Child of the Dead

by Don Coldsmith

  It was many days later before the two brothers approached the area they sought. They had pushed their horses and themselves to the limit of endurance. The animals were thin and gaunt, not having had enough time to graze. The men, too, had lost weight and were sore, tired, and irritable.

  They had no clear idea of what they might find. The body of their mother? It had been three moons … How long ago would she have fallen ill? They talked very little. Even then, it was mostly short and to the point, relating to camping sites, water, and their dwindling food supply.

  Two nights when the moon was nearly full they continued to travel. Much distance was covered, but the toll on the horses was too heavy.

  “They need to graze nearly half the time, Wolf,” Beaver Track protested. “If we push them too hard, we will have no horses.”

  Wolf nodded. He was embarrassed that he had not realized how hard they had been pushing the animals.

  “We will go more slowly,” he agreed.

  Eventually, after what seemed an eternity, they sat on their horses, overlooking the scene of the spotted death.

  “The Camp of the Dead,” said Beaver Track softly. “Aiee!”

  The place was eerie to look at. It was deathly quiet. Not even a bird or an insect dared to speak in a place so heavy with the presence of spirits crossed over. Many of the lodge covers had fallen away and lay rotting on the ground. Some of the poles had collapsed, but most were still standing. The wood was turning silvery gray from the sun, wind, and weather, and resembled the bleached ribs of a man who lay outside his tattered lodge. Some of his bones were scattered, but the ribs were mostly intact. A tall seed head of grass grew up directly through what had been his chest not many moons ago. Wolf wondered if there had been anyone to mourn for him.

  “Let us look for our mother’s camp,” said Wolf in a voice that did not sound like his own.

  The crisp autumn wind sighed through the bare lodge poles.

  “It was over here, was it not?” asked Wolf.

  “I am made to think so.”

  They found the frame of the lean-to, and ashes and bits of charcoal from the fire. Nothing more.

  “This is the place, no?” Wolf questioned.

  “Yes.”

  “She is gone.”

  “Yes. But alive or dead? Let me look.” Beaver dismounted and began to circle the area on foot.

  Wolf stepped down also and waited, staring at the place where their mother had last stood. The horses grazed eagerly.

  Beaver Track returned, a strange look on his face.

  “Wolf,” he said. “I am made to think she is alive!”

  “You cannot tell, Beaver. Any sign is three moons old!” Wolf snapped irritably.

  “I know, but look … There is nothing at her camp here. Nothing. Not even a scrap of the hide that we wrapped meat in for her. So she took it, to use.”

  “But if she was dying, would she not try to prepare herself?” Wolf asked.

  “I thought of that. Maybe she would go to join those on the scaffolds,” he pointed. “But there is no sign of her there. No, Wolf. She was alive … she left here, because she took her things. Her knife, her ax, her robe!”

  “Someone else may have come by and taken them.”

  “Why?” Beaver demanded. “There were better tools in the camp below, there. Better robes, too, but think on it, Wolf. No one would take a robe from the dead. No, she is alive.”

  “Yes,” agreed Wolf finally. “Or was, when she left here.”

  21

  They discussed the situation. Should they start back to the winter camp of the Southern band? What else could be done?

  “She must have gone willingly,” Beaver Track observed. “Otherwise, there would be something left at her camp.”

  “But with whom? And what happened to the child?”

  “Yes … we saw nothing of the girl. Our mother may have wrapped the body for burial.”

  “Where?” Wolf demanded. “Beaver, she would not place it on one of the scaffolds with others. Maybe she left it in one of the lodges. Or buried it among the rocks.”

  “Maybe we should search.”

  “No … There is nothing to be done anyway, if we did find the child’s body.”

  “That is true.”

  “But, back to our mother. We are made to think that she is alive. Or was when she left here. How long since her little camp there has been used?”

  Beaver Track shrugged. “That is hard to say, Wolf. It has rained since then. The ashes of the fire …”

  “Yes … it has rained … when?”

  “Two or three times, the past moon. But maybe it rained where we were, and not here.”

  “We cannot tell then,” Wolf mused.

  “The ground is dry, though,” Beaver Track noted, touching a crack in the ground. “There has been no rain here for maybe half a moon.”

  “Ah! That helps. She left more than half a moon ago, no? And because she chose to leave.”

  “It seems so.”

  “And she could have been with friends … Head Splitters, maybe. Could she: have been a captive, Beaver?”

  The tracker pondered for a little while. “I am made to think no, Wolf. Think on it … No one would carry off an old woman. She has no value as a wife or as a slave. They would kill her or just leave her. There would be no honor in killing an old woman.”

  “That is true. Then she left because she wanted to go with them. But with whom?”

  The two men looked at each other for a moment and both came to the same conclusion.

  “Alone?” suggested Beaver.

  “Maybe. Let us think now. She knew where we would be, on Sycamore River. Would she try to join the band?”

  “I am thinking not, Wolf. It is far, for an old woman on foot.”

  “And she is stubborn. She would try to winter by herself, Beaver.”

  “Yes, I think so. She would head south. Could she do it? Maybe we should go and look for her.”

  “I am made to think,” said Wolf, “that it is too late to try. We have to wonder when the first snows will come.”

  “That is true. By now, she has found a place to winter, no?”

  Singing Wolf nodded. “Unless,” he mused, “she intends to die fighting Cold Maker in the open.”

  “But if she planned to do that, Wolf, why would she bother to go anywhere? Why leave here?”

  They talked longer, but: kept coming back to the same theory: their mother was alive, and had made plans to winter, either with friends and allies, or alone. And probably, far from here.

  There was nothing more to be done. It might be that they would never know the fate of Running Deer. That possibility was not spoken aloud by either of her sons. To do so might bring it to pass.

  Singing Wolf glanced at the sky. In the intensity of their discussion, they had not noticed the approach of a heavy blue-gray cloud bank from the northwest.

  “Aiee!” exclaimed Wolf. “We must find shelter!” “Let us use the camp of our mother here,” suggested Beaver. “A little repair, some fresh brush on the top, a fire … Then when this storm is past, we must travel hard!”

  Running Deer sat under the shelter a few sleeps to the south, and thought on the change in the weather. She had been expecting it, of course, but there is a difference. Such a thing can be expected, but one is never really ready. When the wind turned, and Cold Maker came howling across the hills and scrub oaks, she wondered if she could really survive a winter. She looked at the sleeping girl, and tucked the robe more tightly around her. Sleep well little Mouse, she thought.

  She drew her own robe around her shoulders more closely. It was not quite dark, but she had seen the storm front and prepared for the worst. There had been a few cold nights, a few mornings with crusted ice around the edges of the stream. Frost had replaced many of the fall colors with its intricate patterns of white, lasting only a short time each morning until the day began to warm.

  But this was different. The chilling cold seem
ed to strike clear through her body, even through the woolly robe around her shoulders. She had felt this coming in her aging bones, a half day ago. As a child she had wondered at the older ones of the People. How did they know of a coming storm? “I feel it in my bones,” her old grandmother had told her. “They tell me the storm is coming.” Deer had thought that remark odd and funny then. She did not understand how her grandmother’s bones could tell her anything.

  But now she knew all too well. The bone-deep ache, made worse by remaining too long in one position, was a constant reminder. She shifted a little, trying to draw her left foot into a more comfortable position. No … that would not do … Maybe she could extend it toward the fire for a little while and warm the ache out of her knees. Both legs … Yes, better …

  The fire would soon need more fuel, to reflect into the inside of her little lodge. She would wait a little for now, until her legs needed to be repositioned again. Then she would get up and move around, bring a little more wood within reach.

  Gray Mouse stirred in her sleep, and Yellow Dog, curled next to her for mutual warmth, tapped the ground with his tail two or three times. He did not even lift his head. It was good to have the dog, Running Deer thought. Initially, she had thought of the creature as a potential food supply if they were not wintering well. It seemed unlikely that Yellow Dog would serve that purpose now.

  He had been no problem at all. Deer had been fortunate enough to kill a fat cow when a band of buffalo wandered through the area. It had been almost more than she could handle, to skin and butcher a substantial portion of the meat. But Gray Mouse had proved a willing helper. One heavy load may be divided into many small ones, with more trips. Fortunately the kill had been only a bow shot from their shelter, and many trips were possible. Yellow Dog, recipient of many scraps from the butchering, was therefore constantly near. Running Deer had managed to utilize his effort, too, in carrying bundles of meat. She would tie a pack to his back and hand one to Gray Mouse, then shoulder her own, the heaviest, for the carry back to the lodge. Across the meadow, cross the riffle of the stream … aiee, the water grows cold … Leave the packs and return for another load.

  After enough weight was removed from the carcass she was able to turn it to finish skinning. She had to cut the hide up the back and remove half, then turn and finish the skinning of the other side. No matter. It was easier to handle the heavy fresh skin that way. If she needed to do so she could sew it back together. With that in mind, she stripped out most of the sewing sinew from along the back and loin as she butchered. It would dry without attention, and she could split it later after softening in water. Or in her mouth as she worked, after it was stripped.

  Two days’ hard work moved most of the buffalo carcass that Deer thought worth salvaging. She waved to the pair of coyotes waiting on a distant rise.

  “The rest is yours, my brothers!”

  For several nights the sounds of the coyotes, making good their claim, echoed across the meadow in chuckling laughter or yipping quarrel. Yellow Dog was concerned at first, but soon ignored the sounds of his distant kinsmen. They disappeared at dawn, to return each night for more feasting.

  But that was behind her now, the tedious tasks of drying and storing the meat finished. She felt good about her winter supplies, and the halves of the robe had tanned well. She had not even considered bothering the deer herd that was preparing to winter in the timber to the east of her camp. She had been careful not to let Yellow Dog bother them. It was good to have them for emergencies.

  She noticed now, as she replenished the fire, that the wind had died with the daylight. It was calm, dead calm, and she understood. Cold Maker had driven his line of invasion past them, and now paused before his next onslaught. Deer looked up into the darkening sky expectantly … Yes, here they came, the first fluffy breath-feathers of snow, floating with utter silence to land softly on things below. This sort of quiet snow always reminded her of the soft silent flight of Kookooskoos, the owl, hunter and messenger. It made her feel his presence, whether physical or in spirit. It was the season of hunting for Kookooskoos as well as for his human counterparts. She had seen a pair of owls often, had wished them “good hunting!” and had wondered whether they would bring a message. And if so, good or bad?

  The snow was heavier now, falling thickly, and beginning to whiten the earth. At least, that in the circle of the firelight. Beyond that she could not see, but knew that it was so. There was an occasional hiss now, as the heavy melting flakes survived long enough to challenge the fire. She wondered idly if it could ever snow hard enough to kill a fire. Rain Maker could do that on occasion, but snow … She thought not. She hoped not!

  She was becoming drowsy now. She must think about this … A person freezing to death becomes sleepy, and she must decide whether it would be safe to sleep. No, she decided, that must be different. It is said that such a sleep comes on with a longing just to rest a little while and then go on.

  Surely this was not the way she felt. There was no desperation here, but confidence. And the cold … not too bad. Uncomfortable, true, but much better since the wind had died. The warmth of the fire was good. Maybe later she could build a reflector, to turn more heat into the open side of the lodge. She would think on that. Yes, small logs and sticks on a frame of stakes … Stacked like the sticks of a willow backrest … Peeled, probably. That would reflect more heat into the lodge.

  An owl sailed in out of the snow-filled darkness and perched on a nearby oak. Three times Kookooskoos called his own name, then sat for a little while.

  “Do you want to talk to me?” asked Running Deer. It was unusual for the bird to be active in a snow storm.

  The owl did not answer.

  “Do you have a message?” she asked.

  As messenger for the People, Kookooskoos might carry a message either good or bad. Deer was uneasy about this.

  Soon the owl spread silent wings and sailed into the darkness.

  “Good hunting, Grandfather,” Deer called after him.

  Had there been a message, and if so, what? Her husband, the holy man, had often said that one must be ready to listen. Singing Wolf was much the same about it. It was not a matter of listening with the ears, though, but with the spirit.

  She tried to open her mind to that. She had been somewhat fearful just before the owl came. Could she tell whether she was about to freeze or was merely drowsy? How did she feel now about the owl’s visit?

  Good, she decided. There was a calm, a satisfaction about the visit of the messenger. So it must be, then, that the message had been neither bad news nor warning. It must be good.

  Relieved, she lay down next to the sleeping child, with the warm dog between them. Yellow Dog thumped his tail a time or two and went back to sleep.

  Somehow, she felt that the owl’s message had been not just for tonight, but for the winter ahead.

  “Thank you, Kookooskoos,” she murmured as she drifted into an untroubled sleep.

  22

  It was the Moon of Snows now. The Moon of Long Nights had passed, and on some days Running Deer thought that she could actually see the difference. Every season the war between Cold Maker and Sun Boy was repeated. Since Creation, likely.

  Cold Maker would initiate the combat, pushing from the north as Sun Boy’s torch began to fade. Sun Boy would wisely retreat. There is a time for heroism, but it is not at the first skirmish. Through the Long Nights Moon and that of Snows, Sun Boy would always retreat to the south, avoiding a confrontation. Sometimes it seemed that his torch must have gone out entirely. There were days at a time when the dark pall of Cold Maker’s clouds hung low over the earth.

  Maybe Sun Boy’s torch does go out sometimes, Running Deer thought. Maybe that is when he is making a new one. This was a possibility that she had never heard spoken. Maybe there was a reason, though. If that were true, such a time would be ideal for Cold Maker’s final push, and it would be over. Without the return of the Sun Torch, there would be no return of the grass o
r of the buffalo. The world would be dead, along with all its creatures. And the People …

  For that reason, she had never mentioned her thought, even to her husband, who had been wise in such things. The idea that maybe Sun Boy’s torch does go out sometimes was so threatening … What if it did, and Cold Maker discovered his opportunity to finish the age-old war permanently? But if Cold Maker does not know exactly when to strike, the danger is lessened. Therefore, if we do not speak aloud of it, there is still some protection. Maybe … At least, less risk.

  This had not been an unusual winter. An average number of storms sweeping through. A push by Cold Maker, a retreat by Sun Boy, an attempt to hold his torch high and proud. Another push … Sun Boy was far to the south now. On some mornings, even when his torch did burn, its rays were pale and watery. There was barely any heat to beam down on the snow that covered the earth like a tossed blanket. This, Deer was certain, was the time when Sun Boy was making his new torch, lighting it from the old, fanning it to get it started. It was the critical time in the age-old struggle for fire. The time, of course, when Cold Maker must not know, because he would push his advantage.

  So she tried not to think about it. Cold Maker might overhear her thoughts. Patience … Let Sun Boy get his torch going. Then begin the push back, crowding Cold Maker, forcing him back to his icy lodge somewhere in the always frozen mountains in the unknown north country.

  Then would come the Moon of Awakening, the melting of snows, the tiny bits of green revealed beneath.

  But that was not yet. Cold Maker still held his authority. Ahead was still the most dreaded time, the Moon of Hunger.

  Running Deer could remember a few times in her life when there had been snow on the ground from the Moon of Madness until the Awakening. Fortunately, this was not one of those. And her camp was pretty far south. She was pleased at her foresight in choosing this camp. Sometimes Cold Maker’s first push came as early as the Falling Leaves Moon, too. That made for a long winter.