Read Online The Reindeer People by Megan Lindholm - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Megan Lindholm
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days had glazed everyone's body with sweat. But in today's cold, the heat of those days seemed but a child's dream. So was it all, no more than a child's dream. She stumbled over a buried snag and dragged her mind back to the present. She wondered if they would survive the winter. The boy grew so thin, and she herself grew so stupid with the cold and the ever-present twinges of hunger.
She crested the last hill and looked down into the little glen where her worn tent was pitched. Nearly home and safe, she told herself. Useless to think of those lost days in that far-off place. As useless to think of Benu's folk, a hundred hills and valleys from here. She started down the long hill, nearly stumbling in her weariness. Her lips were dry and she longed to lick them, but knew they would only crack in the cold. Nearly home. Halfway down the hill, she halted and stared. Something was wrong. Her heart slowed its beating.
No smoke rose from the tent's smoke flap. Frost was heavy on the flap, showing that no residual heat clung there. The pieces of broken branches she had left by the tent for firewood were undisturbed. The still gray tent reminded her of scraped hides swinging in the wind. Dead and empty.
She ran. Her numbed feet felt the shock as they hit the frozen ground and plowed on through the loose snow. 'Kerlew!' she called, but her voice was dry and cracked as a dead leaf. It floated weightlessly away from her. A wolverine, guessed a part of her. A wolverine was afraid of nothing. It would not hesitate to enter a human's tent and attack a ten-year-old boy. Or perhaps he had gone outside the tent to relieve himself and wandered off. He never paid attention to tying his hood tightly, or putting on extra leggings. In this cold it wouldn't take long. The cold could do it, even if he didn't run into the wolves she had heard this morning. Hadn't she herself assured him that they were on the other side of the ridge, and no threat to them? Would wolves kill a child? They'd kill a calf that wandered from the herd. What about a calvish boy, all long awkward legs and flapping helpless hands?
It took her forever to reach the tent and burst inside. Her lungs and mouth hurt from the frozen air she dragged in with every breath. No matter. Where was the boy? 'Kerlew?' she asked breathlessly. The ashes were gray on the hearth stones. Nothing moved. Her life thudded to a slow halt in her breast, fell endlessly into the cold pit of her belly. The only sign of the boy was the bundle of hides on his pallet. Thoughts of bears and wolverines, of wolves, and of bands of wandering hunters sometimes more brutish than any animal rushed through her mind. And she had left Kerlew alone to face such things. Her throat closed. The dead hare slipped unnoticed from her hand.
'Kerlew!' she cried again, the sound ripping the stillness of the tent. She slipped her bow from her shoulder and gripped it. Tracks. Perhaps he had left some tracks. But as she lifted the tent flap, a tiny clucking came to her ears. She turned her head sharply, saw the pile of furs on his pallet stir. Stepping forward, she jerked the furs back, to reveal Kerlew on his side, talking softly to a smooth stone in his hand. Relief was overwhelmed and lost in the sudden rage she felt.
'What are you doing? Why is the fire out?' she demanded angrily.
'I forgot to put wood on,' he replied, not stirring. He stroked the rock in his hand, not even looking up at her. 'But it doesn't matter. I got under all the hides and stayed warm.'
Tillu stared down at him, feeling the cold eating through her clothing, feeling the hunger that would have to wait to be satisfied, but, most of all, feeling the despair that her son awakened in her. Would be always be this way, waiting for her to come home and care for him, heedless and helpless in the world around him? She didn't move, she didn't speak, she only looked on him, wondering what was missing in the boy, what she had failed to teach him, what it was
She crested the last hill and looked down into the little glen where her worn tent was pitched. Nearly home and safe, she told herself. Useless to think of those lost days in that far-off place. As useless to think of Benu's folk, a hundred hills and valleys from here. She started down the long hill, nearly stumbling in her weariness. Her lips were dry and she longed to lick them, but knew they would only crack in the cold. Nearly home. Halfway down the hill, she halted and stared. Something was wrong. Her heart slowed its beating.
No smoke rose from the tent's smoke flap. Frost was heavy on the flap, showing that no residual heat clung there. The pieces of broken branches she had left by the tent for firewood were undisturbed. The still gray tent reminded her of scraped hides swinging in the wind. Dead and empty.
She ran. Her numbed feet felt the shock as they hit the frozen ground and plowed on through the loose snow. 'Kerlew!' she called, but her voice was dry and cracked as a dead leaf. It floated weightlessly away from her. A wolverine, guessed a part of her. A wolverine was afraid of nothing. It would not hesitate to enter a human's tent and attack a ten-year-old boy. Or perhaps he had gone outside the tent to relieve himself and wandered off. He never paid attention to tying his hood tightly, or putting on extra leggings. In this cold it wouldn't take long. The cold could do it, even if he didn't run into the wolves she had heard this morning. Hadn't she herself assured him that they were on the other side of the ridge, and no threat to them? Would wolves kill a child? They'd kill a calf that wandered from the herd. What about a calvish boy, all long awkward legs and flapping helpless hands?
It took her forever to reach the tent and burst inside. Her lungs and mouth hurt from the frozen air she dragged in with every breath. No matter. Where was the boy? 'Kerlew?' she asked breathlessly. The ashes were gray on the hearth stones. Nothing moved. Her life thudded to a slow halt in her breast, fell endlessly into the cold pit of her belly. The only sign of the boy was the bundle of hides on his pallet. Thoughts of bears and wolverines, of wolves, and of bands of wandering hunters sometimes more brutish than any animal rushed through her mind. And she had left Kerlew alone to face such things. Her throat closed. The dead hare slipped unnoticed from her hand.
'Kerlew!' she cried again, the sound ripping the stillness of the tent. She slipped her bow from her shoulder and gripped it. Tracks. Perhaps he had left some tracks. But as she lifted the tent flap, a tiny clucking came to her ears. She turned her head sharply, saw the pile of furs on his pallet stir. Stepping forward, she jerked the furs back, to reveal Kerlew on his side, talking softly to a smooth stone in his hand. Relief was overwhelmed and lost in the sudden rage she felt.
'What are you doing? Why is the fire out?' she demanded angrily.
'I forgot to put wood on,' he replied, not stirring. He stroked the rock in his hand, not even looking up at her. 'But it doesn't matter. I got under all the hides and stayed warm.'
Tillu stared down at him, feeling the cold eating through her clothing, feeling the hunger that would have to wait to be satisfied, but, most of all, feeling the despair that her son awakened in her. Would be always be this way, waiting for her to come home and care for him, heedless and helpless in the world around him? She didn't move, she didn't speak, she only looked on him, wondering what was missing in the boy, what she had failed to teach him, what it was
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