Child of the Dead

by Don Coldsmith

  Out of sheer habit, she inspected the ragged half of buffalo skin brought by her sons. It might be useful, and nothing should be wasted. She spread the skin on the ground and began to dress the flesh side, scraping all the scraps of fat and tissue away.

  Running Deer had nearly completed her task with the buffalo skin when the girl awoke again. A long sleep, good for the sick, thought Deer. She left the skin, and approached the child.

  “How is it with you?” she signed. “Would you eat again?”

  The girl nodded eagerly. Odd, Running Deer thought. She looks stronger, almost, after her sleep.

  They opened one of the tubes of pemmican, which did prove to be of high quality. Its richness prevented them from eating very much, but it was filling and good.

  Evening was approaching, and Running Deer began to prepare for the night. More firewood … It might be good, she thought, to have a better shelter. A frame of poles, maybe, a part of one of the abandoned lodge skins … Well, she could consider that tomorrow.

  It was nearly fully dark when little Gray Mouse approached her and crept into her lap.

  “Are you cold, little Mouse?”

  “No. Grandmother, tell me a story?”

  A story? In hand signs? Deer chuckled.

  “Maybe,” she signed. “We will try. I will use words, too.”

  “In long-ago times,” she began, “all people and all creatures spoke the same language.”

  The girl nodded eagerly. “I know of this!” she signed. “Your people know this, too?”

  Running Deer gave her a quick touch in approval.

  “Of course. Now, do you know why Bobcat has such a short tail?”

  The little girl smiled. “Yes, but tell me again, Grandmother.”

  And again, this was good.

  It was a day or two later. Darkness had fallen, and they were settling down for the night when there was a noise in the darkness just beyond the circle of firelight. Running Deer quietly reached for her ax, and prepared to rise. Probably nothing … a stray skunk or possum, but it was good to be ready. The creature seemed larger than that, though. It was making a lot of noise, rustling around in the brush and making an odd snuffling sound.

  Then into the circle came the object of their attention; A half-grown dog. It would be a large animal when it matured. Running Deer wondered why they had not seen it before. Well, they had not searched the village completely. The puppy might have been in one of the lodges. At this age it could be expected to wander around rather illogically and to do stupid things. Much like young humans, she thought. Maybe it had been out wandering the prairie. At any rate, it had been left behind.

  The friendly yellow pup walked directly to Gray Mouse, wagging its tail and trying to lick her face. The girl giggled weakly and patted its head.

  “Do you know this dog?” asked Running Deer in hand signs.

  “No. But he is good. Can he stay, Grandmother?”

  Deer thought for a moment. Why not? The child is pleased by it. It will probably not be for long anyway.

  She smiled and nodded. The girl smiled.

  “It is good! I will call him Yellow Dog.”

  Deer fed the animal a few bites of meat so that it would stay. If it made the child happy in these last days …

  “You have to hunt for yourself, dog,” she told it. “I will not give you all your food.”

  When they fell asleep, Yellow Dog was curled near the sleeping robe of young Gray Mouse.

  9

  This child is stronger, thought Running Deer. She should be growing weaker, but she is stronger.

  It had been four … no, five days now, since their lives had been thrown together. There were times when Running Deer thought that her sons were right, that she had gone completely crazy. It was still a problem to communicate with young Gray Mouse, but usually there was not much need to do so anyway. The simple needs of the day … food, water, sleep … Deer had dug out a cooking pit, and lined it with the scrap of buffalo skin. That, with a few cooking stones, had allowed her to make nutritious soups from the pemmican. The little girl had seemed to enjoy this.

  Of all the needs and wants of a child of five summers, though, perhaps the most important is that of affection. The two spent much time close together, or with the girl sleeping in the arms of Running Deer. That was how Deer noticed the change, slow as it was.

  There is not so much fever, she had noticed on the morning of their third day together. Later that day, she decided that she had been mistaken. The skin of little Mouse felt hot and dry. When it was that way, the girl was very quiet and listless, and showed little interest in anything. And, Deer noticed, the girl always seemed at her best in the morning, after a night’s sleep. So, the answer seemed to be more rest. When the child became listless, Deer would hold and rock her, and when sleep came, lay her gently on a soft robe. Then she would fan the little face, stirring the air to keep the flies from annoying or disturbing the needed rest.

  Now … Yes, she is stronger, thought Deer. She studied the child carefully for the next day or two, and realized that Gray Mouse had become much more active. Her need for rest was still present, but the periods of sleep were shorter and less frequent. The childish play became more active, more normal.

  A favorite place to play was on the gravel bar where they dipped water from the stream. White, smoothly polished stones lay piled there by the current of the stream when it had been swollen in some flood time … maybe long ago, maybe last spring. The stones ranged from the size of a goose’s egg down to no larger than one which could be concealed in the palm of a child’s hand. Not all were round. Some were flattened or gnarled in strange shapes.

  “Look! This one is a dog!” the girl would sign, bringing a special stone for Running Deer to examine. “And here is one like a bird.”

  Deer had used some of the better, rounder stones, from well above the water line, for cooking stones. Heated in the fire, they could be transferred to her little cooking pit with willow tongs until the water was boiling and the meat cooking. As the stones cooled, they were returned to the fire to be replaced by reheated stones. Most of the People had cooked in this way when Running Deer was young. She was expert at it. She could have used one of the several cooking pots that she had seen in the camp of the dead ones, but felt that it would not be right, somehow. It felt better to go back to the old ways. It was simpler, cleaner and more pure, maybe. Anyway, it felt better. She was not certain how the spirit of the poch sores made its leap to another victim, but maybe the old women were right. Maybe it was the result of all the modern changes that had come about in her lifetime.

  Aiee, I am thinking like an old woman, she admitted to herself. Then she chuckled aloud. I am an old woman! Maybe that is why.

  She lifted a heated stone and dropped it into the stew. There was a hiss and a puff of steam, and the liquid continued to simmer. The smell was good …

  A sudden cry came from the gravel bar where Gray Mouse was playing. The child had fallen, and now jumped to her feet to run to her “grandmother” for comfort, wailing from the hurt. Had the boisterous dog knocked her down? Maybe not … It always seemed concerned for the girl’s welfare. It was apparent that she was not badly injured, but: she was holding a hand over her other arm.

  Running Deer opened her arms to give consolation and comfort. That was a function that she had missed when her own children had grown and no longer needed such hugs. The little girl flew into her ready arms, and Deer suddenly realized that the child’s arm was bloody. The bleeding seemed rather profuse … what …? She examined the injury and relaxed somewhat. It was only that the fall on the rocky shore had dislodged one of the round scabs that dotted the girl’s body. It would soon stop bleeding, but …

  Wait! she thought. She looked more closely. She had noticed that the black centers of the pustules had grown, day by day, until the entire sore became dry and black and scabbed. She had thought that an ominous sign. Many of the dead in the abandoned camp had sores with that ap
pearance. Yet, as those of Gray Mouse dried, she had grown stronger. Now, looking at this fresh injury … the drainage was not the yellow of the vile fluid that had been there before. This was blood. Bright, healthy-looking blood, not like that from the sores of the poch!

  She hugged the child to her, rocking gently and murmuring the soft singsong words of comfort. Tears came easily, as one thought kept repeating over and over in her head: She is going to live!

  In the happiness of newly recovered life, there were a glorious few days. Gray Mouse, of course, did not understand the significance of what had happened. She only knew that she felt better, and that the grandmother who had come from nowhere to help her was now happier.

  They played the games of childhood, by which one learns to count, to reason, and to become a responsible adult. They enjoyed stories together. Gray Mouse was rapidly learning the language of the People, which made the stories easier and more interesting.

  For Running Deer, it was a time of ecstasy, the return of the daughter she had lost. It was easy to forget all the problems that had confronted her, all the sadness and tragedy. This was here and now, and nothing else seemed to matter. The weather was warm, they had food in plenty and water to drink, and shelter. She had salvaged part of a lodge skin to cover a sort of lean-to that she built against the hillside. She did not have the physical strength to erect one of the big lodges. There was no need for one, anyway. At least, not for now.

  Deer woke one morning, her throat just a bit sore and her eyes watering. Aiee, the season! The blooming of some of the late summer flowers had always bothered her. She rolled out of her robe, somewhat stiffly. More stiffly than usual … She glanced at the sky. A storm? That always made her bones ache. But the sky seemed open and clear … Just a cold, maybe.

  She started to build up the fire, but found that she was quite dizzy. She sat down … Maybe I rose too fast, she thought.

  The little girl crawled sleepily from her sleeping robe and stumbled over to sit in Grandmother’s lap. Running Deer did not particularly feel like holding a child right now. She was nauseated and weak and could not seem to think well. Gray Mouse took her hand.

  “Aiee, Grandmother, you are hot!”

  Only now did Running Deer begin to understand. She was ill. In the happiness of the past few days she had pushed it into the farthest reaches of her mind. Now it crept into her thoughts again, and a dreadful fear gripped her heart. She had not known, but she did now, how it would begin. This is the evil thing. This is how it feels.

  The poch…

  Something like terror gripped her. There was a passing temptation to run, and try to get away, yet she knew that was useless.

  Then anger … Why me? she wanted to shout. The answer to that came quickly to her: Because I chose it! That angered her even more. This was not part of the bargain! her mind protested. The child was dying, I only wanted to comfort her in her last days. Then I would be ready to cross over, too.

  This was not right. She had only made things worse. The child had survived, but for what? Only to die alone, later, when her protector was gone. Running Deer tried to console herself with thoughts of their few days of happiness together, but it was no use. Without her help … The child’s senses were already dulled. Death would have come, gently and without notice, in a day or two. And she, Running Deer, had tried to intervene in what was meant to be. It had seemed successful, at first, but now she knew. It had been only a trade, her life for that of the girl.

  The bitter part, the cruel result of the entire affair, was that it was not even a fair trade. Without her help, the child would now die alone on the prairie. It would take a little more time, that was all. Deer had thought herself so clever in this attempt to challenge the way of things, but not clever enough.

  You cheated me, she thought defiantly, directing her anger toward the dreaded spirit of the poch. This was not the bargain!

  “You are hot, Grandmother!” Gray Mouse was saying. “Here, I will cool your face!”

  The little one was bathing her cheeks with fresh cool water, and it felt good … But now, there were more important things … She had only a few days to live, she did not know how many. In that short time, she must teach the child everything she could about survival. Even so, it would be a hopeless task. How could a girl of five summers survive? There would be food for a little while, and then … Deer could not guess which might come first. Starvation, or Cold Maker’s chill hand. Tears came freely.

  “Do not cry, Grandmother,” signed Gray Mouse. “I will take care of you.”

  That was perhaps worst of all.

  10

  “It is a miracle that was granted to me,” No Tail Squirrel was explaining. “It is good, no?”

  The People were several sleeps away from the Camp of the Dead, still traveling toward the selected summer camp site. There was always a certain confusion during the days of travel. Travel left no time for socializing or the leisurely casual smokes and conversation. Only for a short time as daylight changed to twilight was there any time for such things. Even then, most of the People were too tired.

  This evening, though, they had halted early. A good day’s travel … They had reached the intended camp site somewhat earlier than expected. The young men were taking advantage of the extra daylight for some gambling, boasting, horse trading, and casual visiting.

  “No, I do not want to trade him,” No Tail Squirrel said indignantly just as Singing Wolf walked past. “I want to use him.”

  Wolf paused. A group of young men about to aspire to one of the warrior societies were gathered around a magnificent horse. He did not think he had ever seen the animal before, and he paused to admire it. A strong, broad-chested stallion, heavily muscled through the hip and stifle … A buffalo runner, maybe. The foreparts were dark, black to bluish roan, and the hips were white as snow with scattered black spots. Some of these were grouped like hand prints, the powerful ritual markings placed on a horse’s shoulder or rump to insure a successful hunt or battle.

  “You have painted him?” asked Singing Wolf. It was customary to do so only as the party prepared to leave.

  The young men laughed. “We asked him that too, Uncle,” one said respectfully. “Squirrel says no.”

  Wolf stepped to the horse’s side, touching the black spots. It was true. This was not paint. He could feel the texture of the hair … A trifle thicker and softer, maybe, in the dark spots.

  “When did you get him, Squirrel?” asked the holy man.

  “It is as I was telling them, Uncle. It is a miracle. He came to me as I was riding behind the column. As wolf, you know. I was tired of the dust and sweat … maybe I closed my eyes for a heartbeat or two. But then I heard the horse call out. And there he stood before me. It is a good sign, no?” he asked eagerly.

  “Of course. He is well trained?”

  It was obvious that this was no wild horse. It stood calmly, allowing itself to be handled.

  “Yes, Uncle. I think so. I have ridden him a little, and his gaits are good. Aiee, he can run. I think he runs to the right.”

  “And you use the bow?” Singing Wolf inquired.

  “Of course. If I did not, it would be worthwhile to change, no?”

  There was a ripple of laughter. Usually, one would learn the use of bow and lance, and decide on the basis of preference. Then, choose a horse that would fit the hunter’s style … one that pursues a running buffalo from the right for a bowman, a left approach for use with the lance. Yet, as No Tail Squirrel said, for a horse as good as this, one would be tempted to change. But looks and gaits are not everything.

  “Well, see how he works at the hunt,” Singing Wolf advised as he moved on.

  It was nice to have a pleasant diversion, and his heart was good for the young man. His heart had been unbearably heavy for some time … through the prescribed three days of mourning for his mother, but still to this day. He could hardly force himself to go about daily tasks, knowing what Running Deer might be experiencing. It was
hard, to know that although mourning was over, she was probably still alive. It was only her stubborn demand that prevented him even now from returning to see about her welfare. That and common sense. If he did go back, there was nothing he could do, whether she was alive or dead.

  Maybe this puzzle of No Tail Squirrel and his wonderful horse was good. It would distract him. There were some strange things about the event. He was certain that Squirrel was telling the truth. There was no reason not to do so. But someone had trained and used such a horse. It had not simply materialized. At least, he did not think so. True, there are always strange events where the spirits are involved, but this? No, in all his experience as a holy man, and even the experience of his father, nothing like this. There was something here that did not ring true, but he could not quite identify what it was.

  Several other things, insignificant things of routine nature, distracted him for a few days before his mind turned again to Squirrel’s mystery horse. One of the children had blundered into a lodge of bumblebees and suffered many stings. A lame pack horse … that had required repacking and the use of a different animal. It was that event that finally called his attention to horses again. What about the horse that Squirrel had found? He had heard nothing more of it.

  Singing Wolf went out to where the horses of the People were herded to graze for the night. It was nearly dark. The animals were greedily cropping the lush grass of the meadow. They must spend half their time eating to build strength for the other half, such as travel.

  He saw the stallion of No Tail Squirrel. It was unmistakable, even in the fading light.

  One of the young herders approached him.

  “Ah-koh, Uncle. How is it with you?”

  “It is good.”