Raven Mocker by Don Coldsmith Page B

steps to the doorway. She paused, hesitating to step into the darkness where—
    The familiar buzzing rattle sent cold chills over her. Was it starting again? This time she was not close enough to be in real danger. She stepped back, and the rattling ceased. She must have some light …. The fire was surely dead, after two days …. She would have to make one. With a sigh she set her pack against the outside wall of the hut and drew out her flint and steel. It took a little while to arrange her tinder and the charred cloth that would catch the first spark. She knelt, striking the metal with her flint, trying to catch the spark she needed …. There! She lifted the handful with the spark and blew gently until it glowed, then burst into flame, lighting the area in front of the hut ….
    She fumbled with some of her fuel, stacked against the end of the structure, and quickly fashioned a torch. Carrying it for light, she approached the doorway again. The rattle sounded …. Very cautiously she peered around the opening and drew the hanging doorskin aside, to see…
nothing.
    The startling sounds ceased, and Snakewater could have sworn that she heard a suppressed giggle.
    “Damn you, Lumpy!” she exploded. “Where are you? That wasn’t funny at all!”
    She tossed her pack inside, followed it, and quickly sought her pallet. It had been a long and eventful day, and she was exhausted.

9

    T hree Fingers spent a very uncomfortable few days, waiting for the next meeting of the Council. There were several things he did not really understand. It was still a mystery to him, how rumor and accusation could have divided the town so quickly and so bitterly. As far as he knew, Old Town had experienced no more illness or unexpected death than any town does. People are born, live, and die, like the leaves on a tree. Death is a part of the cycle, just as autumn leaves grow ripe and fall in their multicolored splendor. That was an analogy which appealed to him.
    He regretted the losses, some more than others. The death of a child is always hard, even beyond the loss to those most closely involved. Such concern Three Fingers felt quite personally, as part of the responsibility of his office. Still, death happens. To look for causes beyond the obvious seemed fruitless to him. There are things not meant to be understood by mere mortals.
    It seemed infinitely more ridiculous to him that anyone would attempt to assign
blame
for such an inescapable event as a random death. He was concerned that this conflict threatened the town. Already there were friends of the Spotted Bird woman, sympathetic to her loss, who were loud in their denunciation of old Snakewater. The situation might deteriorate to the point where they began to demand action. And in turn the council might find itnecessary to make some sort of decision, simply to avoid violence. That was a hard thing to imagine, in a law-abiding setting such as Old Town. The Real People had respected the authority of duly chosen leaders for many generations.
    Sometimes he wondered, though, how he had allowed himself to be selected for his present position. And
why
would he have accepted it? For the prestige, he had to admit.
    But in the years since he had been Peace Chief of Old Town, there had certainly been no crisis to compare with this. His greatest fear was that friends of the woman who had brought the accusation would try to take action on their own. That in turn could trigger a defensive reaction by the supporters of the medicine woman. Such a thing could tear Old Town into two warring camps, and he doubted that the town could survive such an internal war.
    I t was a welcome distraction, then, when a trader and his wife arrived at Old Town. They sought out the leaders of the town, Three Fingers and Log Roller, to pay their respects, as was customary and proper. It was always pleasant to have traders visit. They carried not only trade goods, but news and stories. Many traders did not include Old