talk later when we
are where we must go."
    "Where are you
taking me?" cried the boy as the old man led him through the forest toward the mountains, away
from the vil­lage.
    The old one did not
answer. They walked until the darkness closed about them. The boy, ever fighting to be free,
resisted every step of the way, but the old one was strong beyond his years and held him
firmly.
    As they left the
forest and began moving up into the moun­tains, the boy said, "You are strong, old one. Your
magic is strong. I am only a little boy. You do not want me. I can't hurt you. Let me go back to
the village."
    The old one said
nothing. On and on they marched.
    "I am tired. I want
to rest. I want to go home. I can't walk anymore," cried Blue Snow.
    "I cannot stop,"
said the old one. "It is not my power that moves me. Keep walking. You cannot escape."
    As the way became
dark for the going, the old one led, drag­ging the boy behind him. He neither turned aside nor
hesitated. It was as if the old one saw as well in the dark as in the day.
    All night they
traveled and far into the next day. The boy grew hungry and tired, but the old one was unmoved by
his pleas and seemed to grow neither tired nor hungry himself.
    They reached the
valley of the Aomi when the sun was at its highest in the sky.
    Blue Snow looked
upon the valley with dark fears growing through his shoulders and legs. A sickness and a chill
came upon him, and his teeth touched ice in his mouth. A cold wind and the smell of old things in
the ground blew in his face.
    "What