by Caleb Fox
“This is the pain of life,” said her aunt, the midwife.
Jemel smiled tartly. Birth was painful, death was painful. Life? Life was joy, if you had the strength to tear it out and eat it. That was the way the Moon Woman saw things.
P-a-a-a-i-i-n-n!
She reached up for the poles, lifted her body up a hand span, and pushed. This was the old way of birthing. The midwife wanted it and so did she. But now everything was kicked out of her mind but pain.
When it eased and coiled back on itself, she let herself drop down and rest. Why so much pain? She wished she could take a whip and scourge it.
“Think of the child coming to you,” said the midwife.
She couldn’t, not now, and certainly not when the pain swamped her.
“I’m excited to see if its left fingers are webbed,” said the midwife.
Jemel choked on a laugh. That was the last thing she cared about.
Pain came roaring back, and she inched herself off the ground. Torture.
Zeya stripped off his clothes. Ninyu set down two small pots of paint, one red and one white, which only members of the Paint Clan could make.
Zeya waded into the water, shivering from the night air and the cold liquid. Then he dipped himself all the way into the river.
On the bank Ninyu drank the tea. Until the baby was born he would search for omens to guide the child’s life.
Soon, where a slice of clouds lay against the ridges to the east, Zeya saw the day’s first appearance of the sun living in the day—the clouds were turning red.
“A good sign,” he murmured. He sang:
Draw near and hear me, sun living in the day
You have come from the east to paint me red
The color of power and success
And white, the color of happiness.
He got the paint pots from the bank and carefully covered his face with the red paint on one side, white on the other.
My name is Ulo-Zeya, born to the Tusca people
My wife is Jemel, born to the Soco people
Sun living in the day
You have come from the east
to cover us in the red clothing of success
and the white clothing of happiness.
He painted his neck and arms.
Sun living in the day
You come from the east
You are bringing us a child
I will paint our child in red and white clothing.
He painted his torso.
Sun living in the day
Grant our child a life painted red.
He heard shouts from the house. He was a father.
Sun living in the day
Cloak our child in the white clothing of joy.
A shout of triumph came from the house. As he waded to the shore, Jemel came out.
Hurrying, he stepped onto the bank naked.
Jemel was beaming, and she carried a small human being.
Zeya ran and got there first. He had never felt so happy. It was time for him to paint their daughter.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
I set out in this novel to write a fantasy about the predecessors of the Cherokee people, my own ancestors, well before their world had been altered by contact with Europeans. I wanted the freedom to explore a culture filled with mysticism and magic, which theirs was. At the same time, I wanted to make my picture of them as accurate, as historical, as possible.
In practice, the job turned out to be to learn all I could about Cherokee in the historical period (after contact with the Spanish in the mid-sixteenth century) and imagine it backward. Anyone who wants to study historic Cherokees is obliged to start with James Mooney’s monumental History, Myths, and Sacred Formulas of the Cherokees (my own copy is now down at heels). Then I read what little is known about their culture in prehistoric times—and created the rest.
The result, I hope, is a story with some solid foundation but freely imagined.
What here is historical or reasonably extrapolated from history? Their physical culture—their agriculture and hunting, their utensils and weapons, their houses. Also their customs, their tribal organization, their family relations, and so on. I’ve used a lot of their language, ceremonies, and songs. Su-Li, for instance, is the Cherokee word for buzzard, and tsola the Cherokee word for tobacco. The songs Zeya and Jemel sing in their wedding ceremony are based on real Cherokee songs. Many, many other details are authentic in that way. At the same time, I felt obliged to remember that cultures change, and that the ways of the Cherokees (or their ancestors) two millennia ago would have been different from those of two centuries ago, and especially more mystical, more alien from modern ways.
In finding out what is known about the early culture, I got a great stroke of luck. Vincent Wilcox became my neighbor and close friend. Vince had recently retired as curator of Native American Artifacts at the Smithsonian Institution. A super-knowledgeable anthropologist almost next door!
“Vince, when did they get corn?”
“No one knows. You can give it to them or not.”
“Did they have bows and arrows?”
“Not until about 700 A.D.”
“What weapons did they have? What were these things called banner stones?” Etc, etc.
For a project like this, no writer could be luckier than to get the knowledge and wisdom of Vince Wilcox.
In the end, I emphasize, this book is a fantasy, an imaginative reconstruction of a mystical culture in a little-known past. It is created with respect and love.
Table of Contents
Copyright
Acknowledgments
ONE A Time of Turmoil
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
TWO Coming Apart
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
THREE One Kind of Love
23
24
25
26
FOUR A Strange Journey
27
28
29
FIVE A Dangerous Mission
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
SIX Flying Between Worlds
40
41
42
43
44
45
SEVEN Triumphs and Losses
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
Author’s note