“Not him, but her!” The woman pointed to Snakewater.
“Your name,” persisted Three Fingers. He wanted no misunderstanding.
“Spotted Bird,” the woman retorted. “This woman stole the life-years of my baby.”
Snakewater remembered her now. A tragic death… She had felt it deeply herself …. A beautiful child. Only a few moons old, dying, lungs filling, and coughing with no effect. She could well remember the look of panic in the child’s eyes. She had even tried to breathe the life back into the tiny chest.
Spotted Bird was talking “… and I saw her suck the life from my daughter’s nose and mouth,” she finished.
“I tried to save her!” protested Snakewater.
There were several derisive hoots from the crowd.
“She was present at my brother’s death!” shouted another woman.
“He was killed by a bear!” Snakewater answered indignantly.
Three Fingers quieted the crowd and spoke firmly.
“Let us be reasonable,” he insisted. “Snakewater has been present at many deaths. She has been asked there because of her medicine, is it not so? Now, let me ask you… How many are alive today because of the powerful medicine of this woman?”
There was a moment of stunned silence.
“I am!” called a burly warrior.
“And I!” added a young woman.
There was a ripple of agreement.
“So …?” said Three Fingers in mock surprise. “It seems we can prove little here. And let us think on this: No matter how powerful a medicine may be, eventually it fails. Otherwise everyone would live forever, no?”
Silence was heavy in the town house for a moment. Then…
“Except for the Raven Mocker, who does live forever!” called Spotted Bird, the complainant.
“Wait!” said another woman. “That is only a story, like that of the Giant Leech, to frighten children into obedience.”
“How do you know? Are you sure?” asked someone.
There was a babble of voices, and the Peace Chief was forced to quiet the crowd again.
“This is going nowhere,” he stated firmly. “I have heard nothing but opinions. Let me ask: Does anyone have any proof, one way or another?”
There was silence, and he continued quickly, before anyone could break the ribbon of this line of thought.
“Does anyone have any proof that the Raven Mocker is more than a story?”
Again there was silence.
“Let us think on this, then,” said Three Fingers. “Let us consider, and meet again in seven days. That will give us time to seek visions for guidance. It is good to sleep on such matters. And one other thing: For most problems we have solutions. Laws. It is the way of the Real People. Does anyone know of any precedent here? Did anyone ever hear of how a Raven Mocker case was handled? Did we ever hear of a real Raven Mocker?”
In the ensuing silence one voice was heard. It was quiet, but effective.
“Not until now!”
8
Worries hung over her in the ensuing days. One was the awareness that someone had tried to kill her with the snake. At least it seemed so. Another, the disquieting events at the Council, and the knowledge that another Council hearing was pending. Still another, perhaps worse, was the suspicion that the accusation might even be justified in some way. Maybe they are right. I could be a Raven Mocker.
With the next breath she would think such an idea ridiculous. Surely it could not happen to a person without his or her knowledge. When could it have happened? But close on the heels of that thought, another… Maybe I was born with it.
She had always been different in many ways. She knew it. Everyone knew it, from the time she was small. Perhaps that was the difference. The Raven Mocker, born among ordinary humans, of human parents, but with the ability to transfer and absorb the unused life-years of the dying ….
But if that were true, where did the old granny, her namesake mentor, fit in? The two of them had always seemed so close, so similar … not in appearance, of course, but in spirit. To others, so similar that she now bore the same name: Snakewater. Had the witch woman, too, been a Raven Mocker? Is that how it works? she asked herself. Was the understudy already born a Raven Mocker, or was such status bestowed by the teacher when that Raven Mocker became tired of the false immortality?
No, she told herself, that was making it too complicated. Her mentor had been kind and generous and had helped many people, as she had herself. They had been gifted with certain powers, which required some knowledge of how to use them to the good of others. That the old granny had given to her. It cannot be evil to help others, she assured herself.
She tried to shake off the fantasy that had begun to depress her. There were times when her heart was so heavy that she even considered suicide, though not for long. Such reflections might interfere with what she was intended to do. She wished that she could talk to her teacher. She shrugged off the angry thought that Granny left me.
Maybe she could talk to someone else …. No one in her own village, of course, but was there not a conjure woman in the next town, Keowee, a day’s travel to the north? Yes, she was sure of it. Possibly … What was her name… Frog! Yes, Spotted Frog. No sooner had she thought of this possibility, than she began to plan her journey. It did not take long. She gathered enough food for subsistence, blankets for the overnight stay, and chose a small but well-made basket as a gift. She would start at daylight.
Her heart was light during the journey. The day was pleasant, the road easy. She nodded cheerfully to the few travelers she met, and they returned her greeting.
She was surprised at the changes since she had last visited here. There were fields and farms and houses and herds of cattle grazing. She shook her head in disapproval. The Real People were living like whites.
Reaching the outskirts of the town, she made her campfire and settled for the night. She would go in when morning came and ask for Frog, the medicine woman. She was tired and slept well.
In the morning she rose, went to water at the stream, and redressed, combing her hair to appear presentable. Entering the town, there were more changes—a store, a blacksmith preparing his forge for the day’s work… Times were changing. She had no difficulty inquiring her way to the house of Spotted Frog, and knocked at the door.
“Who is it?” a voice called.
“I am called Snakewater,” she answered. “I come from the town to the south of here. Old Town. The one with the wall. I would talk ….”
A woman appeared in the doorway. She was heavy, of medium height, and she might have been of almost any age. The lines in her face belied the jet black of her hair. All in all, though, the lines were those of a happy disposition.
“I have heard of you,” she said. “Come in. Let us smoke.”
Snakewater offered her gift.
“It is beautifully made,” said Spotted Frog. “Your work?”
“No, no. A woman in our town makes them.”
“ Wado! It is good! Come… let us sit outside. The day is pleasant.”
They sat on a bench, and Spotted Frog brought a pipe and a burning stick with which to light it. They smoked in silence for a little while, and finally Frog spoke.
“How may I help you?”
“I—I don’t know,” said Snakewater truthfully. “There are things that I do not understand.”
The other woman smiled. “There are many things like that, no? What is it, Snakewater?”
“Well, I… What do you know of the Raven Mocker?” she blurted.
Several emotions flitted across the face of Spotted Frog. Suspicion, fear, defensiveness, maybe even anger.
“Why do you seek of this?” she asked carefully. “Has your town a problem?”
“No …Well, maybe. There are suspicions, talk. There have been accusations.”
The other woman was quiet for a little while.
“You have heard the stories of the Raven Mocker?” Snakewater finally prompt
ed.
“Of course. He steals unused life-years at the death of a young person. Or any person. Adds them to his own, to become immortal.”
Snakewater nodded. “Did you ever hear how he becomes a Raven Mocker?”
A look of alarm, almost of horror, settled on the face of Spotted Frog. “You want to become a Raven Mocker?”
“No, no! Not that at all! It is only… Ah, how can I say it? I am the one who has been accused.”
The woman rose and stepped back, as if there was a danger in the nearness.
“I cannot help you!” she snapped.
“Please!” pleaded Snakewater. “I mean no harm to anyone. I do not know how this started. There has been an attempt on my life. There was a hearing in our Council.”
Quickly she told about the snake, the outcome of that episode, and of finding the sack in which the snake had been tossed, and of the details of the hearing.
Spotted Frog’s face softened. “I am made to think,” she pondered, “that your heart is good. Yet I do not know how I can help you.”
Snakewater’s eyes welled up with tears. “Could I be a Raven Mocker without knowing?” she blurted.
“Who knows? But I would not think so. No, surely one would feel the change when new years were added, no?”
“ Wado. Thank you. That was my thought too. But I have no one to talk to… no one to understand.”
“Ah, we may never understand. Maybe it is not meant that we should. But I have heard that your medicine is good.”
“I have thought so. I have tried to make it so. But no one comes to me now. They are afraid.”
“Yes… afraid enough to try to kill you, no?”
“I fear that is true.”
“You may have to move, Snakewater. Another town?”
“I had not thought of that. I have never lived anywhere else. Never been anywhere except here.”
Frog nodded sympathetically. “I will conjure a spell for you. I wish that I could do more.”
At least it was comforting to know that there was someone who could understand. Even if she was no closer to understanding the whole thing, here was something to cling to. Spotted Frog, a powerful medicine woman, did not believe that she, Snakewater, could be a Raven Mocker. That was reassuring.
As she walked along, she fingered the protective amulet that Frog had given her. It was a medicine bag on a thong, a tiny buckskin pouch no bigger than her thumb. The woman had placed tiny pinches of several substances in it. Snakewater did not know what …. She preferred not to know, and her trust in Frog and her medicine was strong.
She was somewhat stiff and sore from the long journey yesterday. That, she thought with wry humor, was probably good. If she were really a Raven Mocker, her limbs would be young from the young lifetimes she had absorbed. It amused her to think so. It had been a good thing, to share her concerns with another medicine woman, and she was thinking more clearly now.
It was a matter of concern that Frog had suggested that she move to another town. Such an idea had never occurred to her, but it might be the most practical solution. Another town, a fresh start. It was something to think about.
She knew that there were Cherokees moving westward, building towns in a place called Arkansas. There would be need for a person with the medicine gift. But how could she find the town where she could settle, one with the need for the skills she could offer?
It was well after dark when she reached home. She had refused Frog’s kind invitation to spend the night. She had been away for two days, and it would be good to be home. This thought made her uneasy again about the possibility of moving. Well, she’d think about that later.
The town was quiet and dark. The moon had risen to help her find her way, and the squat outlines of her modest dwelling had never looked so welcome. She was tired, as she shuffled the last few steps to the doorway. She paused, hesitating to step into the darkness where—
The familiar buzzing rattle sent cold chills over her. Was it starting again? This time she was not close enough to be in real danger. She stepped back, and the rattling ceased. She must have some light …. The fire was surely dead, after two days …. She would have to make one. With a sigh she set her pack against the outside wall of the hut and drew out her flint and steel. It took a little while to arrange her tinder and the charred cloth that would catch the first spark. She knelt, striking the metal with her flint, trying to catch the spark she needed …. There! She lifted the handful with the spark and blew gently until it glowed, then burst into flame, lighting the area in front of the hut ….
She fumbled with some of her fuel, stacked against the end of the structure, and quickly fashioned a torch. Carrying it for light, she approached the doorway again. The rattle sounded …. Very cautiously she peered around the opening and drew the hanging doorskin aside, to see… nothing.
The startling sounds ceased, and Snakewater could have sworn that she heard a suppressed giggle.
“Damn you, Lumpy!” she exploded. “Where are you? That wasn’t funny at all!”
She tossed her pack inside, followed it, and quickly sought her pallet. It had been a long and eventful day, and she was exhausted.
9
Three Fingers spent a very uncomfortable few days, waiting for the next meeting of the Council. There were several things he did not really understand. It was still a mystery to him, how rumor and accusation could have divided the town so quickly and so bitterly. As far as he knew, Old Town had experienced no more illness or unexpected death than any town does. People are born, live, and die, like the leaves on a tree. Death is a part of the cycle, just as autumn leaves grow ripe and fall in their multicolored splendor. That was an analogy which appealed to him.
He regretted the losses, some more than others. The death of a child is always hard, even beyond the loss to those most closely involved. Such concern Three Fingers felt quite personally, as part of the responsibility of his office. Still, death happens. To look for causes beyond the obvious seemed fruitless to him. There are things not meant to be understood by mere mortals.
It seemed infinitely more ridiculous to him that anyone would attempt to assign blame for such an inescapable event as a random death. He was concerned that this conflict threatened the town. Already there were friends of the Spotted Bird woman, sympathetic to her loss, who were loud in their denunciation of old Snakewater. The situation might deteriorate to the point where they began to demand action. And in turn the council might find it necessary to make some sort of decision, simply to avoid violence. That was a hard thing to imagine, in a law-abiding setting such as Old Town. The Real People had respected the authority of duly chosen leaders for many generations.
Sometimes he wondered, though, how he had allowed himself to be selected for his present position. And why would he have accepted it? For the prestige, he had to admit.
But in the years since he had been Peace Chief of Old Town, there had certainly been no crisis to compare with this. His greatest fear was that friends of the woman who had brought the accusation would try to take action on their own. That in turn could trigger a defensive reaction by the supporters of the medicine woman. Such a thing could tear Old Town into two warring camps, and he doubted that the town could survive such an internal war.
It was a welcome distraction, then, when a trader and his wife arrived at Old Town. They sought out the leaders of the town, Three Fingers and Log Roller, to pay their respects, as was customary and proper. It was always pleasant to have traders visit. They carried not only trade goods, but news and stories. Many traders did not include Old Town among their stops. It was somewhat off the main road and had a reputation for being a little slow to accept change. Such a town is likely to acquire also a reputation for slow trade. There is a reluctance to try new things.
Such a reputation did not bother the citizens of Old Town, or its leaders. It was apparent that its citizens were content to follow the old ways. The crops were planted outside the walls, in small plots and fields.
Few people had livestock, beyond a horse or two. By contrast, some of the Real People in other areas had adopted many of the white man’s ways. Three Fingers was aware that over beyond Keowee there were larger farms and fields worked by black slaves, and plantations with big houses, herds of cattle, pigs, and poultry. The traditional walled towns of the Real People, as well as their houses and clothing, were becoming more and more like those of the white man. A strange thing: The whites had never seen crops such as corn, pumpkins, beans, or potatoes until a few generations ago. But they had learned to plant and grow these crops from the Real People and other tribes, changing the whites’ ways to meet new conditions. Now the change had come full circle. The Real People were adopting white ways. Ah, it made his head ache to think about it.
But now Three Fingers was glad to see the trader. He would have a variety of new goods. More importantly, news of other towns, maybe even new stories. But above all the presence of the trader would provide a distraction for Old Town. People would not be brooding about the question of the Raven Mocker. At least not so much. It was another three days until the time for the council to reconvene.
This trader, a Choctaw, had been here before and was known to Old Town. Trading was brisk, and the time around the story fire in the evening an enjoyable distraction.
On the first evening the trader began by relating all the news from the places he had been. A fire had destroyed the council house in one town, and it was being rebuilt. The Peace Chief in another town had been killed by a tree he was cutting. It was an accident—a sudden shift in the breeze just as the trunk spoke its characteristic crack and began to fall. The tree twisted, spun at an awkward angle on its stump, and fell directly in the preplanned path of retreat. But such things happen, no?
Three Fingers hoped that Old Town’s people would not see a similarity in this, the unexpected death of a young man, with their own Raven Mocker problem. Or maybe it would be a good thing. No one can ever be sure of anything, except that he can always expect the unexpected. He smiled to himself at this contradictory thought. Ah, well…
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