starving little Crow women.
When the wind died down, signaling the sky’s temporary withholding of rain, the forest became quieter and louder at the same time. The sounds the wind had muffled now came sharply to Rhia’s ears.
A small creature scurried through the nearby underbrush. An owl dove with a soft roar of wings. A scrambling of twigs and a peep cut short told her the nameless animal had just turned into prey. She appreciated for the first time how well the walls of her home muted the night’s tiny battles.
A distant shriek sliced the darkness, and Rhia yelped. Galen turned over with a grunt.
“What was that?” she whispered. He snored in response. She resisted the urge to kick the Hawk in the head to wake him. A few deep, calming breaths later, she considered the animals who might make such a sound: screech owl, bobcat? Both too small to eat her.
Just to be sure, she crawled to the dying fire and stoked it until the flames jumped as high as her face. As she warmed her hands, she became aware of her exposed back. Rhia looked over both shoulders and saw nothing but the uninterrupted blackness of the boulder. Galen’s figure was invisible, as he had wrapped himself from head to foot in a dark woolen blanket.
Rhia reached for her own blanket and shifted it around her body as she sat before the fire. Crows were bold, fearless of anything that didn’t pose a genuine threat. How much more powerful she would be when she shirked her silly fears.
The creature shrieked again, closer. Rhia stifled a cry and scooted back into the sanctuary of the boulder. She lay down and forced herself to close her eyes. The dancing flames cast lurid images on the backs of her lids. She recited a childhood prayer to Swan, her father’s Spirit, to cradle her in a dreamless sleep. Exhaustion nibbled at her consciousness, and she began to slip away just as a wolf howled in the distance, long, low and unanswered.
11
R hia woke into a world of silver.
Frozen rain had covered the trees while she slept, and now each needle bore its own tiny icicle glistening in the faint morning sunlight. The millions of mirrors sparkled reflections against each other to create a dazzling mural. Not a single surface lay untouched by ice. Even the tree trunks held a slick glaze.
Dry except for the edge of her blanket, which had frozen to the ground, Rhia stared at the sight from her place under the overhanging rock. Her muscles ached from the cold and the vigilant posture she had held all night. Even the slightest stretch made them cramp. So she remained motionless, half-asleep, in awe of the beauty that surrounded her. Perfect ice storms such as this had occurred perhaps half a dozen times in her life. The rising sun would soon return the frigid, fragile magnificence to its watery origins.
Quick, light footsteps crunched on the other side of the rock. Rhia raised her head.
“Galen, is that you?”
No reply.
“Galen?”
Against the protest of her muscles, Rhia sat up.
“Galen, did you hear—”
He was gone.
Not just him, but his blanket, his pack, the bundle of food that had hung from the tree—all gone.
Rhia scrambled to her feet, calling his name again and again. The campfire was nothing but a wisp of steam now, doused by the ice. She turned her stiff neck in every direction, hoping to see Galen in the distance, maybe collecting wood or praying in solitude.
A small pack lay in the space where he had slept. She pulled it open to see two clean pairs of trousers and two blouses, all her size. Beneath the clothes lay an extra blanket, a waterskin, a flint, a small shovel for digging latrines and a package of dried venison.
The food, she realized, was to break her fast.
In three days.
And so it begins. She examined her surroundings, which did not appear sacred or extraordinary. The only remarkable feature was the boulder, which was situated in the exact center of the clearing, as if someone used it to hold court.
The footsteps crunched
When the wind died down, signaling the sky’s temporary withholding of rain, the forest became quieter and louder at the same time. The sounds the wind had muffled now came sharply to Rhia’s ears.
A small creature scurried through the nearby underbrush. An owl dove with a soft roar of wings. A scrambling of twigs and a peep cut short told her the nameless animal had just turned into prey. She appreciated for the first time how well the walls of her home muted the night’s tiny battles.
A distant shriek sliced the darkness, and Rhia yelped. Galen turned over with a grunt.
“What was that?” she whispered. He snored in response. She resisted the urge to kick the Hawk in the head to wake him. A few deep, calming breaths later, she considered the animals who might make such a sound: screech owl, bobcat? Both too small to eat her.
Just to be sure, she crawled to the dying fire and stoked it until the flames jumped as high as her face. As she warmed her hands, she became aware of her exposed back. Rhia looked over both shoulders and saw nothing but the uninterrupted blackness of the boulder. Galen’s figure was invisible, as he had wrapped himself from head to foot in a dark woolen blanket.
Rhia reached for her own blanket and shifted it around her body as she sat before the fire. Crows were bold, fearless of anything that didn’t pose a genuine threat. How much more powerful she would be when she shirked her silly fears.
The creature shrieked again, closer. Rhia stifled a cry and scooted back into the sanctuary of the boulder. She lay down and forced herself to close her eyes. The dancing flames cast lurid images on the backs of her lids. She recited a childhood prayer to Swan, her father’s Spirit, to cradle her in a dreamless sleep. Exhaustion nibbled at her consciousness, and she began to slip away just as a wolf howled in the distance, long, low and unanswered.
11
R hia woke into a world of silver.
Frozen rain had covered the trees while she slept, and now each needle bore its own tiny icicle glistening in the faint morning sunlight. The millions of mirrors sparkled reflections against each other to create a dazzling mural. Not a single surface lay untouched by ice. Even the tree trunks held a slick glaze.
Dry except for the edge of her blanket, which had frozen to the ground, Rhia stared at the sight from her place under the overhanging rock. Her muscles ached from the cold and the vigilant posture she had held all night. Even the slightest stretch made them cramp. So she remained motionless, half-asleep, in awe of the beauty that surrounded her. Perfect ice storms such as this had occurred perhaps half a dozen times in her life. The rising sun would soon return the frigid, fragile magnificence to its watery origins.
Quick, light footsteps crunched on the other side of the rock. Rhia raised her head.
“Galen, is that you?”
No reply.
“Galen?”
Against the protest of her muscles, Rhia sat up.
“Galen, did you hear—”
He was gone.
Not just him, but his blanket, his pack, the bundle of food that had hung from the tree—all gone.
Rhia scrambled to her feet, calling his name again and again. The campfire was nothing but a wisp of steam now, doused by the ice. She turned her stiff neck in every direction, hoping to see Galen in the distance, maybe collecting wood or praying in solitude.
A small pack lay in the space where he had slept. She pulled it open to see two clean pairs of trousers and two blouses, all her size. Beneath the clothes lay an extra blanket, a waterskin, a flint, a small shovel for digging latrines and a package of dried venison.
The food, she realized, was to break her fast.
In three days.
And so it begins. She examined her surroundings, which did not appear sacred or extraordinary. The only remarkable feature was the boulder, which was situated in the exact center of the clearing, as if someone used it to hold court.
The footsteps crunched
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