Free People of the Earth by W. Michael Gear

We'll have to
get more later. Fortunately, sagebrush grows everywhere. Not only that, but all
the places where we've twisted sagebrush out will grow goosefoot next
summer."
                   "I know."
                   As Bad Belly turned, he tripped over Trouble
and lost his grip on the fragrant sage. Most of the load tumbled to the ground,
bouncing and rolling this way and that. He sighed as he got his feet under him
and saw the irritation in Tuber's eyes.
                   "Here, uncle, let me. You can't carry
stuff. All you're good for is to talk to."
                   Bad Belly stopped short at the bitter words;
the pain in his soul reminded him of a cactus thorn's burning sting.
                   Tuber looked up, suddenly shamed. "I'm
sorry, uncle."
                   "No, it's all right. We're all on edge.
When death hangs over people's shoulders, no one thinks right." And
silently he cursed his bad arm.
     
                   White Ash wavered back and forth between the
worlds. Just as she dozed, Bright Moon groaned in her sleep. White Ash started.
Each time she started to drift off, something would bring her back to the
endless vigil. The lodge had begun to suffocate her—a cage for her soul,
oppressive, heavy, like a curtain between her and the world. The hunger knot in
her stomach cramped and twisted.
                   "Bright Moon? I'd give anything to help
you. Anything."
                  How many times through the years had Bright
Moon smiled at her, love and happiness brimming over in her eyes?
                   Remember the good times? Do you remember,
Bright Moon? I can see your smile, hear your voice. It lives in my mind.
Remember the time I cut my arm? You made a poultice of holly-grape 1 root and
tied it on my arm to fight the infection. Bright Moon, it was you who taught me
the Songs of the White Clay. You taught me how Thunderbird dove down when the
world was all water and brought up mud for Bear to sit on. Yes, see the twinkle
in your eyes as you tell the stories? See your smile grow wide as you clap your
hands and laugh?
                   The pain grew inside as she stared at the
bundled shape of her mother and reached over to tuck the hides where they'd
come loose. How many times had Bright Moon tucked the warm furs around White
Ash on nights when the deep cold settled over the land?
                   "If only I could save you. I'd give
anything—even my soul—to repay you for the stories you told me, for the special
treats you saved. How can you die when I've never had a chance to show you how
much I love you?"
                   Bright Moon lay silent, mouth hanging open to
expose the gaps between her worn brown teeth.
                   White Ash rubbed her face, massaging her
burning eyes. If only she could sleep . . . just for a little while.
                   Eyes closed, she imagined she could see the
glowing coals of the firepit . The black oblongs of
the hearthstones shimmered in and out of focus, making the shape of a face in
the red-orange background of the coals. Where the sandstone slabs lined the
pit, they looked like rich black hair, shining in the gaudy light.
                   Why does Bright Moon have to die? The question
repeated in her muzzy head.
                   “It's all the way of Power.'' The voice rose
hauntingly from the coals.
                   A flicker of fear tickled White Ash's neck.
"Who are you?"
                   The voice continued as if it hadn't heard.
“You're the way . . . Mother of the People. They come from the north. You know
them. The ways of the People are changing. You are the future. You stand
between the peoples. You 're the Power and the Dream . . . if you choose.
"
                   She stared at the face in the fire and saw a
handsome youth smiling up