Owl Carver's praise delighted White Bear. But as he saw once again how the old shaman had declined, it took some of the edge from his pleasure.
Owl Carver's eyes were watery and his cheeks were sunken. His arms and legs were thin as spear shafts. The trek up the Rock River had not been good for him. White Bear and Sun Woman had taken over most of the work of caring for the wounded and sick, though Owl Carver did as much as he could.
"You are a Great Shaman, as I predicted you would be," Owl Carver said. "You foretold exactly what would happen if Black Hawk led the British Band across the Great River. But I am sad that your greatness must be proved by the suffering of our people."
White Bear felt his chest expand and a warmth spread through his limbs at these words of his teacher.
"I may need your help yet," he said. "The people do not like me protecting this pale eyes woman."
Owl Carver nodded. "But they respect you. And they will respect you more when you show them you have magical powers."
"I have no magical powers."
"You do. It was not I who put the mark of the Bear on your chest."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that the White Bear is your spirit self. And he can act in this world. The mark of his claws is the mark of his favor."