People of the Earth by W. Michael Gear Read Free Book Online Page B

to the crystal points of starlight and the Spirit World in
a plea for life.
                   Bad Belly stopped for a moment, head cocked to
the song of his People as they called for help from First Man, the Earth
Mother, and the Earth Spirits to save Warm Fire's life. Despite the desperate
nature of the ceremony unfolding in his grandmother's lodge, the beauty of the
night captivated him. He'd left the steamy warmth inside to go out and attend
to the necessities of the body. Now, walking back, he hesitated, cold wind
nipping at his cheeks, flicking his black braids back and forth like twin
cougar tails. Spring would come soon, but would Warm Fire live to see it?
                   Bad Belly dallied, unwilling to return to
Larkspur's lodge and face his grandmother's disdainful stare or the pain of his
brother-in-law, Warm Fire's, wasting. His sister, Bitterbrush, would still be
sitting in her accustomed place where she watched her failing husband through
haunted eyes.
                   He shook his head and sighed. What did it feel
like to know that your wife loved you? His mercifully short marriage to Golden
Flax had been anything but blissful—she'd finally thrown him out. Bitterbrush,
like everyone else, loved Warm Fire. How would she cope with her husband's
death?
                   How will I?
                   Bad Belly took a deep breath. How does a man
deal with the death of his only friend? Images of Warm Fire's face stirred the
gray ashes of his memory. Warm Fire's twinkling eyes and reassuring smile hung
in his thoughts with all the clinging sorrow of honey in a sandstorm.
                   High on the rocks behind the camp, a wolf
keened into the night, voice twining with that of the singers who pled for Warm
Fire's life. Bad Belly bit the inside of his lip, seeking to draw resolve from
the pain. A shiver caught him by surprise as the cold breeze shifted. Darkness
pressed around, seeping into his life, sucking at his soul.
                   As if to reassure him, Trouble padded across
the crunching snow to thrust his nose into Bad Belly's hand. Absently Bad Belly
scratched his shaggy black-and-white dog's furry ears.
                   Life hadn't always been so difficult. Once
he'd had the ability to greet the morning sun with more than trepidation.
                  He had been named Still Water as a boy, though
now he doubted that anyone even remembered. They'd begun calling him Bad Belly
the time his stomach had given him so much trouble, and the name had stuck with
the persistence of boiled pine sap. He squinted up at the stars, wondering if
the Creator—who knew everything—remembered his real name, or cared that the
last bit of human warmth and companionship in his life grew dimmer by the
moment.
                   Warm Fire remembered—but Warm Fire lay in
Larkspur's lodge, dying, while the Healer, Black Hand, Sang over him.
                   Had Power left Bad Belly alone, he would have
been an average sort of man, not very tall, not very muscular, and not very
handsome. But the capricious Spirits had meddled. When he'd been a boy, he'd
stuck his hand into a hole where he'd secreted a special toy. Rattlesnake—in
search of respite from the glaring summer sun—had found the same hole and
secreted himself in there, too.
                   Bad Belly had hovered between life and death
as Singing Stones—the renowned Spirit Healer—chanted endlessly over him. Either
the chants had worked, or his grandmother had paid enough, or sacrificed
enough, to the Spirit World to win him his life. Of course, had he been a first
daughter, Larkspur would have paid a lot more and perhaps Bad Belly might have
escaped his experience in one piece. As it was, his right arm had never been
the same. Now it hung uselessly: a misshapen and crooked thing that he held
protectively to his chest.