"Kathleen O' Neal & Michael W. Gear - People 3 - People Of The Earth" - читать интересную книгу автора (O'Neal Kathleen)

raiding in the north.

She smiled as she remembered carefree days of golden sunshine in the
summer and cozy, warm lodges in the winter. Through all of them,
Bright Moon's face had beamed with love for her. She'd played with
Wind Runner and Brave Man
and the other children. They'd run and told jokes and hunted for mice
and rabbits.

White Ash shook her head, the smile on her lips bittersweet. Three
years ago things had begun to change. Rumors had circulated down the
trail that the other clans were beginning to move south, seeking new
territory. The White Clay warriors had strutted among the lodges,
thumping their chests, growling threats about what they'd do if the
other clans came near.

Then the Black Point clan attacked the camp on the Fat Beaver River and
caught everyone by surprise. The White Clay had fled in horrified
confusion and come unraveled, splitting into three factions. Defeat
after defeat had thinned what remained of their ranks. But the people
had never been as desperate as they now were. War visited them again,
bringing death and privation. Hunger stalked the camp, reflected in
the gaunt faces of the children and elders. The cold seemed to
intensify, rending their bodies with talons of ice. Hope had fled with
the ghost of summer.

Hope? How can I hope? What have I done to deserve this? What hope
will there be for White, Ash ? She closed her eyes and shook her head,
trying to escape the images in the Dreams. She forced herself to
relive the days when she and Wind Runner and Brave Man had laughed and
told each other what they hoped for the future. The sun had been
brighter then. The meat racks had bent under the weight of rich red
slabs. The White Clay had been whole, powerful. Smiling faces peered
at her from the past--faces of people dead or vanished with the breakup
of the clan. Faces now as remote as those of her native Earth
People.

Bright Moon made a gasping noise that withered White Ash's spirit. Sage
Ghost, maybe it's better that you don't know.

She leaned forward, propping her chin on one knee, staring dully at the
spot where Sage Ghost's bedding should have been. Various
parfleches--collapsible rawhide bags--had been stacked around the
bottom against the skirting of the lodge to act as extra insulation
from the stinging cold. The dogs slept outside but their packs stayed
in, away from eager teeth,
be they canine or pack rat--assuming one of the wily rodents made it
that far past the famished dogs. Peeled poles, where they supported
the finely sewn hides of the lodge cover, gleamed in the crimson light.
Through the smoke hole she could see the stars, wavering as the hot air