Comanche Dawn by Mike Blakely Page B

before Father Sun stalked quietly to peek over the curves of Mother Earth. His hunger was only a cold weight within him now, no longer gnawing, but his want for water made his tobacco-scorched mouth feel like rawhide. Each dry breath he drew seemed to blister his throat and prick his tongue, which felt large in his mouth.
    Late in the third day, as Shadow stood bobbing on legs that refused to lock at the knees, he heard what he took to be a spirit-voice. Opening his eyes, he soon found that the sound was that of the Thunderbird, far away to the west, blasting the world of humans with bolts of fire shot from his eyes. The storm that hid and protected the great bird rose out of the distance, billowing toward Shadow’s butte, coming between the seeker and the sun.
    He turned from the south, to the west, thinking perhaps the Thunderbird would be the spirit to guide him through life, though he had never known or heard of a warrior with such medicine. The shadow of the great bird’s cloud felt good. It refreshed the seeker and gratified his nostrils with the musky scent of summer rain.
    Now the cool winds gusted down from the very wings of the Thunderbird, and the playful shafts of deadly fire cracked all around Shadow’s butte, near enough that he could see things instantly blasted to dust where the shafts struck. This was a test he could not have dared hope for, and he set his teeth hard together to brace himself against fear of that unseen spirit-bird.
    A large raindrop thumped hard against his brow as the seeker’s hair twisted on a windflaw and his empty stomach fluttered with doubt. Would the wily Thunderbird tempt him with water? He was forbidden to drink these four days of his quest, but the smell of rain and the cool dot on his brow made him long to wet his tongue. He put his finger on the damp spot, felt a second drop hit the back of his hand, which he might have pressed against his lips.
    Lighting struck a tall tecamaca tree on the banks of Sometimes Water below, splintering a limb—a warning from the powerful Thunderbird. Shadow began to know now what Spirit Talker meant when he spoke of the dangers and burdens of strong medicine.
    The drops began to beat his head like a drum, and Shadow’s eyes bulged with fear of his own failure, dread of the Thunderbird’s vengeance. Was this his due for taunting the spirits? Rain was collecting on his face, trickling down. He shook his head to shed it, emptied his lungs in a single blast to turn the water from his lips. A drop cooled a crack in his lip, and the seeker closed his mouth tight, defying his tongue to lick the rain away. A magical gale spattered him with a swarm of tiny droplets, making his whole face wet. The water hit hard now, soaking him. His long hair grew heavy. And he knew he might twist its ends over his mouth and wring out enough to swallow, but the eyes of his ancestors were upon him, and they would know his shame and punish it.
    Rendered mute with his sealed mouth and his swollen tongue, the seeker could only grunt as he shook the rain from his face and snorted like a horse at the wonderful scent of his temptation. He pressed his lips together tighter, forging a grim visage of marvelous determination that would return to him in days to come—hard days of pain and sacrifice.
    His whole body was wet. The wind made his own locks whip him. The wing feathers of the Thunderbird rumbled slowly through the black air of the vast mystic cloud, taunting him: Drink! Drink! Drink, human! Shadow shook his whole body in blatant defiance.
    Now, he heard a sound that could only be the eyes of the great bird turning in their sockets. The screech from the hard beak came, instantly lost in the roar of shadow-fires. He felt the talons prick his back as heat slammed him to the ground. He slid briefly through thin mud, grit and rocks catching the flesh of his palms, chest, and face. He cowered, his ears ringing, until he realized he had kept his lips