People of the Earth (North America's Forgotten Past) - Softcover

Gear, W. Michael; Gear, Kathleen O'Neal

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0765364441 ISBN 13: 9780765364449

Publisher: Tor Books, 2009

Synopsis

Thousands of years ago, small hunting bands crossed the fragile land bridge linking the Eurasian continent to the Americas and discovered a land untouched by humankind. Over the centuries that followed, their descendents spread throughout this land. Bestselling authors and award-winning archaeologists W. Michael Gear and Kathleen O€™Neal Gear bring the stories of these first North Americans to life in this magnificent, multi-volume saga. Set five thousand years ago and ranging through what is now Montana, Wyoming, northern Colorado, and Utah, People of the Earth follows the migration of the Uto-Aztecan people south out of Canada. It is the unforgettable tale of a woman torn between two peoples and two dreams, of the two men who love her and the third who must have her, and of the vision given to the peoples long ago by the spirit of the wolf.

About this title

About the Author:

Kathleen O'Neal Gear is a former state historian and archaeologist for Wyoming, Kansas, and Nebraska for the U.S. Department of the Interior. She has twice received the federal government's Special Achievement Award for ""outstanding management"" of our nation's cultural heritage.

W. Michael Gear holds a master's degree in archaeology and has worked as a professional archaeologist since 1978. He is principal investigator for Wind River Archaeological Consultants.

Together they have written the North America's Forgotten Past series (People of the Morning Star, People of the Songtrail, People of the Mist, People of the Wolf, among others); and the Anasazi Mysteries series. The Gears live in Thermopolis, WY.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:

Chapter 1
Such a terrible winter.
White Ash leaned forward, face pinching as cramped and knotted muscles strained in her back. She peered across the fire at the pile of hides covering Bright Moon’s body. The draft that sneaked in around the lodge skirts created patterns in the thick bed of glowing red coals and cast a ruby light over the inside of the lodge. She could see Bright Moon’s face; her mother finally slept.
My mother? Curious. I can hardly remember my life before Sage Ghost stole me from the Three Forks camp. I belong here, among the White Clay people, now. Owlclover might have borne me—but Bright Moon loved me more. White Ash rubbed a nervous hand over her face and looked at the old woman who now slept so fitfully. And all I can do is sit here and watch her die.
Thank you for everything, Bright Moon, she whispered softly in sorrow. If only Sage Ghost hadn’t left with the other men in a desperate attempt to find game. She closed her eyes, grief a physical pain, like a gnashing of teeth in her chest. Bright Moon would be dead before he returned.
For eight winters White Ash had lived with the White Clay. Of those years, the first six had been wonderful. As she’d grown, she’d learned the ways and language of the Sun People. The White Clay had moved south from the Bug River, all the way to the Fat Beaver, to avoid the 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 packrat—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 made a mirage of the soot-stained hole.
Tired, deadly tired. Her soul ached. Could this really be happening to her? She glanced at the mounded robes where Bright Moon lay. How long had it been? An eternity?
No, only two long days since Sage Ghost had left with the other men in another attempt to find game—anything to augment the dwindling supplies of food. They shouldn’t have come out here in the middle of the basin in the first place. Sage Ghost had told Whistling Hare that starvation and the Wolf People lurked here.
But who remained sane among the battered remains of the White Clay? They were but one small band of the Sun People, harried, constantly pushed farther south by the Broken Stones, the Hollow Flute, and the Black Point. The northern bands had grown, swelling in size until they strained the hunting grounds and stripped berry bushes of fruit.
The clans weren’t the only threat. The Wolf People, who lived in the Grass Meadow Mountains to the east, hated the Sun People. Only a week ago they’d ruthlessly raided a Sun camp, sweeping through the village like a swarm of enraged buffalo, burning lodges and murdering everyone in their path. They’d even killed the women and little children, and brutally slashed open the wombs of pregnant mothers to rip the babies from their bodies. Fear stalked the clans of the Sun People like a malignant demon. To the west, the Sheep Hunters, who hunted in the Red Rock Mountains, had warned the White Clay what would happen if anyone foolishly pushed into the canyons in their range. In a world gone hostile, the only hope for survival lay to the south, beyond the Sideways
Mountains...maybe somewhere beyond the land of the Earth People.
While the men hunted, the women trekked long, circuitous routes to check snares and look for concentrations of jack-rabbits that might be driven into a trap. The endless, nagging cold continued.
And I have to face Bright Moon’s death alone.
The day after Sage Ghost left, the chill had awakened her, eating through the robes, bringing her out of another of the strange Dreams. She’d blinked, wondering why Bright Moon—who took such pride and delight at offering tea to early risers—would have let the fire die. She’d blinked in the gray light and sat up.
Bright Moon? she’d called softly and heard no answer. She reached over to the silent bundle and lifted the hides.
Bright Moon lay on her side, eyes glazed by a terrible fear. Her gray hair spilled loosely over the furs, contrasting with the red tones of fox hair under her head.
Bright Moon?
A desperate croak had come from her foster mother’s throat.
White Ash had panicked and thrown on her frost-stiff clothing before stumbling out into the mauve light to run flat-out for old Flying Squirrel’s lodge.
The old woman’s reputation as the real leader of the band had grown through the years. Her husband, Whistling Hare, might pronounce the decisions, but most people suspected that Flying Squirrel lay behind each and every one. Not that people minded Whistling Hare’s leadership; they respected his counsel—and, of course, Flying Squirrel’s—and generally did as he advised.
Flying Squirrel had pulled a robe about her thin shoulders and hurried across the snowbound camp. Wind whipped the old woman’s silvered braids; the expression on her lined face had gone grim as her feet crunched through the grainy snow. She’d ducked into the lodge and stoopped to pull Bright Moon’s blanket back. Bright Moon?
Only the frightened eyes had moved, tears welling in their corners.
Can you hear me? Flying Squir

About this edition

• Publisher: Tor Books
• Publication date: 2009
• ISBN 10: 0765364441
• ISBN 13: 9780765364449
• Binding: Paperback
• Number of pages: 608