Eyes of Crow by Jeri Smith-Ready Page A

own son. Now she understood how much experience and wisdom Galen held within his mind, and recalled the awe she had felt for him in her younger years. His forbearance in the face of Rhia’s onslaught of opinions showed a patience and control that she needed to learn. Someday she would undoubtedly face grieving family members who would question her ability to serve their loved ones. Even her mother had encountered those who thought they knew more about healing the sick than she did.
    When Rhia finished eating, Galen rose without a word, heaved the pack to his shoulders, and continued up the path, deeper into the forest. Rhia scrambled to her feet and hurried to catch up. She did not want to think about being left alone in a place that was becoming stranger by the step.
    The afternoon darkened early, due both to the increasing tree cover and the clouds that had blown in from the south. Rhia’s feet ached less now, as the path had grown softer from the presence of fallen pine and spruce needles. It looked soft enough to lie down on and sleep until dinnertime. Her mind dulled from exhaustion, and she had seen nothing but the path beneath her feet for what felt like hours.
    Suddenly Galen pulled up short, and Rhia walked into his back with an oomph! of surprise.
    “Sorry,” she said. “What is it?”
    He pointed to a pine tree about ten paces from the path. Four claw marks gouged its trunk, higher than Rhia could reach even on tiptoe. Strips of fresh bark dangled from them, red as clay, standing out against the gray-brown of the trunk.
    “Bear.” Galen went to the tree and reached for the claw marks. The bear’s paw dwarfed his hand. Rhia imagined the power such a paw would wield in an angry strike.
    “A big one,” he noted with typical understatement. “Probably groggy from its winter rest. We should make plenty of noise. If it hears us coming, it will move away.”
    He walked up the path and began singing a favorite Asermon tune, a lively harvest song meant to strengthen field workers through their hard labors. Rhia joined him. Her voice was strong but by no means melodic. The Hawk switched to a harmony that would accompany her limited vocal range.
    When the sky’s gray was more black than white, they stopped for the night. Galen chose a spot off the path where a clearing would make a safe place for a fire. In the center of the clearing sat a large boulder the height of Rhia’s head. It widened at the top, providing a sort of roof, which would shelter them if the rain that the skies promised came to pass.
    Rhia cleared needles from a section of the forest floor and built a campfire. She stayed by its side, for it was the only familiar thing in this place, and instinct told her the fire would hold danger at bay. She imagined brandishing a burning stick to ward off a furry, fanged creature.
    For dinner, they skewered pieces of rabbit and root vegetables on sticks and roasted them over the fire. Though the meal lacked herbs and oils she would have added at home, she savored it like a harvest feast. It would be the last fresh meat she would eat for days, maybe longer.
    “How much farther to the place of Bestowing?” she asked Galen midway through the meal.
    “You’ll know when you’re there.”
    “How?”
    “By the fact that I’m gone.”
    “Oh,” she said in a small voice. “Will that be soon?”
    Galen crunched a blackened potato peel and pretended he hadn’t heard her.
    That night Rhia lay with her back to the boulder, a section of blanket tucked behind her to prevent the stone’s cold from seeping into her body. She stared at the fire and waited to hear Galen abandon her. The slightest movement from where he slept at her feet, or even a change in the rhythm of his breath, roused her to terror.
    On the other side of the campfire, a bundle hung from a branch, swaying in the gathering wind. The bundle contained their food, which Galen had suspended high enough to keep out bears, raccoons, cougars and even