although if she had hopped like Toad or crawled like Turtle, the results would have been the same-those she needed to have counsel of would have found her, if she had not been able to travel swiftly enough to find them. That was the way it was; the Wah-K'on-Tah saw to it, in whatever ways it suited the Great Mystery to work. If, however, she chose to perch and wait-she would never find those wise counselors. And it wasn't a good idea to tempt other, smaller mysteries into action against her by being lazy.
So she flew, low over tallgrass prairie, until movement below sent her up to hover as only kestrel, of all the falcons, could.
Rabbit looked up at her from the shadows at the base of the grass, his nose twitching with amusement. 'Come down, little sister,' he offered. 'Come and tell me what you seek, out of your world and in mine.'
She stooped and landed beside him, claws closing on grass stems as if they were a mouse. 'An answer,' she said, folding her wings with a careful flip to align the feathers properly, for a raptor's life depends on her feathers. 'What is it that keeps me unworthy to become a pipebearer? Where have I failed?'
'I am not the one to ask,' said Rabbit. His pink nose quivered as he tested the air, constantly, and his gray- brown coat blended perfectly with the dead grass of last year. 'You know what my counsel is; silence and care, and always vigilance. I do not think that will help you much. But perhaps our cousin in the grasses there can answer you.'
He pointed with his quivering pink nose at a spiderweb strung between three tall grass stems and the outstretched branch of a blackberry bush. Spider watched her from the center of her web, swaying with the breeze; a large black and tan orb-spider, nearly the size of her kestrel-head. Rabbit accepted her word of thanks and hopped away. In a moment he had vanished among the grasses.
She repeated her question to Spider, who thought it over for a moment or two, as the breeze swayed her web and flies buzzed tantalizingly near. 'You must know that I am going to counsel patience,' she said, 'for that is my way. All things come to my web, eventually, and break their necks therein.'
Kestrel bobbed her head, though she did not feel particularly patient. 'That is true,' she replied. 'But it is more than lack of patience-I must be unready, somehow. There is something I have not done properly.'
'If you feel that strongly, then you are unready,' Spider replied, agreeing with her. 'I see that you do have great patience-except, perhaps, with your Grandfather. But he is a capricious Little Old Man, and difficult, and his tricks do not make you laugh as they did when you were a child. I think perhaps I cannot see what it is that makes you unready. Why not ask one with sharper eyes than mine?'
She wondered for a moment if there was a hidden message in that little speech about her Grandfather, but if there was, she couldn't see it. Spider pointed to the blue sky above with one of her forelegs, and Kestrel's sharp eyes spotted the tiny dot that could only be Prairie Falcon soaring high in a thermal. Her feathers slicked down to her body in reflex, for the prairie falcon of the plains of the outer world would quite happily make a meal of a kestrel.
For that matter, if she let fear overcome her, Prairie Falcon of the inner world would happily make a meal of Kestrel.
But that was a lesson she had learned long ago, and the tiny atavistic fears of the form she wore were things she had overcome many times. She thanked Spider, who turned her interest back to a dewdrop threatening her web, and launched herself into the air.
She returned to the steam-laden sauna with no answers, only a load of defeat, and the surety that she was not only unready, she was unworthy. Not good enough.
And she still didn't know why.
Kestrel became Good Eagle Woman; Good Eagle Woman assumed the mask of Jennifer. She opened her eyes and stood carefully, feeling for the switch that turned the heater-box off, then finding the door latch and pushing it open, releasing the steam into the air-conditioned cool of the hall. There were old bathrobes hanging beside the sauna; she wrapped herself in one and headed for the shower.
As the hot water sheeted down her body, she tried to let it clear her spirit of depression. It didn't succeed, not entirely.
She should have been ready by now; she should have been good enough. She had mastered skills just as difficult in a shorter time frame-to save money, she'd gotten her four-year degree in three years, while continuing to study the shamanic traditions. Not good enough; that hung in her chest, a weight on her soul and heart, pulling her to the ground when she wanted to fly. It was time-it was more than time. She had spent years in this apprenticeship; she should have been ready by now. She should have been good enough.
How long had she been doing this, anyway?
Since I was just a kid, she thought, trying to remember the very first time her grandfather had singled her out for teaching. Then it came to her-
'You see Rabbit?' Granpa asked her, coming up behind | her on the white-painted back porch, so quietly he had made no sound. But she had known he was there. She always knew where he was; he was a Presence to the heart, like a little sun, a glow, always shining with energy and cheer.
She had been sitting on the porch for a while, just watching the birds at the feeder, when the little rabbit had crept cautiously up to help himself to some of the stale bread her mother put out for the crows and grackles. He couldn't have been more than two months old; no longer dependent on his mother, but scarcely half the size of a grown rabbit. He never stopped watching all around while he nibbled; never stopped swiveling his ears in every direction, alert for danger. His fur looked very soft, softer than her cat's, and her fingers itched to stroke him. But she knew that if she moved, he would be off in a moment.
She nodded, not speaking. Granpa wouldn't frighten the rabbit no matter what he did or said, she knew that, but she also knew she would. It was just a fact, like the green grass. Granpa could walk right up to a wild deer and touch it. She wouldn't be able to get within a mile of one. 'No, not just this rabbit-' Granpa persisted, 'Rabbit. ' She had not puzzled at the statement, as virtually any adult and most children would have. She heard what he meant, not what he said, and looked deeper-
That was when the half-grown cottontail became Rabbit, grew to adult-human size and more, sat up, and looked at her.
'Hello, little sister,' he said politely. 'Thank your mother for her bread, but ask her if she would put some of the kitchen greens out here for us as well, would you? Carrot-ends taste just fine to us, and bug-chewed cabbage leaves, or rusty lettuce. Crow might like a taste of carrot now and again, too.'
Wide-eyed, she had nodded, noting how modest he was, how quiet; how he had made his thanks before making his request. It came to her then, right into her mind, how hard life was for him-how everything was his enemy. He not only had to flee his ancient foes of Hawk and Coyote, Rattlesnake and Fire, but the new ones brought by humans, Dog and Cat. And humans hunted him too-she'd eaten rabbit often, herself.
But he survived by being quiet, by skill at hiding and running, and by being very, very fruitful. He sired many offspring, so that one out of every ten might live to sire or give birth.
And he did well by being something of an opportunist. Now that the land had been covered with houses with neat backyards, there were alleys full of weeds to eat and hide in, and sometimes the kitchen rubbish to eat as well. There were spaces between fences and under houses or garages to make into warrens. Dogs and cats could be dodged by escaping into another yard, or under a porch. And of the hawks and falcons, only kestrels hunted among the houses at all regularly. Rabbit had adapted to the world created by the Heavy Eyebrows, and now prospered where creatures that had not adapted were not prospering.
Just like us, she thought with astonishment. Just like Mommy and Daddy and Granpa-
Because they lived in a house in the suburbs of Clare-more, because Daddy didn't get tribal oil money, he had a job as a welder, and that was the same for Mommy and Granpa, too. There was nothing to show that they were Osage and Cherokee except their name. They lived just like their neighbors, went to church every Sunday at First Presbyterian, and Mommy even had bridge club on Thursday afternoon-except, like Rabbit, they had a secret life of stories, traditions, and dances and special ceremonies that none of their neighbors knew about. They had their hiding places in between the 'fences' and under the 'porches' of the white ways, where they did their Osage and Cherokee things-
Granpa had laughed, and Rabbit dwindled and became a half-grown cottontail, who had fled like a wind- blown leaf into the dark shadows under the honeysuckle.
That was when he had taken her by the hand, led her in to Daddy, who was finishing his breakfast, and said, 'This one.'
