The Bear's paw on his shoulder lifted him, raising him to his feet. Together they walked out of the cave. What had happened to the clouds and the snow? The sky was full of stars that swept down to form a bridge ending at his feet. The starlight cast a faint glow over the ice on the river, and he could see the horizon and the opposite shore. Through the dusting of tiny sparkling lights, he saw the ledge outside the mouth of the sacred cave. Two steps forward and he would fall over the edge and be killed. The White Bear, on all fours beside him now, seemed to be waiting for him. Gray Cloud knew, somehow, what was expected of him. He must put his feet on the bridge of stars and walk out over empty air. He could not do it. Terror clawed at his stomach as he thought of standing high above the river with nothing to support him. This, too, was a test. The bridge would be safe only if Gray Cloud trusted it. From now on everything that happened to him would be a test. And if he did not master each one in turn, he would never be a shaman. And what would he be, then, if he lived? Only a half-breed boy, the son of a woman with no husband, the child of a missing father. The boy they called Gray Cloud because he was neither one color nor the other, neither white nor red. This trail was the only way for him. He must walk on this bridge, and if he fell and died, it would not matter. He took the first step. For a terrifying moment his moccasin seemed to sink into the little sparks of light rather than rest upon them. But it was as if the bridge were made of some springy substance, and the sole of his foot did not fall through it. He took another step. Now he had both feet on the bridge. His heart was thundering, the blood roaring through his ears. How could a bridge be made of nothing but light? How could a man stand on it? One more step forward. His leg shook so hard he could barely put his foot down. His knees quivered. His body screamed at him to go back. Another step, and this would be the hardest. Now he could see the abyss below him. He was out over it. He looked down, his whole body quaking. He breathed in quick bursts, and saw little clouds in front of his face in the starlight. Another step, and another. For balance, his trembling hands went out from his sides. He looked down. The river was solid ice, and the stars reflected on its smooth black surface. If he fell he would hit that ice so hard every one of his bones would break. He teetered dizzily. He looked to the left and the right and saw that the edges of the bridge were just on either side of him. He could topple over and nothing would stop him. Where was the White Bear? Fear would make him fall. Even if this bridge of lights still held his weight, it was so narrow that he must surely lose his balance and die. _But if it holds me, I must be meant to live. And if I am meant to live, I will not be allowed to fall._