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

breeze-stroked fir boughs. The feel of the One lingered
like the taste of honey on the tongue.
                   The words echoed in her head. "Seek the
Bundle . . . seek. . . .''
                  

 
                   Bad Belly sat with his back braced against the
furs that lined the earthen walls of Bitterbrush's house pit. He'd done his
share in the excavation of the pit. Having only one good hand, he could
nevertheless use his chest against the padded butt of a fire-hardened digging
stick to peel off strips of moist clay. Now he could imagine the soil behind
the hides, still striated with grooves left by the digging. Warm Fire, with Phloxseed's husband, Flatsedge ,
and Bad Belly's father, Cattail, had done the bear's share of the labor,
peeling the soil loose while his mother and his aunts hauled the dirt to one
side in baskets. After the roof supports had been planted in the floor,
stringers had been run across and rafter poles laid from the ground surface
outside to form the slanted walls. Willow from the banks of the Cold Water had been
cut and packed in. After the willow had been woven into the rafters, grass was
laid over the willow lacing and the excavated earth had been packed over the
whole. Part of Warm Fire's soul had gone into the building of this structure
that kept Bad Belly from wind and weather.
                   Warm Fire had been like the walls of the
dwelling, sheltering Bad Belly's existence in the Round Rock clan—a protective
buffer against the censure of his family.
                   Bad Belly tucked a willow shaft under his bad
arm and used a chert flake to peel the bark in long
strips. Over the years he'd become proficient in the use of his left hand. No
one could straighten willow or make a dart shaft better than Bad Belly. He'd
learned the secrets of steaming wood just so, using a shaft- straightener crafted from an elk humerus to force the bends from a
piece of wood. The forehsaft he crafted from hard
chokecherry wood, which wouldn't split on impact. The work fulfilled his need
to produce, to do something to make up for the share of food he consumed. He'd
gaze at the completed product, knowing that part of his soul lingered in the
worked wood, mixing with the plant's Spirit where it lay in the very grain.
                   The flap pulled back and Grandmother ducked
through. Larkspur pinned him with an irritated glare. Her weathered lips sucked
in around toothless gums, giving her a sour expression. She wore it well.
                   Bad Belly tensed as she reached up to pull at
her fleshy chin. In a cool voice, Larkspur announced, "He wants to see
you."
                   Bad Belly threw his materials to one side and
lurched to his feet. "Is he better?"
                   Grandmother shook her head, studying him as if
to decide how much to tell him. "He wants to see you . . . alone."
                   A knot seemed to draw tight in Bad Belly's
throat. Alone? That's what's made her suspicious?
                   He ran outside into the invigorating chill.
Trouble had disappeared from his place by the door—but then, he always did when
he saw Larkspur coming. The others' dogs by the door whined and wagged their
tails. This time Bad Belly didn't stop to pat them the way he usually did.
                   Locked in thought, he raced across the
trampled snow to Larkspur's shelter. The Spirit World had turned a deaf ear to
his plea. Why? What possible good could it serve to leave him alive and take
Warm Fire's life? Everyone needed Warm Fire. People depended on him. In times
of famine, Warm Fire's smile brought relief, as if the very expression on his
face sparked hope, brought smiles to haggard faces, making the difficult days
seem shorter.
                   Compared to that, of what worth am I? He'd
seen the thought reflected in Larkspur's irritated eyes. Tuber's words