like to think about that, for when the baby came, who would there be to help her with the birth? All the women and girls were dead or lost, all save Moon Reacher, only eight years old. Maybe it would be better if the baby was never born at all, if she just stayed and grew old in the warmth and mindless safety of Dreamer’s womb.
Yet here was Moon Reacher, still tugging at her sleeve. ‘Dreamer! Why is Stone Shaper crying?’
Mammoth Talker loomed over them, massive in his furs, his pack huge on his back, his treasured spear in his fist.
And beside him Stone Shaper was indeed crying again, shuddering silently, the tears frosting on his cheeks. His medicine bag hung around his neck. Even wrapped in his bearskin cloak Shaper looked skinny, weak; he was nineteen years old.
They were all that was left. The four of them might be the last of the True People, anywhere.
Mammoth Talker growled, ‘He cries because he is weak. Less than a priest. Less than a woman, than a child. That unborn thing in your belly, Dreamer. Shaper is less than that.’ Talker was somewhere over thirty years old, perpetually angry, irritated to be stopped yet again.
Dreamer shot back, ‘If he’s so weak, Talker, you should have taken the medicine bag when Wolf Dancer got himself killed. Reacher, I think he’s crying because he thinks this is his fault.’ She gestured. ‘The cold. The winter. He thinks he isn’t saying the right words to make the spring come.’
‘That’s silly,’ Reacher looked up at Shaper, and took his hand. ‘The winter’s bigger than you will ever be.’
Shaper looked down at her, taking gulping breaths.
‘She’s right,’ said Dreamer. ‘And you shouldn’t be wasting your strength on tears. Have you still got the fire safe?’
‘Of course I have.’ He held up his medicine bag.
‘Then you’re doing the most important job you have.’ She looked around. The world was a mouth of grey, the sky featureless, the tough grass on the ground frozen flat, the sun invisible. Trying to get some relief from the north wind they had been heading roughly east, skirting a bluff of rocks, soft brown stone worn by the wind into fantastic shapes. She turned to Mammoth Talker. ‘How late do you think it is?’
‘How am I supposed to know? Ask him. Maybe the answer lies in the track of his tears.’
‘Oh, shut up.’ They were all tired, however early or late it was. Glancing across at the rock formation, she saw there was a kind of hollow under a ledge of stone, with a drift of soil underneath it. There was no source of water she could see, but there were old snow drifts in shadowed crevices above that lower ledge, ice they could melt. ‘Look at that. Maybe we could make a shelter for the night.’
For a heartbeat it seemed Talker might refuse. His huge fist opened and closed around his spear, with its precious point bequeathed by his father, a blade as long as a man’s head, finely shaped, elaborately fluted. In his eyes he was the only hunter left, a hunter trailed by a gaggle of a woman, a boy-priest, and a child. He always wanted to go on, go further. But they had nowhere to go. ‘All right. Make your shelter.’ He shucked his pack off his shoulders and dropped it on the ground. ‘I’ll go find us something to eat. Take care of my spear points.’ He hoisted his spear and stalked off towards the south.
‘Watch out for the Cowards. And bring back wood if you find it,’ Dreamer called after him, but if he heard he showed no sign of it.
‘I’ll set the traps,’ Moon Reacher said. She took off her pack and dug into it, looking for the snares, loops of bison-sinew rope with sharp bone stakes to stick into the ground. ‘I bet there are jackrabbits around these rocks.’
‘Look out for running water, a spring. And be careful.’ Moving cautiously, trying not to strain the muscles of her belly, Dreamer lifted her own pack’s strap over her head, and let it fall to the ground beside Talker’s. ‘Come on, Shaper. Let’s see what we can make of this place.’
Shaper unpicked Mammoth Talker’s heavy pack, which, aside from his carefully wrapped bundle of spear points, mostly consisted of skins, enough for a small house.
Dreamer crawled under the ledge, exploring. At the front the space was high enough to kneel, but it narrowed at the back. Dry, dirty soil had been piled up here by the wind, along with dead grass and a handful of bones. There were animal scuts, small pellets, maybe gopher droppings – with any luck Moon Reacher would turn out to be right about the jackrabbits – and bigger turds, maybe from the scavenger that had brought the bones in here. She scraped the scuts and grass and bones into a heap. All of these would burn, but if Talker didn’t come back with wood it wouldn’t be enough.
As she scraped up the dung her baby, some six months since conception, kicked her hard. She winced, and had to rest.
She had a sudden, sharp memory of her own childhood, when she had been younger than Moon Reacher, and the houses, six, seven, eight of them, had stood by a lake where trees dipped into the water. That had been a place somewhere far to the south of here, south and east. She could surely never find it again, for the people had been walking away from it since before she had become a woman. All gone now, she supposed. Oh, the lake and the grassy plain would still be there. But now, if anybody lived there, it would be Cowards in their swarming numbers and shabby huts, and they would know nothing of the people who had gone before. And here she was burning turds, and melting snow to drink.
Stone Shaper clumsily lifted a hide sheet over the mouth of the hollow, dropped it, and bent to try again. With a sigh Ice Dreamer crawled out of the cave to help him. They used loose rocks to hold the hide in place, and shut out the breeze from the little cave. Once back inside, Dreamer scraped a pit in the sandy ground to make the hearth, and lined it with flat stones gathered from the back of the hollow.
Stone Shaper reverently unpacked his medicine bag. In with the precious stones, herbs and strange old bits of curved tooth was an ember of last night’s fire, wrapped in moss and soft leather. He made a bed of dry moss and bits of grass in the hearth, laid down the ember, and blew on it gently, adding shreds of moss one by one until a tiny flame caught. This he sheltered with his hands, and Ice Dreamer helped him, feeding the flame with dried grass from the cave. When the fire was burning they sat back. It gave off light but little heat; for that they would have to wait for Mammoth Talker’s return with some decent fuel.
‘Mammoth Talker is right,’ said Stone Shaper. He loosened his tunic at the neck, and sat with his legs stretched out. ‘I am no priest. I am no man. I am shamed by my tears.’
‘Well, Talker isn’t much of a man himself to say such things. You’re the only priest we’ve got.’
‘I never wanted to be a priest.’ He flexed his hands. ‘I am Stone Shaper. That’s my name, that’s what I should do.’
And, she thought bitterly, I never wanted to be Pregnant Woman, far from my grandmothers and aunts. ‘This is the pattern of our lives, Shaper. Why, do you think Wolf Dancer wanted to be a priest either? The last true priest was Eagle Seer, before the split…’
It had been fifteen years since the True People had abandoned the houses by the lake and walked north in search of hunting lands free of the presence of the Cowards. Eagle Seer had been raised on the march. But the priest before him, who Dreamer remembered as a tired old man called the Coyote, had made sure Seer had been trained the way a priest should be trained – from boyhood, from the moment it was clear the spirits had chosen him.
But there had been a split. When it began to seem that nowhere was free of the swarming Cowards, the hunters had started arguing among themselves. Dreamer remembered the long nights, the desperate men posturing and shouting, the women and children, hungry, exhausted, sitting at their feet and trying to keep warm. In the end the men could only agree to do what Ice Dreamer had always thought was the worst choice of all: to split up. Most had turned west. Some, including Mammoth Talker and Horse Driver, who was to become the father of Dreamer’s baby, chose east. The women and their children had to follow their men. Dreamer had said goodbye to her sister, her aunt, her mother.
And the only priest, Eagle Seer, had chosen to go west. Talker’s group could not survive without a priest, without a door to the world of the spirits. There was no time for Eagle Seer to raise a new priest in accordance with custom. But Seer did his best. Talker and Driver and the other men had chosen Wolf Dancer, and Seer worked hard to train that young man in the arts of healing and weather lore and talking to the dead. He even made Dancer a new medicine bag and filled it with treasures from his own – to much hostility from those he would walk with, who thought he was diluting their own protection.
Well, since the split Ice Dreamer had heard nothing of those who had gone west; even if they lived they were dead to her. One by one her own party had dwindled, as the old and the young failed to keep the pace, and anybody
