Read Online People of the Nightland (North America's Forgotten Past) by W. Michael Gear, Kathleen O'Neal Gear - Free Book Online
Authors: W. Michael Gear, Kathleen O'Neal Gear
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Here, at the edge of the Ice Giants, only pine and spruce seemed to flourish.
Silt said, “I’m fighting a losing battle, aren’t I? You’re not going to let me stay to guard your back.”
They stared at each other a moment, exchanging a silent communication.
Then Silt turned, face somber, and trotted back south, toward his people and a future Windwolf could no longer believe in.
Five
O ld Lookingbill, chief of the Lame Bull People, had once been blessed with a tall and robust body. In his old age, the muscle had faded, leaving only large bones and withered skin behind. What little hair he had left had gone silver-white, and his back had developed a slight hunch as the endless seasons wore him down. For this special night he wore a rich beaverhide cape over a beautifully tanned hunting shirt that hung to his knees. His feet were clad in high moccasins, the tops crafted from the neck hide of short-faced bear, tanned with the fur on.
He and his grandson, Silvertip, stood in the crowd that had gathered on one of the lower trails and gazed admiringly at the line of people carrying torches as they wound up the hill. The procession weaved through the boulders like a gleaming snake. On holy days the torches seemed to flare brighter, and the night smelled sweetly of burning spruce sap.
Headswift Village was an anomaly. He knew of no other place like it. In the hilly moraine country south of the Thunder Sea, it rose in a high prominence that gave a stunning vista of the Ice Giants to the
north. To the south the braided path of Lake River could be seen, and beyond it, the endless forests of the Sunpath People.
From the time he was a child, he had wandered through the maze of tunnels beneath the village, and wondered at the great rocks. Once he had even tried to make a smaller version of it, piling stones on top of each other and sifting dirt over the whole. The notion had lived with him since those boyhood days that just after the creation, giants had piled these huge rocks in the same fashion, though, as he aged, he’d come to the less-spectacular conclusion that the great pile of stone had been left behind by the retreating Ice Giants. He had seen similar formations melting out of the retreating ice.
For generations his people had lived here, seven days’ journey south of the Nightland camps that fringed the westernmost extent of the Thunder Sea. They had hunted and collected in the surrounding forests, bringing their catch, firewood, and other necessities back. Water was obtained from a spring just below the massive pile of rock.
The spring itself was a curious thing. In summer, as Loon Lake to the west rose, the spring’s flow increased, only to slow to a dribble by the end of winter. As a result, his people made offerings, dropping sprigs of evergreen into the pool as the flow diminished.
He, too, participated in making his offerings to the water even after he had surmised that it was the lake level rather than their need that determined the flow. Sometimes he wondered if his practical bent lessened the magic that others seemed so intent to enjoy.
“Wind Woman has a bite tonight. Are you warm enough, Silvertip?” He looked down at his grandson. The boy had seen ten and two summers, was slight of build, but tall and straight. Silvertip had always been a bit odd, introspective, and uninterested in the ways of the hunt. Nor had he shown much interest in the games other children played. Sometimes, when the boy was lost in his head, his eyes took on a distant sheen, as if picturing worlds beyond this one. When his aunt Mossy, the Storyteller, related the traditional tales, the boy literally seemed to glow, as if the words lived within his soul.
Silvertip looked up and smiled. “Grandfather, I’m always warm during the holy moon.”
A line of torches, carried by the warriors, was weaving through the boulders above them. Around them, people whispered, sharing the enchanting sight of the winding line of torches as
Silt said, “I’m fighting a losing battle, aren’t I? You’re not going to let me stay to guard your back.”
They stared at each other a moment, exchanging a silent communication.
Then Silt turned, face somber, and trotted back south, toward his people and a future Windwolf could no longer believe in.
Five
O ld Lookingbill, chief of the Lame Bull People, had once been blessed with a tall and robust body. In his old age, the muscle had faded, leaving only large bones and withered skin behind. What little hair he had left had gone silver-white, and his back had developed a slight hunch as the endless seasons wore him down. For this special night he wore a rich beaverhide cape over a beautifully tanned hunting shirt that hung to his knees. His feet were clad in high moccasins, the tops crafted from the neck hide of short-faced bear, tanned with the fur on.
He and his grandson, Silvertip, stood in the crowd that had gathered on one of the lower trails and gazed admiringly at the line of people carrying torches as they wound up the hill. The procession weaved through the boulders like a gleaming snake. On holy days the torches seemed to flare brighter, and the night smelled sweetly of burning spruce sap.
Headswift Village was an anomaly. He knew of no other place like it. In the hilly moraine country south of the Thunder Sea, it rose in a high prominence that gave a stunning vista of the Ice Giants to the
north. To the south the braided path of Lake River could be seen, and beyond it, the endless forests of the Sunpath People.
From the time he was a child, he had wandered through the maze of tunnels beneath the village, and wondered at the great rocks. Once he had even tried to make a smaller version of it, piling stones on top of each other and sifting dirt over the whole. The notion had lived with him since those boyhood days that just after the creation, giants had piled these huge rocks in the same fashion, though, as he aged, he’d come to the less-spectacular conclusion that the great pile of stone had been left behind by the retreating Ice Giants. He had seen similar formations melting out of the retreating ice.
For generations his people had lived here, seven days’ journey south of the Nightland camps that fringed the westernmost extent of the Thunder Sea. They had hunted and collected in the surrounding forests, bringing their catch, firewood, and other necessities back. Water was obtained from a spring just below the massive pile of rock.
The spring itself was a curious thing. In summer, as Loon Lake to the west rose, the spring’s flow increased, only to slow to a dribble by the end of winter. As a result, his people made offerings, dropping sprigs of evergreen into the pool as the flow diminished.
He, too, participated in making his offerings to the water even after he had surmised that it was the lake level rather than their need that determined the flow. Sometimes he wondered if his practical bent lessened the magic that others seemed so intent to enjoy.
“Wind Woman has a bite tonight. Are you warm enough, Silvertip?” He looked down at his grandson. The boy had seen ten and two summers, was slight of build, but tall and straight. Silvertip had always been a bit odd, introspective, and uninterested in the ways of the hunt. Nor had he shown much interest in the games other children played. Sometimes, when the boy was lost in his head, his eyes took on a distant sheen, as if picturing worlds beyond this one. When his aunt Mossy, the Storyteller, related the traditional tales, the boy literally seemed to glow, as if the words lived within his soul.
Silvertip looked up and smiled. “Grandfather, I’m always warm during the holy moon.”
A line of torches, carried by the warriors, was weaving through the boulders above them. Around them, people whispered, sharing the enchanting sight of the winding line of torches as
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