baby gave forth one small, newborn mewl of anguish.
The sound flew to his heart, to the center of his pain.
The infant was tiny. It was dying. It needed warmth and food and comfort.
It needed him.
Swiftly, knowing he was breaking one of the most ancient and sacred commandments, he turned back to the tiny being.
He laid his hand on it. It was indeed a human baby.
Lifting it into his arms, he cradled it against his chest and walked toward the entrance.
Wind ripped through the cave, pushing him back.
The gods were not pleased.
But a lifetime of obeying their desires had not made him complicit with this . . . this murder.
He fought his way forward, leaning against the wind that blasted him toward the chasm.
The baby hung limp in his grasp. Dead? Was Bitter Eagle displeasing the gods for a child who had already passed on?
Yet he struggled toward the entrance, toward that narrow glimpse of pale sunlight. Sand whipped into his eyes, blinding him, searing his lungs.
If he put the baby down, the wind would stop. He knew it would.
Still he moved inch by inch, one foot in front of the other. The entrance came closer and closer.
Above him, the black granite groaned, threatening him with immolation. If he didn’t get out now , he, too, would be a sacrifice.
He made a rush toward the narrow crack in the rock, dropped to his belly and shoved the child out into the cool sunlight. From the heights, he heard the wind scream with fury, heard the shift as stones broke free and roared toward the cave floor. He dove toward the entrance, wiggled his head out, his shoulders out, his chest out—and something slammed onto his foot, trapping him in place.
Skin ripped. Bones crunched. Pain ripped into his gut and brain. He writhed with torment, wanting to beg the gods’ pardon, knowing it was too late. He was trapped forever. He would die here, and the child with him.
The child . . .
He fought his way out of the fog of agony and looked at the child.
The infant lay on its side facing him, and it looked back.
It was a boy, a tiny newborn covered with afterbirth. The umbilical cord had been severed close to his body, so close the knife had nicked his leg. His skin was red-tinged, his chest moved up and down with each breath, and he shivered in minuscule convulsions.
But his eyes were open, and he stared gravely at Bitter Eagle, waiting for him to finish his rescue.
Bitter Eagle could not die now. He could not fail his first test as a father.
Shutting his pain inside his formidable will, he stretched himself toward the pile of clothes he had shed before entering the cave. His fingertips could not quite touch . . . He strained forward. . . .
In his foot, something tore—some ligament, some bone, some muscle. New waves of pain escaped their confinement to batter him, dimming his eyes and shortening his breath.
The child struggled as if trying to reach him . . . or as if death leaned too close.
With his suffering, Bitter Eagle had bought himself one vital inch.
He caught the edge of his old nylon coat between two fingers and pulled it toward him. With one hand he scooped the infant off the cold stone; with the other he slid the coat beneath the child, placed him onto the material, and enclosed him in the warmth.
Then he set to work. He dragged his jeans toward him and pulled his hunting knife from its leather sheath. He held it for a minute, allowing his body temperature to warm the plastic handle, allowing himself a moment of rebellion against what he must do.
Then he struggled to fit his arm back into the cave.
That must have amused the gods, for they sent no more missiles to break his body or his spirit. Or perhaps they simply waited in anticipation for a fresh gush of blood to appease their anger. Certainly they laughed as he set the blade in his own flesh, as close to the boulder as he could, and started cutting. His writhing, the moans that broke from him, the way he used knowledge gleaned
The sound flew to his heart, to the center of his pain.
The infant was tiny. It was dying. It needed warmth and food and comfort.
It needed him.
Swiftly, knowing he was breaking one of the most ancient and sacred commandments, he turned back to the tiny being.
He laid his hand on it. It was indeed a human baby.
Lifting it into his arms, he cradled it against his chest and walked toward the entrance.
Wind ripped through the cave, pushing him back.
The gods were not pleased.
But a lifetime of obeying their desires had not made him complicit with this . . . this murder.
He fought his way forward, leaning against the wind that blasted him toward the chasm.
The baby hung limp in his grasp. Dead? Was Bitter Eagle displeasing the gods for a child who had already passed on?
Yet he struggled toward the entrance, toward that narrow glimpse of pale sunlight. Sand whipped into his eyes, blinding him, searing his lungs.
If he put the baby down, the wind would stop. He knew it would.
Still he moved inch by inch, one foot in front of the other. The entrance came closer and closer.
Above him, the black granite groaned, threatening him with immolation. If he didn’t get out now , he, too, would be a sacrifice.
He made a rush toward the narrow crack in the rock, dropped to his belly and shoved the child out into the cool sunlight. From the heights, he heard the wind scream with fury, heard the shift as stones broke free and roared toward the cave floor. He dove toward the entrance, wiggled his head out, his shoulders out, his chest out—and something slammed onto his foot, trapping him in place.
Skin ripped. Bones crunched. Pain ripped into his gut and brain. He writhed with torment, wanting to beg the gods’ pardon, knowing it was too late. He was trapped forever. He would die here, and the child with him.
The child . . .
He fought his way out of the fog of agony and looked at the child.
The infant lay on its side facing him, and it looked back.
It was a boy, a tiny newborn covered with afterbirth. The umbilical cord had been severed close to his body, so close the knife had nicked his leg. His skin was red-tinged, his chest moved up and down with each breath, and he shivered in minuscule convulsions.
But his eyes were open, and he stared gravely at Bitter Eagle, waiting for him to finish his rescue.
Bitter Eagle could not die now. He could not fail his first test as a father.
Shutting his pain inside his formidable will, he stretched himself toward the pile of clothes he had shed before entering the cave. His fingertips could not quite touch . . . He strained forward. . . .
In his foot, something tore—some ligament, some bone, some muscle. New waves of pain escaped their confinement to batter him, dimming his eyes and shortening his breath.
The child struggled as if trying to reach him . . . or as if death leaned too close.
With his suffering, Bitter Eagle had bought himself one vital inch.
He caught the edge of his old nylon coat between two fingers and pulled it toward him. With one hand he scooped the infant off the cold stone; with the other he slid the coat beneath the child, placed him onto the material, and enclosed him in the warmth.
Then he set to work. He dragged his jeans toward him and pulled his hunting knife from its leather sheath. He held it for a minute, allowing his body temperature to warm the plastic handle, allowing himself a moment of rebellion against what he must do.
Then he struggled to fit his arm back into the cave.
That must have amused the gods, for they sent no more missiles to break his body or his spirit. Or perhaps they simply waited in anticipation for a fresh gush of blood to appease their anger. Certainly they laughed as he set the blade in his own flesh, as close to the boulder as he could, and started cutting. His writhing, the moans that broke from him, the way he used knowledge gleaned
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