People of the Earth by W. Michael Gear Page A

stared.
                   The wolf had disappeared.
                   "Take me!" he called, raising his
withered arm in a hopeless gesture. Only the wind hissing through the stiff
sage and the muffled chitter of snow crystals blowing
over the drift answered him.
                   He hung his head before he forced himself to
his feet and turned his steps for the earthen dome of the lodge. He looked back
at the rounded lump of granite, hope strangling in his breast. Not even a
shadow remained. Regretfully he pulled the door flap back and ducked into the humid
heat and dancing firelight that filled Larkspur's lodge. The chill that had
refreshed his body had numbed his soul.
                   The last lilting notes of Black Hand's healing
song died as he entered. The lodge, perhaps three long paces across, consisted
of a low-domed, circular structure that had been dug into the ground to the
depth of a man's waist. Four sturdy roof supports of limber pine rose from each
side of the fire to a square framework of stringers that surrounded the smoke
hole. Rafters had been run from the stringers to the edge of the excavated pit.
Bundles and pouches hung from the rafters on thongs, and rolled furs supported
the people who sat shoulder to shoulder around the periphery of the lodge.
                   No one seemed to have noticed Bad Belly's
absence. Attention centered on the Spirit Healer, who sat at the rear of the
lodge in the place of honor. Black Hand might have passed forty winters, though
Bad Belly suspected the man to be older. He wore a painted elk-hide jacket that
hung to the middle of his thighs, and long, fringed leggings. Many necklaces
adorned his chest, some sporting gleaming white shells brought by Traders from
as far away as the Western Waters beyond the land of the Antelope People.
Polished eagle-bone beads had been woven into a breastplate that covered Black
Hand's entire chest.
                   No trace of white streaked the Healer's
shining black hair, but thin lines had formed around his severe mouth. Now he
prayed, head tilted back, eyes closed, as he passed more damp sagebrush through
the Blessing motions, offering it to the east, west, north, and south and then
to the sky and earth before casting the wet leaves into the fire. Steam erupted
in a hissing, spitting cloud.
                   Beside Black Hand, Warm Fire lay on his side,
knees drawn up. Bad Belly's heart shriveled at his brother-in-law's appearance;
sunken flesh had melted away until he looked like little more than dried
winterkill. The old sparkle had disappeared from the lackluster eyes. Warm Fire
coughed, a lung-wrenching sound. It hurt just to hear it. He wasted by the day,
hardly able to breathe. A rasping sound came from his throat, while his chest
labored. How could a man so handsome and strong be reduced to this?
                   Bad Belly blinked at the pain within. He loved
Warm Fire-loved him with all of his heart. To sit through his slow death ... it
ate at him, wounding his soul. Across the fire, their eyes met. Warm Fire's
weary smile burned the hurt even deeper.
                   No one else smiled for Bad Belly.
                   To Black Hand's right, old Larkspur looked on,
a sour tightness in her expression as she blinked her eyes nervously. She sat
amidst the rich furs, firelight flickering over the deep lines that age had
engraved in her face. She watched Black Hand the way a hawk might watch a
foolish young ground squirrel. She always got that sharpness in her features
when equals were around. Her face reminded Bad Belly of a wild prune kept a
year too long, withered, sucked dry. Over the years her teeth had fallen out
until her jaw jutted out, sharp and harsh. A thick nose hung over thin brown
lips, and she tended to blink too much, as if something bothered her eyes.
                   When Larkspur died, the camp and