The Dancers of Noyo by Margaret St. Clair Page A

to have been easy, the bow flexing like a willow twig. A little girl ought to've been able to string that bow. But in fact the wood refused to bend at all, though I pulled until I was out of breath. Tim looked on impassively.
     
                  My face was getting red. This was ridiculous. I remembered something Pomo Joe had taught me about mobilizing strength. (It was, he insisted, mainly a matter of breathing.) I did as he had told me, and pulled mightily on the string.
     
                  The bow bent abruptly. But the string was still about a foot from the notch, and I couldn't get it any nearer. Tim's dark face wore an expression of surprise.
     
                  I made two more tries, but I had to give up at last. I was trembling from exertion. Tim said, "How did you manage to do that?"
     
                  "Do what?" I answered, irritated. "I couldn't bend it nearly enough."
     
                  "You shouldn't have been able to bend it at all," Tim answered. "It makes me wonder whether there's something in you ... something extraordinary."
     
                  "I've been studying medicine with an Indian," I said.
     
                  "That might be it, but I doubt it." He seemed genuinely puzzled. "Anyhow, you don't get the bow. Sorry."
     
                  "It wouldn't have done me much good if you had let me have it," I said, "since I can't bend it anyhow. But just as a matter of curiosity, do you mind telling me how that bow had been treated to make it so hard to bend?"
     
                  "Sorry, but I do mind," Tim answered.
     
                  I felt like choking him. I lingered for a moment, but he had resumed his staring out to sea and didn't say anything. I started up to the highway again.
     
                  I got to the Navarro river about five-thirty in the afternoon. I was looking forward to seeing Harvey, since he and I were far more compatible than Tim and I. Also, Harvey was a keen archer; he was sure to have an extra bow about somewhere. I trudged down toward the river mouth.
     
                  There was nobody at Navarro. I mean nobody. Nobody in the huts, at the dancing place, in the sweat-house, on the beach. Nobody. Not one single person. There wasn't even the Dancer.
     
                  Had they all suddenly taken a fancy to abandon their settlement and go elsewhere? The tribe's boats were still drawn up on the shore, wood for fires was stacked up, lines for surf fishing were drying in the slanting rays of the sun.
     
                  I went back through the huts. A number of personal possessions were lying around—headbands and mocassins , a small bead loom. On the ground in one hut I found a bow, with a quiver of arrows lying beside it. The grip of the bow was bound with green cord.
     
                  I knew I'd seen that bow before. Harvey—yes, Harvey had been carrying it the last time I had seen him, six months or so ago. I recognized the cord on the grip. He'd mentioned that it was his favorite bow, the best he'd ever made. He would never have abandoned it willingly.
     
                  I picked up the bow and went outside. In the low rays of the setting sun contours and elevations were exaggerated. I saw that between the huts a looping, sinuous trail led down toward the water. It looked as if chains had been dragged through the sand, or outsize snakes had gone winding down toward the surf.
     
                  Or had something come up out of the water? No, the looped trail started from a well-trampled spot between the huts and ended at the water's edge.
     
                  At any rate, I had my bow. I stood clutching it in the dusk, with a cold feeling growing around my heart.
     
    -
     

Chapter X
     
                  It was a misty day. Mist lay along the highway in