Raven Mocker

by Don Coldsmith

  11

  It was a busy day, trying to prepare her departure without appearing to do so. Much of the preparation could be done inside her house, of course. It consisted largely of packaging her plant medicines for travel. A major problem was trying to decide what to take and what to leave. She wanted to take everything. The bundles and bunches of herbs, selected carefully, prepared and dried and now hanging from the walls and ceiling, represented many days of search and collection. Some were already pounded or ground, and stored in gourd containers or packets of well-tanned buckskin. These could be easily carried on the horse that Three Fingers had promised. The dilemma that she faced was what to do about the array of hanging clumps of plant material. She hated to leave any of it behind, but it was obvious that she must. Some of the rarest and most valuable specimens she partially processed and packaged. It was hard to estimate how much she could carry on a horse. Three Fingers had managed to bring her a pair of pannier bags, which could be prepacked, ready to toss over the animal’s back and tie to the saddle.

  Almost too late, after the panniers were nearly full of her herbs and medicines, she realized that food, too, would be important. She gathered the most nutritious and least bulky of her supplies of dried meat, corn, and other vegetables, as well as nut meats. She must abandon a large supply of nuts and acorns still in the shell, but they would be too bulky and heavy to take …. No time today to pick out nuts …. She added to her pile of plunder a favorite cooking pot, obtained a few seasons ago from a trader. It was of shiny metal, one of her few concessions to white man’s technology.

  By evening she was ready, or at least as close as she could manage. Her fire outside the door had been fed slowly, a little at a time, and she had intentionally moved around as she usually did in the evening, showing herself to any who might be interested in watching. Just after it was fully dark, Three Fingers and one of his grown sons approached quietly.

  “Are you ready?” he whispered.

  “Of course!”

  “It is good …. Come… your horse is in the trees there. Corn Plant will carry your bags. You have food, weapons?”

  “Three Fingers,” she scolded, “I was using such things before you were born.”

  “Yes… yes, of course.”

  She picked up her short bow and its quiver of arrows, and the blowgun, a dart already in place. A last moment she stood in the darkness of the familiar room. She could see nothing, but the feel of the place, the smells of herbs drying, of fires and cooking, of habitation, she would want to remember.

  “Good-bye, Lumpy,” she whispered. Then, to the others, slightly louder, “Well, let us go.”

  They reached the horse, a steady old mare, concealed in a clearing in the woods, and the three quickly loaded the packs.

  “You know the road to Keowee,” said Three Fingers. “You should have no trouble. The moon will be up soon.”

  “Wado! I thank you for your help, Three Fingers, Corn Plant …. How will you do this, now?”

  “Hide near your house,” said the Peace Chief. “Build up the fire a little. See who comes.”

  “What if no one does?”

  “Then I will announce at the Council that you are gone, and there is no problem anymore. But I think he will come, don’t you?”

  “I am made to think so,” Snakewater answered. “He will want an answer to his bargain before the Council meets.”

  She mounted the horse, a bit clumsily. It was hard to swing a leg over the bulky baggage. And it had been a long time since she had been on a horse. But she’d manage, she told herself.

  “If you can,” she said, “you might send word what happened here …. No, that would be hard. I may learn someday …. Or not. But never mind.”

  She pulled the mare’s head around and clucked her forward, flapping the reins gently.

  “May it go well with you, Snakewater,” said Three Fingers softly, after the retreating shadows.

  Whipper waited until the night was more than half gone. Old Town was sleeping as he rose, leaving his wife softly snoring and the children quiet. If they woke, they would think only that he had gone to empty his bladder. That would be his story, regardless of how this meeting turned out. He was sure that the conjuror would be expecting him tonight. He had told her that he would return, and this was the last night before the Council was to meet. Snakewater would not allow the Council to convene without having resolved her business with him.

  This was probably the best thing ever to happen to him in his entire lifetime, he thought. He knew that he was not well liked or even respected. It was not his fault that people were so unreasonable. Everyone went out of the way to find bad things to say about him. Even his name … Whipper. He had been only about twelve summers when the other boys found him whipping the dog. The animal was tied, and he was simply punishing it. The dog had defecated, and he had stepped in the dung with his new moccasins. But had it not been his dog anyway? He could whip it if he wished. The other boys had run to tell adults, claiming that he had beaten it half to death. That was untrue, of course …. Not nearly half.

  But the adults had believed the troublemakers, and he was severely scolded. The dog did limp for a long time, and the incident earned him the name “Whips His Dog”… Whipper. He had protested, but the more he complained, the more they used it and more they laughed at him. He finally stopped complaining, but it was too late. The name stuck.

  There was the incident of his first kill …. He had found a dying deer in the woods and shot an arrow into it just as two other hunters came into the clearing. They claimed that it was a deer they had been tracking, after wounding it with an arrow. Whipper responded with indignation, stating unequivocally that he had been waiting here, still-hunting, for half the day. He was a big young man, his voice loud and dominating, and the others had backed down. They sat to watch him skin out his prize. They seemed quite amused when he rolled the carcass over, to reveal the arrow of Black Otter protruding from just behind the ribs.

  There were other episodes too. Misunderstandings or someone else’s fault, every one. No one ever took his side in a conflict, no matter how loud or firm his statement. He had no friends. It had never occurred to him that he was simply disliked because he was a coward and a bully.

  He had married, although he was certain that people laughed behind his back and made jokes about why any woman would marry him. He did treat his wife well, within the limits imposed by his shiftlessness. That, of course, was primarily because separation and divorce among the Real People was the privilege of the woman. If she chose such action, she had merely to toss his possessions out the door. So, for his own protection, he treated her far better than people might imagine. Especially those few with whom he associated. They bore the brunt of his resentment toward everyone more successful than he, which was practically everyone.

  But now this grand plan had occurred to him. He had overheard his wife talking to another woman about it—the Raven Mocker …. Somehow in his twisted, vindictive mind there grew the idea that this would be the ultimate revenge. He’d watch his enemies grow old and die, while he might live virtually forever. Along with this he somehow expected to acquire all the intelligence of each of his victims. Some would have acquired great wisdom simply by their longevity. Wisdom, to Whipper, was identical with prosperity. When he had acquired the status of the Raven Mocker, he could easily outwit the people who had wronged him all his life. He imagined himself laughing at their helplessness while he became rich and prosperous. Just how that was to occur he was not certain yet. But it was sure to come with wisdom.

  The old woman… Ah, it had been easy to fool her, with his domineering voice and attitude. She probably thought him wealthy beyond belief, able to actually carry out his offer of wealth. Even if he could do such a thing, he would not, of course. The wealth would be for himself. As soon as she gave him the secret, she was dead. If she refused his offer, he’d kill her anyway, to keep her from accusing him at the Council tomorrow. He’d be no worse
off than before. Maybe better. There might be something of value in that miserable hut. Then he’d set it on fire, to conceal his deeds.

  These were his thoughts as he walked past her smoldering fire and toward the doorway. Over his shoulder he saw the tip of the rising moon. He paused, listening. There was a sound of deep, regular breathing… or was it only the wind? He lifted the doorskin and stepped inside. There was a catch in the pattern of the breathing now, and then it paused. Ah, yes, she was awake.

  “Old woman,” he said softly, “I have returned. Now let us talk. Are you ready to teach me the secret?”

  There was a subtle rustling in the corner to his left. He turned to face that way. As he did so, he drew his knife. Something was wrong …. The old woman’s bed was directly across the room from the doorway. She should be there, not to his left. Maybe she had moved ….

  “Where are you?” he demanded, peering into the blackness. “We have trading to do!”

  A very little starlight filtered in through the smoke hole in the roof. He thought he saw a movement. Maybe he simply heard or felt the presence there, this time on his right.

  “Is there someone else here?” he demanded. “Answer me, old woman!”

  In an attempt to see better he thought to let moonlight enter the doorway. He lifted the doorskin with his left hand, holding the knife in front of him in a defensive position. Now there were other sounds in the room. Rustling, thumping, footsteps …. There was still not enough light, and impatiently he tore the doorskin from its pegs over the opening and cast it to the floor. There was little to see—not even the bed he had expected to be there. Something touched the top of his head, and he struck out at it blindly. Oh … a bundle of dried plants. He knocked it aside impatiently.

  “Old woman!” he practically yelled. “Show yourself!”

  His demand was answered by more rustling and thumping, now to his left, then to his right, then behind him as he whirled, striking out in a panic. His knife encountered only empty space. He could have sworn he heard suppressed laughter, and he turned in that direction, swinging wildly with his knife. He lost his balance, his feet tangled in the wadded doorskin on the floor, hands outstretched to stop his fall. His knife dropped, and he tried to twist away from falling on it. It was happening so quickly…. There was only the space of a heartbeat before he felt that something had struck him in the soft place just below the V of his ribs. The blow knocked the wind from his lungs and he rolled over, grabbing at his midriff. To his horror his hands encountered the haft of a large knife… his own, jutting out of his belly.

  The darkness deepened rapidly, and before he lost consciousness he thought again that he heard the sarcastic giggle.

  He did not see or hear the two men who came running, pausing only to light a torch at the dying fire.

  “What—what happened here?” asked Corn Plant.

  Three Fingers shrugged.

  “No one else came in, did they, Father?” asked the younger man.

  “I saw no one,” Three Fingers agreed.

  “Could she use her power to do this?” asked Corn Plant.

  Three Fingers was slow to answer but finally spoke, in awed tones.

  “I think not,” he said. “If she could, she would not, though. No, this is something else.”

  Halfway to Keowee, Snakewater stopped and dismounted to rest. Maybe she could walk a little while to ease her aching hips and legs. The mare began cropping grass beside the trail. The moon had risen now, and it was easier to see. She’d rest a little, and move on.

  There was a slight rustle in a clump of bushes, and the mare jumped away in alarm, staring bug eyed at what seemed to be only empty space.

  “What—” stammered Snakewater. “Who is it? Lumpy? What are you doing here? Go on home!”

  There was silence for a little while, and then she spoke again.

  “Really?” Tears were streaming down her cheeks now. “Going with me? Oh, thank you, Lumpy….”

  12

  Back in Old Town the Council met the next day. The word was already out: Snakewater had gone. No one knew where, although the Peace Chief seemed to have more information, which would be shared.

  There was also the killing to be discussed. The crowd gathered quickly as the word spread and the time approached. The town house was packed as Three Fingers rose and the crowd quieted. Much of the ritualized opening of the meeting was shortened considerably because of the shocking character of the situation.

  “You all know,” Three Fingers began, “that our one problem is solved. Snakewater came to me to discuss this. I was made to think that her heart is good. She had decided to leave, rather than create trouble here. So, she is gone. I do not know where.”

  This was true, of course. He did not know the exact destination of the traveling Real People. The situation did not require such information anyway.

  “That is not good enough!” shouted Spotted Bird. “The witch woman killed my baby! She’s a witch!”

  A murmur welled up in the crowd. It was sympathetic in tone, yet it was plain that the majority present did not agree with such an interpretation.

  “We would have discussed that,” agreed Three Fingers, “but now it is not necessary.”

  “What about her other killing?” a voice from the rear called. “That of Whipper?”

  The Peace Chief recognized the man as one of the ne’er -do-well associates of the deceased. He raised a hand to quell the rising murmur of the crowd. It was apparent that many thought that the death of the bully Whips His Dog was not a completely undesirable thing. Three Fingers felt pity for his widow, but she was young, attractive, and well respected. She would find a husband, and nearly any man would be better than the one she had just lost.

  “Let me tell you what I know of this,” Three Fingers told the assembly. “As I have said, Snakewater had informed me she was leaving, which she did about dark. But she also said that someone, she did not know who, had entered her house, and she expected him to return. Now, as Peace Chief, I did not like the sound of this. I asked my son, Corn Plant, to help me, and we concealed ourselves to watch the house. We knew, of course, that Snakewater was already gone. Her house was empty.”

  Now the room was quiet. Every ear was listening.

  “Just about moonrise we saw a man—A big man—who came to the house and entered. We heard him talking, then he cried out. There was a scuffle, and then quiet. We took a torch and found Whipper, Whips His Dog, dead inside. The house was still empty, and he had been killed with his own knife. It is as I have told it. We came to the conclusion that Whipper had pulled down the doorskin—we saw him do that—and tripped over it, falling on the knife.”

  “No!” shouted Spotted Bird. “The witch woman came back and killed him.”

  There was actually a ripple of laughter.

  “Do you think,” asked Three Fingers, “that an old woman could take a knife away from as big a man as that, and then kill him with it?”

  More laughter.

  “She used her powers!” protested Spotted Bird.

  Now there were hoots of derision.

  “If she did that,” observed Three Fingers, “she would not need the knife! Besides, to misuse her power would kill her, no?”

  There was a murmur of agreement.

  “Now,” said Three Fingers, “I see no action that we could take within the town. The woman is gone anyway. Any decision about her now is not in the purview of the Peace Chief, but of the War Chief. Log Roller, what say you?”

  The War Chief rose, shrugged, and spread his hands as if puzzled.

  “What Three Fingers says is true,” he agreed. “We have talked of this. The Peace Chief presides only over matters of the town. He has done that, and well. But I see no threat from outside. We do not need to defend the town. So I see no problem that should be discussed by the War Chief.”

  He sat down again.

  There was a low ripple of conversation as the Peace Chief rose again. There seemed to be a letdown,
a sense of disappointment almost. The crowd had gathered to hear and decide greatly important things, which now had been reduced to nothing. There was no problem to be discussed.

  Three Fingers knew that the whole matter would be discussed, and at great length, after the Council dispersed. The women would talk about it. If it seemed that further action should be taken, he would be approached to do so, probably by his wife, or maybe by a delegation from one of the clans. But he thought not. After all his concern of the past few days, the situation had resolved itself well. He still had questions in his mind about the incident with Whipper in the house vacated by Snakewater. There were things he did not understand about that.

  He remembered, though …. When he was younger, he had been talking to a wise old uncle who had taught him much.

  “I don’t understand,” he had protested, about some apparently miraculous happening.

  “If you still think you have to understand, boy,” Gray Wolf had answered, “you are missing the point.”

  That admonition had served him well ever since.

  Sometimes, he mused, things turn out well, simply because they are meant to do so.

  And this was a good day

  A day’s travel to the north Snakewater was talking to the leader of the band of Real People who were moving west. There were three families, eleven people in all.

  “I am called Snakewater,” she introduced herself. “Paint Clan …. I am told that you are traveling west.”

  The group’s leader was a man of perhaps forty. He had been pointed out to her by Keowee’s Peace Chief when she went to pay her respects. His name, Kills Many…. No one seemed to know or to care, really, how he might have acquired such a name. Kills many… enemies? deer? squirrels? No matter—he was now called Kills Many because it was his name.

  “That is true,” he answered. “We are moving there. You are not from Keowee?”

  He had noticed her horse, laden with packs.