Raven Mocker

by Don Coldsmith

  The reunion was a time of great joy. The trader and his wife had changed very little. They commented on Snakewater’s healthy appearance.

  “Where did you winter?” Cloud asked. “With Far Thunder’s people?”

  “Yes. And you?”

  “With some Arapahos, near the mountains. A good year for trading!” said Fox.

  “And Far Thunder?” asked Rain Cloud. “He recovered completely?”

  “Yes. I was pleased to help him.”

  “You look well,” Cloud said. “This is a different life, no?”

  “It is, but one I like,” agreed Snakewater. “It is good for me here.”

  “What will you do now?” asked Fox. “You are a different person from the one who left West Landing with us.”

  It was said innocently, humorously, and surely Fox had no idea of the effect of this joking remark on Snakewater. It struck her unexpectedly with an effect of being thrown into cold water. The remark chilled her to the bone. Her change was noticeable, then. The dread that maybe her accusers were right, after all, swept over her. Maybe it is true, I could be a Raven Mocker!

  “Snakewater! What is it?” asked Rain Cloud in concern.

  “Oh… I …It is nothing.”

  “You could join us again after the Sun Dance,” Fox offered.

  She could not think about such things now. “Let us talk of it later,” she said.

  A part of the festivities included what the Elk-dog People called the Big Council. It was a formal meeting of the chiefs and subchiefs of the various bands, to openly report on the events of the past season since they’d last met. The events of any importance were already known by word of mouth, of course, but this provided open recognition and discussion where necessary.

  The chiefs were seated in traditional sequence, assigned their places by long-observed custom. The circle around the fire left an opening on the east, in recognition of the symbolic doorway facing the rising sun. Around the circle in their traditional positions sat the leaders of the seven bands, with their subchiefs behind them. Fanning out toward the periphery of the crowd were the warrior societies, families, and visitors.

  The pipe was passed among the chiefs, and then each in turn would relate any significant events of the season. The presiding Real-chief was of the Northern Band, so the leader to his left, chief of the Eastern Band, was the first to speak. Theirs had been a good season, with no major events. A few minor misfortunes, greeted with chuckles as he related them. The Eastern Band was traditionally the butt of jokes about foolish people. Some of them seemed to revel in it, telling jokes on themselves, even.

  Next was the Forest Band, newly restored to the tribal structure. For many generations they had been known as the Lost Band, and an empty spot in the circle was reserved in their honor. Now, only a few seasons ago, the Lost Band had returned, and the circle was complete again. They called themselves the Forest Band, out of respect for old legends.

  The New Band, closely allied to the People, had joined them only a generation or two ago. Theirs was a culture quite similar, and they had assimilated well.

  Next, the Southern Band of Far Thunder.

  “I am Far Thunder, chief of the Southern Band,” he began formally. “We have wintered well. It could have been better, but for those who find themselves alive in the summer, it must have been a good winter. We camped and hunted with a band of Arapahos on our way to winter camp. They were good allies. Our supplies were plenty, but we lost some to raccoons. We lost a few people, ate a few dogs, but no horses, so it must have been a good winter.”

  There were a few chuckles, and Far Thunder continued.

  “I would mention one event. Nearly a year ago I fell sick with bad spirits of some sort. A medicine woman, who was visiting our band with a trader, was able to see the problem and to make medicine to help me. This woman, Snakewater of the Cherokees, then stayed with us. She is the grandmother in my lodge, and has become one of us. It is my hope that she will stay, because her medicine is powerful. Snakewater has helped many.”

  It was unusual for a testimonial of this sort to be aired at the Big Council. The Real-chief nodded his acceptance of the Southern Band’s account of their season, and looked on to the chief of the Red Rocks Band, seated next in sequence.

  But now there arose a commotion in the rear, from an area where a number of visitors from other tribes were seated. Far Thunder looked in that direction, and a couple of men from one of the warrior societies moved in to restore order. It was most impolite and rude for a guest to interrupt the ceremony of the host group. The warriors would advise the troublemakers that they were not welcome.

  Far Thunder waited for the restoration of order before continuing, but it was slow in coming. People began to turn and look, to see what was going on. Some began to stand, to see better, blocking the view of those still seated.

  “Sit down!” somebody yelled.

  At the rear, apparently the source of the disturbance, the warriors were scuffling with some of the visitors. A couple of men were trying to restrain a woman, who was striking out at the members of the Bowstring Society.

  “No!” she screamed. “I will not sit down! That is the woman!”

  It took a moment for Snakewater to realize that the troublemaker was yelling in Cherokee.

  “She is a witch!” the woman screamed. “A Raven Mocker! She killed my baby!”

  There were few among the crowd who understood the Cherokee tongue, and there was still much puzzled embarrassment, as the woman’s family tried to restrain her.

  But Snakewater heard …. Would it never end?

  39

  Snakewater had not even been aware that among the visitors was a small party of the Real People; the very individuals whose intolerance had driven her away from her home and across many moons of distance.

  The ironic part was that if she had been told that there were Cherokees visiting, she would probably have sought them out to welcome them …. They would visit and talk and hear any news from home ….

  But this! The same people who had ruined her life… Had they sought her out, or was this, too, an accidental crossing of the winding trails of human lives? Or …are there really any accidents at all? This could, however, explain her recent depression, and the return of her dark thoughts. How had she happened to be wondering and worrying about her new and changed existence, and the legend of the Raven Mocker? There must have been something …. Her uneasiness may have been a warning that she had misunderstood.

  Now she sat alone, deeply troubled. The Big Council had certainly been disturbed. The woman’s family, realizing the rudeness of such behavior, had attempted to quiet her. She screamed and fought and finally they had dragged her away. The Council resumed, with the chiefs of the last three bands reporting the experiences of the past year. These were, of course, anticlimactic after the excitement of the interruption.

  Snakewater had fled into the darkness while the crowd was distracted by the antics of the screaming woman. She had to get away, to think, to try to make sense out of a very bad situation. She knew that she had many friends, who would defend her against any accusation. But should they? There gnawed, in the deepest recesses of her mind, a doubt: Maybe the woman was right.

  Below her, in the camp, the Big Council seemed to have adjourned. The fire had been built up, and she could hear the sounds of the drums and the singing. It was a clear night. The moon, a little past full, was just rising, blood red against the black sky. That had a calming effect on her, or maybe it was only a distraction. In the presence of such majesty her own problems seemed insignificant.

  Below, people were dancing now, to the steady cadence of the drums and the jingling bells and rattles. This would be a social dance, for pure enjoyment. The serious ritual of the Sun Dance would be held in a special pavilion to the east of the main camp. She could see it in the brightening moonlight, a large open-sided structure, roofed with brush and leaves, large enough for many to dance at once. She had watched its constru
ction.

  The family of the Real-chief had been responsible for obtaining the symbolic buffalo used in the ceremony. They had killed a magnificent bull, skinned it, and brought the hide, the head still attached, to the Sun Dance arbor that very day. She had watched as they constructed an effigy of poles and branches, stretching the bull’s hide over it in a lifelike position, head propped up and facing the arena. Before this effigy people would make their vows, pray their prayers, and offer their sacrifices. Not to the buffalo, but to the Creator for His generosity in providing the great herds. But now the Sun Dance arena was dark. Things must happen in sequence, and the formality of the Big Council must precede the rituals of the Sun Dance.

  She felt a strong attraction, a fascination with these events, so different from those of her own people, the Real People. Maybe it would help if she said a prayer or two before the Sun Dance effigy. It could do no harm, and might be of help with the worry that had inescapably dogged her for the past two years.

  These thoughts were interrupted by a movement on the slope. Snakewater turned, instinctively reaching for the knife at her waist as a dark figure approached. But it moved openly and slowly.

  “Aiee!” panted Swan. “The slopes are steeper than when I was young.”

  She seated herself on the still sun-warmed rock beside Snakewater, taking a moment to catch her breath.

  “I thought I might find you here,” she said finally. “Quite a surprise, the crazy woman. You know her?”

  Snakewater had sought privacy, to be alone with her thoughts, but now it seemed comforting to have Swan with her.

  “Yes. She comes from the town where I grew up. I left there because of this.”

  Swan waited a little while and then spoke again.

  “No one believes her, of course. People are talking about it, and that she must have gone mad. I wanted you to know.”

  “Thank you, Swan. That means much to me. But—this is very hard to say—she may be right.”

  Swan gasped, then laughed nervously. “Now it is you who have gone mad, Snakewater.”

  “No, I am serious.”

  Quickly she blurted out the whole story, the Raven Mocker legend, the odd series of circumstances that had plagued her and followed her across the country and beyond the Mississippi.

  “And you think… Are you serious, woman?” Swan demanded.

  “I have to be, Swan. This keeps coming back again and again. Will it ever stop?”

  “I don’t know, of course,” said Swan, a little sarcastically. “But some things I do know. One is that you could not do anything to hurt anybody.”

  “But harm has come to those I was helping ….”

  “Of course. Such things happen. You do not cause them.”

  “Maybe I do, without knowing,” insisted Snakewater.

  “No, no. Look… you have a gift, a very powerful medicine, no? It allows you to see things that others do not, to make conjures and potions and to help others. You cured Far Thunder, and for this I am grateful. But… Snakewater, I do not know of your Cherokee ways, but among my people, one who has been given such a gift and uses it to hurt others, would die. Is it not so?”

  “Yes, something like that… But, Swan, what if the gift is evil? The woman calls me a witch. Maybe I am, without knowing!”

  “Nonsense.” Swan snorted indignantly. “You could not use an evil gift to do good, any more than to use yours to hurt others. You would not do that.”

  “Maybe… I don’t know, Swan. What happened to the woman?”

  “Her people carried her away, kicking and screaming, about—well, you heard—Her baby.”

  “Yes, Swan, I remember that well. She had a beautiful child …. I did all I could, but could not save her. I even tried to breathe for her The mother—Spotted Bird, I think—I had no idea that she blamed me. That was not until later. She told that I had sucked the breath from the baby.”

  “ Aiee!” said Swan softly.

  “There were others too. One tried to kill me ….”

  “Ah! We had no idea, Snakewater. But they will probably leave now. My heart is heavy for you.”

  “Mine is heavy for the trouble I brought to the Big Council,” said Snakewater.

  “No one will blame you. Will you go to watch the dancing? Or even dance, maybe?”

  “I think not, Swan. I am tired …. Much excitement, no? I will go back to the lodge.”

  She rose, and the two started down the dim path.

  “I thank you, Swan, for coming to tell me what happened back there. And I feel better after talking.”

  “It is good! Oh, yes, I forgot. One of the horse herders was looking for you—your mare has a foal.”

  One more thing…

  She wanted badly to see the foal. She had enjoyed the ownership and use of the little mare, given her by Kills Many during the early part of her flight from Old Town. The animal had served her well. During this past season with the Elk-dog People of Far Thunder’s band, she had had little use for a horse. Except, of course, during their few moves and the travel involved. There was a brief moment of guilt as she reflected that she had done little to assist in the care and feeding of the mare. Some of the older sons of Far Thunder’s lodge had been assigned those tasks.

  “Could one of the boys show me where the foal is?” she asked Swan the next morning.

  “Of course!” Swan turned and called to where the youngsters were playing. “Blue Hawk! Come and help Grandmother. You know where her mare is, with the new foal?”

  “Yes, I think so. With my father’s horses? Coyote is herding them today. He can show us.”

  “Good. You are a good boy!” She patted his head.

  They walked outside the camp, avoiding an area where a match race with two horses on a short straight sprint was about to begin. They passed a contest with tomahawks thrown for accuracy at a mark on a dead cotton-wood bole, and moved on toward a meadow where a hundred horses or so grazed contentedly. A couple of young men lounged nearby, and Blue Hawk approached one of them.

  “Coyote!” he called. “Can you show us the new foal of Snakewater’s mare?”

  “Yes… Right over there!” The young man pointed.

  “Yes, there she is!” Snakewater agreed. “Ah, a fine colt, no?”

  It was, indeed, a highly desirable animal—long, straight legs, foxy little ears, an intelligent face with wide-set eyes. The color was a nondescript, mousy brown, a soft baby fur. The face was marked with a white star between the eyes, a narrow race from there to the nose, and a snip of white between the nostrils.

  “Our father says that a foal this color will usually shed off black when it loses its baby hair,” Blue Hawk told her.

  Snakewater nodded. “It is good! Thank you, Hawk.” She turned and waved her thanks to young Coyote, who returned the wave.

  Snakewater and Blue Hawk started back toward the village.

  “A very good colt, Grandmother,” the youngster assured her. “You should be proud!”

  “I am proud!” said Snakewater. “I never had a colt before.”

  “Aiee!” said Hawk. “Never?”

  “That is true. I never had a horse of any kind until that one—the foal’s mother. Your people feel differently about horses than mine, Hawk.”

  “They have no horses?”

  “Oh, yes! They are very good with horses. It is only that I never had one. I lived alone, you see, and did not travel much. Your people travel all the time, and they need horses.”

  “I see ….”

  But she had to wonder if he really did.

  “Those people last night, the visitors—someone said they are your people,” Blue Hawk asked now.

  “Yes, some of them.”

  “The crazy woman?” asked Hawk.

  “Yes, someone called her that. She had a baby that died, and her heart was very heavy. She still suffers, I guess.”

  “Too bad,” said the boy.

  “Yes,” agreed Snakewater. “My heart is heavy for her.”
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  She learned one more thing that morning. The Cherokee visitors, to avoid trouble, had packed and departed at daylight. That part, at least, was over.

  40

  Snakewater felt a strange attraction, somehow, to the Sun Dance pavilion, the “medicine lodge.” She wandered over there to watch the Real-chief’s family putting the finishing touches on the huge effigy of the buffalo opposite the gateway opening. The massive head, propped in a lifelike position, overlooked the arena, dominating the scene.

  She saw that the lifeless eyes had been replaced with some other objects—shells, perhaps, or shiny black stones, possibly even painted replicas. The effect was strange, lending a dreamy, surrealistic tone to the entire scene. The deep shade, broken by mottled sunlight filtering through the leafy roof of the arbor, lent a further mood that she could not understand. It was thrilling, exciting, yet calming as she stood there watching the young men prop the wooden legs of the huge effigy into position. Even though this occasion, this celebration, was completely foreign to her, she felt that it had meaning—not just to these people of the prairie, the hunters of buffalo, but to her. She, Snakewater, was somehow drawn to this place, this ceremonial effigy.

  She would come back, she decided, when the young men were finished. She would say her own private prayers before the symbolic effigy, prayers of thanks for a season that had been good. She’d ask for a better one to come. It could do no harm. A vow, maybe… She was unsure what she might vow. There was still indecision as to whether she would stay with Far Thunder’s band or rejoin the trader couple, at least for a season. It would be possible, she supposed, for her to return to Old Town or Keowee, now that her tormentor had moved west, but that was an uncomfortable thought. It would never be the same.

  In any case, her plans would be complicated by the new foal. Not too much… She realized that there must be many new foals among the vast horse herds of Far Thunder’s people. But… well, of course! A foal would follow its mother, and the pace of travel with the poledrag or travois was necessarily slow. That should not be a problem, then.