The heart of Gray Mouse ached as she saw the hurt in his eyes. She wanted to try again to tell him, to try to explain, but she did not know how.
She also longed to confide to someone else. A woman … Her only woman confidante, though, was Grandmother, who was even more a part of the problem. Likewise, there were no girls of her own age to whom she could talk. She had made friends very slowly because of the Child of the Dead circumstances. Aiee, how angry that had made Grandmother! The few girls who had been close enough to call friends now had other interests. Largely romance, of course. Yellow Leaf had already married. Singing Doe was so preoccupied with her young suitor of the Blood Society that she could not see beyond the tips of her fluttering eyelashes. Aiee!
So there was no one to talk to, and this caused an even greater feeling of isolation. I am alone, thought Mouse, in a mixed mood of panic and resentment from which there seemed no escape. Why do I feel this way? There are those who love me, but are no help. They do not understand.
Tears began to flow. She had gone alone to the hilltop to think, and was finding that it did not help much. Again, she had the lost and lonely feeling that she did not even know who she was. Why did she feel so alone, so different?
As she pondered that thought, another began to take shape. It was not exactly comforting, but it was something. A place to begin her understanding, maybe. Even then she had not yet begun to realize the importance of such a thought: I feel different because I am different!
The idea began to take shape and grow. I know nothing of my people, she thought.
Each time she had asked the question when she was small, it had been brushed aside.
“That is all behind you, child,” her grandmother would croon as she took the little girl in her arms. “You do not need to worry. You are safe here, and you are one of the People now.”
Now Mouse’s resentment began to rise. She had no right to take that from me! Mouse thought. She pushed aside the twinge of guilt over all that Grandmother had done for her. But she must face this.
“Grandmother,” she began that evening as they returned to the sleeping robes, “I would talk with you.”
The lodge was dark, with only a glow from the coals of the dying fire. Nights were becoming cool, and the cooking had been moved inside for the season.
“Of course, child. What is it?”
Mouse shoved aside the ripple of resentment over “child” and resolved to maintain her calm.
“I would know of my people.”
“What would you know, Mouse?”
“Who I am … Where did my people come from, where did they go?”
There was a long silence.
“Grandmother?” Mouse wondered if the older woman had fallen asleep.
“Yes, yes, child, I heard you. You mean your parents, no? Those of the Camp of the Dead?”
Gray Mouse was astonished to hear Grandmother use the hated words, those which had so infuriated her long ago.
“Yes … I do not know who I am.”
“You are mine now, a child of the People, Mouse.”
The girl stifled her anger. This was the old answer. More properly, the old refusal to answer. She tried to keep her voice calm.
“Grandmother,” she began, her voice trembling a little, “I am made to think that I must know. You must tell me what you know.”
Again, the silence. Mouse was about to speak again when Running Deer gave a deep sigh of resignation.
“Ah, I knew that someday … Mouse, my heart is heavy, because I cannot tell you.”
“You will not!” accused the girl angrily.
“No, no, not that. Once it was true, maybe. But child, you must understand. We had no contact with them. They were already dead. Besides, there seemed no need to know. It was thought that you and I, both of us, were already dying. Then, it was that when we lived instead, there were more important things. Food, shelter for the winter … You needed me. Aiee, we needed each other, Mouse.”
“But you might have told me!”
“There was nothing to tell, child. We did not know.”
“Know what?”
“Anything! We knew nothing at all about those who were the Dead.”
“But you must have known something!”
“No … Remember, child, we were afraid. Afraid of the poch. They were strangers.”
“But who? Arapaho? Pawnee? Head Splitters? Cheyenne?”
“No, no. None of those. We would have known them. Someone from outside.”
“From where?”
“Again, child, we did not know.”
She tried to talk to Singing Wolf.
“Uncle, what can you tell me of my people, those who died from the poch?”
The conversation was a little easier, but the information equally scant. The holy man shook his head.
“We knew very little, Mouse. There was danger, you know. You were the only one alive, and you were dying, or so it seemed. We only wanted to get away.”
The girl nodded. “This I can understand. But was it known … they were not Growers, so what nation …”
“Again, we did not know. They came from the north or northeast.”
Instantly, Mouse was alert to this new information.
“Ah! You knew that?”
“Not exactly, Mouse. But we knew who they were not To the south are mostly Comanche … Snake People. Some Caddoes who hunt, but their lodges are different. To the west, the finger-cutters, the Cheyennes. But mostly, I am made to think that the poch came from the French. They are only north or east of the People. Not Arapaho or Lakota … we just did not know.”
“I … I do not remember, Uncle. Were their lodges nearly like those of the People?”
“Yes. I did not study them closely, but I am made to think so. Some of the smoke flaps were blowing loose … Yes, they must have been much like ours. Why do you ask these things, Mouse?”
Gray Mouse shrugged. “I cannot explain, Uncle. It is a need to know. I do not even know who I am. My mother was a pretty woman who sang to me, but that is all I remember.”
Wolf nodded, understanding. “It is good.”
“What is good, Uncle?” the girl asked, frustrated.
“That you wish to know. You might want to take a vision quest, when you are a little older. Aiee, but you are grown now! Well, talk to some of the Growers when we camp near them. They hear news from all.”
Mouse started to turn away, not completely satisfied, but the holy man stopped her.
“Wait! I am made to think that you were wearing a little ornament when we found you. A pendant … Ask your grandmother. I wonder what happened to it?”
“Yes … maybe …” Running Deer rummaged among the things in the storage space behind the lodge lining. “I think so. I had forgotten.”
She drew out a small ornament on a thong. It was round, about two fingers broad, and consisted of beaded geometric designs in yellow, red, and black. The beads were sewn to a soft piece of buckskin.
“You were wearing this when we found you,” Running Deer said. “I had forgotten.”
A moment of irritation flashed through the mind of Gray Mouse.
“You took it off?” she demanded.
“Yes, child. You were covered with sores around your neck and shoulders. I took it off so that you could heal. I saved it for you, but then I was sick.”
Mouse’s anger cooled slowly.
“I had always intended for you to have it when you were older,” Deer went on. Her eyes seemed to look back into the past. “The years have flown … You are grown now.”
There was a vague sense of familiarity as the girl took the pendant in her hand. It was part of the answer. The rest was out there, just out of reach. Carefully, she recovered her composure.
“Thank you, Grandmother.” She placed the thong around her neck and again felt a familiarity as the beaded circle swung gently against the front of her dress. The soft skin that held the beads had a musty smell about it, mixed with the sm
oky odor of the tanning fire. Even after all these years, the scent stimulated memories of her childhood. Fragmentary thoughts, fleeting and dim in the cobwebby recesses of her mind. She could almost put the scene together, but not quite …
In a way, the finding of the pendant was even more of a frustration. Somewhere out there, someone must know the answers she sought.
She asked anyone who might know, at every opportunity.
“Yes, I remember them,” a Grower woman told her. The Southern band had paused to trade for corn and beans and pumpkins on the way to winter camp. “It was ten seasons ago, maybe. They had come from the north. We heard later that they died from the spotted death. Too bad. And they were your people? You are not of these, the Elk-dog Nation?”
“They found me. I have been raised by a grandmother of these. But now I seek my own.”
“Yes. Well, I know no more. Those who died came from the north.”
“Does this design mean anything to you?” Mouse asked, lifting the pendant to show.
The woman looked long and hard. “I do not know,” she admitted. “I have seen one like it, maybe.”
“And this hand sign?” asked Mouse desperately.
She gave the almost forgotten sign, preceding it with the sign for nation. “The nation of…”
The blank look in the eyes of the Grower woman told the story. The sign was completely unfamiliar to her.
“I saw it then, maybe,” the woman admitted, “but I do not know. My heart is heavy, but I cannot help you.”
30
Gray Mouse was restless as she thought over what she had learned. Her information was still quite scant, but that only made her more determined. The beaded pendant dangled at her breast, a taunting reminder that there was much that could be learned if she only knew how.
But there was an excitement in it now, a challenge that seemed mixed with the thrill of the season. The migrating geese high overhead, the hurry of squirrels storing nuts, the Moon of Falling Leaves. The restlessness would continue, she knew, through the strange influence of the Moon of Madness. There were times when she considered leaving the security of the lodge that she shared with Running Deer to follow her quest. These times did not last long, of course. To follow the call of the geese would take her search in the wrong direction. She must search to the north, not the south.
It was in that way that a plan began to form in the girl’s mind. In the Moons of Awakening and of Greening, the geese would be moving again. This time, their call would be to the north, the direction in which her quest pointed. And had not Singing Wolf himself suggested a quest for her?
She realized that this was not what the holy man had had in mind. He had been thinking of the more traditional vision quest to be undertaken by a young person. Usually by the young men, but there was nothing to prevent a woman of the People from seeking visions.
Mouse’s quest would be different. The search quest, which usually required travel to unknown places, was far less common. Many times it was a result of the vision quest. The vision would demand a journey to accomplish a specific purpose. Such a quest was told of in the story of Horse Seeker, a young man of the People. He had been called to a faraway place by a vision of a great horse, the Dream Horse. That was long ago, but there were still those among the People who pointed with pride to horses whose blood was that of the almost supernatural Dream Horse. True or not, the story was a part of the tradition of the People.
The quest of Gray Mouse was to be different. It was demanded not by a vision, but by a need to know. The entire situation was different, she thought. Different from any in the history of the People, because she herself was different. More and more the idea kept nudging her. These are not my people. The need to find her own was growing within her, and the plan began to take shape.
The timing had been decided by circumstances. The quest would be to the north, so it would happen in the spring. All things would move northward then. The retreat of Cold Maker, the migration of the geese and the buffalo, the sun, the greening of the grass … Even the People would be moving a few days’ travel to the tallgrass prairie of the Sacred Hills for the Sun Dance and the summer camp.
That would be the time. Her plan must be completely secret, or they would try to stop her. But the Sun Dance … yes, that would be the time. There was always such excitement then, such confusion, so many distractions. Aiee, if she handled it well, she could be gone a day or two before anyone missed her at all. The thought was quite satisfying. She would begin to assemble the things she would need and prepare for her departure in the moons ahead.
Supplies would be acquired during the first spring hunt. A few days’ rations of dried meat would be easy to prepare and conceal. A horse … she already had a good horse, a gift from Beaver Track, her uncle. Beaver had always seen to it that his mother was supplied with horses for her needs. Running Deer seldom rode now, but Mouse had no doubt that Grandmother could if she wished. And with the horses of Running Deer, there grazed two that were set aside for Gray Mouse. One was a stolid old pack horse, the other a young gelding. She would not need the pack horse.
With her plan in mind, Mouse began to ride more, sometimes riding on a small hunt with some of the young men. This was not uncommon among the People. A young married woman with no children might accompany her husband on a hunt. Or a single woman seeking a man … What better way to catch the eye of a young bachelor? Her real motive would not be suspected, and she could condition both herself and the horse during this autumn and winter.
This part of the plan proved to have one thorny problem. Dark Antelope became her constant companion. Ah, well, she could contrive a quarrel when the time neared, to make him back away. There was a pang of guilt, but she firmly pushed it behind her. She must not let a thing like this dissuade her from her purpose.
Autumn suddenly became winter with the first probe of Cold Maker into the camp of the People. A heavy frost blackened vegetation and there was a thin crust of ice along the edges of the stream one morning. It was apparent that the season was changing. The morning was sunny, but all through the day there was a steady flutter of leaves from the elms, willows, and sycamores. Most of the nut trees had already shed their summer garments. In a day or two only the oaks would retain their leaves.
Mouse always hated to see the change in the oaks, from bright reds and yellows to a dull dry brown. That would mark the oak thickets for most of the winter until the buds of new leaves pushed last year’s stems free. No matter, she thought. This season, such changes marked the passing of time, and brought her nearer to her quest.
Winter dragged on, nothing unusual. In open weather some of the young men trapped for furs. That had not been a tradition of the People until a generation ago, it was said. The corning of the French traders had brought changes. It was possible to trade furs of good quality for many things. Metal knives, fire strikers, powder and lead for the thundersticks that were now coming into common use. Fully half the lodges now boasted a musket.
Bad weather, usually only a few days at a time, meant activity of a different kind. Friends would gather for a smoke in one of the lodges. The pungent fragrance of tobacco mixed with a variety of other plants would fill the lodge with a bluish haze as the pipes passed from one man to the other.
In some of the lodges there was gambling. The stick game and the rolling of the plum stones were popular among the young men. Usually, however, Mouse and Running Deer would join the lodge of Singing Wolf or Beaver Track, listening to the stories of the visitors while Cold Maker howled outside. In this way, the winter was finally over, and Gray Mouse began to look forward to the excitement of the plan which lay ahead.
The swelling of the buds, the tiny sprigs of green under the melting snow, held a special meaning for Gray Mouse this season. These things heralded not only the Awakening but the season in which she would begin to carry out her plan, her personal quest.
Days seemed to pass at an incredibly slow pace, and the girl tried to conceal her impatie
nce. Eventually the time came to move from winter camp and start toward the summer range.
The Spring Hunt was always a special event. The food of the People had been largely dried meat, pemmican, and dried vegetables from the Growers for several moons. There was a craving at this season, a need for fresh meat.
Buffalo, horses, all animals that graze have a similar need for fresh green grass in the spring. In the Moon of Greening they rush greedily into an area of lush new grass, gorging themselves to replenish their vital needs. All winter they have eaten dry standing hay and what browse may have been available from low-growing cottonwoods and other shrubs and trees.
The People of the Southern band burned a large section of the dried tallgrass prairie in the Moon of Greening. It was the usual way. Singing Wolf, to whom fell the responsibility for the proper timing of the ceremony, had studied the emerging sprigs of green for many days. There were other factors, too. Direction and strength of the wind, and the feel of the air. A ritual ceremony to verify his impressions … There must be no mistake, because the burning ceremony could be dangerous. Not only was the prestige of the holy man at stake, but the camp of the People as well. A shift in the weather could send the roaring flames in the wrong direction faster than a horse could run.
“Today is the time of burning,” Singing Wolf finally announced.
Selected men of the Bowstring Society proceeded to the chosen area, carrying hot coals in containers of ashes. Those watching from the camp could see the rising threads of white smoke at each point of fire. The air was still, and each column grew as it rose high against the clear blue of the sky, to flatten and spread at some unseen upper level.
The burn lasted for two days. At night the fire, now merged into a single long line of flame, could be seen for a long way. Like a fiery snake, it crawled across the distant hills, a day’s travel to the north. Behind the fire the prairie lay blackened and bare. The fire would burn on until it met with an impassable barrier such as a river or heavily wooded strip along a smaller stream.
Child of the Dead Page 18
