People of the Thunder (North America's Forgotten Past) by W. Michael Gear, Kathleen O'Neal Gear Read Free Book Online Page B

they’d burned the pubic hair from his crotch, the skin was puffed and weeping pus.
    She took a faltering step, reaching out, her fingers seeking reassurance that this was no specter. Her eyes locked with his as she touched him. His pain and desperation flowed into her like a cold wave, staggering her on her feet.
    “I am so sorry,” he croaked from a thirst-dried throat.
    “Screaming Falcon?” she pleaded, aware of the chill where her hands rested on his chest. Then there was warmth, sliding down her fingers, trickling over her palms. She looked down, stunned by the blood that coated her hands with sticky darkness.
    She was clutching something, a thing alive, that pulsed, spasmed, and then went still. No woman raised in a society of hunters could fail to recognize it. She clutched a human heart.
    When she raised her eyes, it was to find Screaming Falcon staring at her through dead eyes, a look of disbelief reflecting from his damaged face. In a slurred voice, he said, “You and your pride brought us to this.”
    Morning Dew threw her head back. The anguished howl started deep in her lungs, swelling, bursting from her throat with a hideous shriek. . . .
    “Morning Dew!”
    The harsh voice brought Morning Dew awake. She jerked upright, aware of the blanket falling from her shoulders. She sat on a pole bed built into a wall. “What . . . I was . . . Where are we?” Blinking to clear her souls of the images shredding her mind, she stared around the darkened interior of Heron Wing’s house. She knew this place: Split Sky City. She was a slave. Screaming Falcon was long dead.
    Everything was where it was supposed to be. The pole beds lined the walls, dimly illuminated by the glowing coals in the central hearth. Overhead the thatch roofwas lost in the darkness. She drew cool air into her starved lungs, aware of fear sweat cooling on her too-hot body.
    “Morning Dew,” Heron Wing called again, her voice softer now. “You were Dreaming.”
    Morning Dew rubbed callused palms into her sleep-heavy eyes. “Yes . . .”
    “A bad one?” Heron Wing asked.
    “I’m all right,” Morning Dew insisted. “Go back to sleep.”
    “Mother?” Little Stone asked from his bed. “Morning Dew? You screamed. Is something wrong?”
    “Everything’s fine,” Heron Wing insisted gently.
    Morning Dew watched the woman across from her sit up. She could feel Heron Wing’s piercing stare through the dark. Sense the question that rose inside her.
    “It’s all right,” Morning Dew added, laying her blanket to one side and swinging her feet to the mat-covered floor; anything to forestall Heron Wing’s next query. The split cane beneath her soles was warm as she stepped over to Stone’s bed. Despite the dim light she could see the little boy’s face, make out his wide dark eyes staring up at her. “I’m sorry I woke you.” She forced a laugh and lied, “I was playing stickball in the Dream. I just made a goal. You know how that is. I’ve heard you scream, too, just like that, when you made a goal.”
    “I guess,” Stone answered. But she could hear the hesitation in his voice. Heron Wing’s son was just as smart as his mother. Nevertheless, little Stone worshipped Morning Dew’s ability as a stickball player, and an adoring gleam had filled his eyes ever since Morning Dew had won the women’s solstice stickball game for Hickory Moiety.
    “Go back to sleep, Stone. Dream of stickball and all the goals you will make.”
    She could barely make out his smile as she tucked his colorful blanket up around his chin. Then she retreatedto her bed, thankful that Heron Wing’s other slave, Wide Leaf, was spending the night with her new Albaamo lover. It would save her from suffering the nasty old woman’s knowing gaze and thinly veiled comments.
    Morning Dew reseated herself on the edge of her bed and pulled her blanket up around her shoulders. A quick glance told her that Heron Wing had lain down again. The woman’s blanket