People of the Raven (North America's Forgotten Past) by W. Michael Gear, Kathleen O'Neal Gear Page A

the brown swath of runoff water that extended several tens of paces from the shore out into the ocean. Indeed, the world was changing. Everyone could see it. The Ice Giants had been melting at ever-faster rates, swelling the rivers over their banks, spilling silt into the ocean. The fish had moved farther out, past the islands and into the blue water. The coves and deepwater niches where they used to harvest mussels, crabs, clams, and fish were mostly empty. The salmon runs had dropped dramatically, leaving the weirs and traps to clog with mud, sticks, and detritus.
    Dogrib had gripped the gunwale to push the canoe into the water, when a voice called, “Rain Bear! My Chief! Wait!”
    A skinny man pelted across the rim trail that led from the sea cliffs to the canoe landing. He was waving his arms as he disappeared into the trees. They caught glimpses of him as he hopped from root to rock on the steep trail before dashing out onto the beach.
    “Is that your son-in-law?” Dogrib asked, and straightened.
    “That’s Pitch, all right. I wonder what’s so important that he would interrupt our attempts to catch breakfast.”
    Pitch careened down the trail as fast as he could, his arms out for balance as he negotiated the slippery rocks. He had a wild look, his eyes huge, mouth open. The woven sea-grass cape flapped behind him.
    Dogrib said, “Something’s wrong.”
    Rain Bear started up the slope, calling, “Pitch? What’s happened?”
    Pitch cupped hands to his mouth. “You are needed at the village!”
    Rain Bear sighed and retrieved his fishing gear and his harpoon with its toggling point. He carefully wound the cord into a loop and followed after Dogrib.
    Pitch was gasping. “The northern villages were attacked three days ago. Refugees are beginning to trickle in. Roe thought you should be warned. They’ve been traveling all night to get here. According to the reports, the wounded are following as quickly as they can.”
    “Refugees?” Dogrib asked. “I pray they brought their own food. We have none to spare.”
    A sense of unease ran through Rain Bear’s veins. “How many, Pitch?”
    “At least five tens—but maybe more. The first reports are hazy.”
    Rain Bear strode forward and took Pitch’s arm in a hard grip. His skinny son-in-law had a beaked face with soft brown eyes. “How many dead?”
    “We don’t know yet, my Chief.” Pitch gave him a penetrating look. “And that’s not all. Moments after the first refugees came straggling in, the guards on the ridge trail intercepted a woman.”
    “What woman?”
    “She says she will give her name to no one but Dzoo, but she’s North Wind … and high-born from her jewelry and dress.”
    Rain Bear narrowed an eye. “Explain.”
    “She has at least two tens of polished shell bracelets on each arm. She wears carved abalone shell necklaces and copper earrings that would buy enough food to feed a Raven village for a season. Her dress belongs to a matron—the finest leather, buffalo calf, if I’m not mistaken, and beaded with dentalium. Even the fringe is adorned with red obsidian fetishes.”
    Rain Bear’s gaze rose to the towering trees that thrust up like spears above the beach. During the night, mist had dusted the branches, turning them into glittering silver giants as the morning sunlight poured over them. “Did you tell her Dzoo is away on a Healer’s journey?”
    “We have told her nothing, my Chief.”
    “Where is she being held?”
    “In the Council Lodge.”
    Rain Bear shoved past him and took the slick trail up through the trees to the loamy bench where Sandy Point Village nestled amidst the towering firs, spruce, and alders. Smoke from the morning fires hung low, giving the impression that the round bark lodges with their grass-thatch roofs were hulking, shaggy beasts. A handful of refugees crowded around the central fire, filthy and haggard looking, some with bandaged injuries.
    Rain Bear avoided them, needing time to think. By Raven