by Zoe Saadia
She looked up, trying to see the platform tied to the lower branches of the pine tree, but the surrounding people blocked her view. The body would be left there for ten dawns, for the people to mourn, before it would be removed to its final resting place deep in the woods; and the new War Chief would be elected by the War Council.
Who?
She suppressed a shrug. Did it matter? There was no one like the old war leader, no one. Everyone knew it, but what could they do about it?
She tried to concentrate, but her thoughts refused to organize into a proper flow. It had been too hectic, too upsetting through the past half a moon. Since the incident at the ball game, she'd known no peace, she realized. As though it had been her fault, as though she had been the one to do the unspeakable, she and not the wild boy.
The fluttering sensation in her stomach was back, and she let her gaze wander, trying to catch a sight of him somewhere in this crowd. He would be here, surely. Since coming back, bringing the magnificent fur, he had been vindicated of charges against him, restored once again to be a full member of the society.
She tried to suppress a smile, remembering how he came up, heading for her longhouse, proud and alone, struggling under the largest fur she had ever seen, offering it proudly to the Mothers of her Clan, his eyes reserved, his lips pressed, the cuts upon his chest glaring, telling the story without a word being uttered. Not a wild boy anymore, but a man, a hunter, a fierce warrior who had challenged the forest giant and came back wearing a necklace made out of the terrible claws. Oh, how proud she had been while watching him, the only person to believe in him, the only one to state that he would be back through those ten dawns that he was gone.
She knew he would be seeking her with his gaze, but when it happened, she had found it necessary to lean against the wall, her stomach fluttering, limbs going numb, the intensity of his gaze sending unsettling waves down her spine. Oh no, he did not forget her while fighting the beast. He might have grown and changed, but he would still be watching her when she danced.
The chanting died away, and she shivered, listening to the murmuring of the people and the speeches of the town’s elders, her cheeks burning as though caught doing something wrong. On that day, two dawns ago, she had been planning to find him in the evening, to take him away and ask all about this hunt, wishing to be alone with him, but afraid of it too, protected by darkness, seeing nothing but his eyes and the outline of his face but feeling him as intensely as on the evening of the War Dance. He would tell her all about his battle with the beast, she knew, and maybe, maybe he would gather enough courage to touch her face again.
But then, on the same afternoon, the warriors came back, carrying along their dead leader, their wounded struggling to get out of the canoes, Iraquas, her favorite cousin, among those carried home because he could not walk, the wound upon his backside stitched but bleeding, brownish red and glaring.
She remembered watching the pale, grayish face, seeing the beads of sweat and the bruises, her dread welling. Not Iraquas, not the fearless, cheerful, restless Iraquas, who had always made her laugh with his jokes and all sorts of mischievous deeds. Anyone but him! And yet…
She bit her lips, reluctant to remember the sense of acute disappointment that kept surfacing. Why had it had to happen on the day of his triumph, of all days? Why not later, just a day after, really. And then she knew that she had been a terrible person to think this kind of thoughts.
She sought him again, but the people of the Wolf Clan were too far away, on the other side of the mourning half circle, with the devastated Turtle Clan’s members separating the mourners. The deceased leader belonged to the Turtle Clan. So instead, her eyes caught the sight of Two Rivers, standing a little apart, his face pale and haggard, lips murmuring the words along with the rest of the mourners, but his eyes sealed, unreadable, as dark as the lake on the moonless night.
She knew what troubled the man, what made his face turn into stone. He loved the War Chief, admiring the man greatly and making no secret of it. Out of all respectable people, the old leader was the only one capable of making the rebellious man listen. There were occasions, ceremonies and just evenings, when their quiet conversations would last deep into the nights.
She watched the long, narrow face, with its high cheekbones and prominent nose, a handsome face, but alien somehow. There was something outlandish about this man, something different and strange, as though he didn’t truly belong to his own people, as though, indeed, he had been sired by the Great Spirits themselves.
She had heard about the prophecy, of course; everyone had heard about it. His mother conceived miraculously, while being still untouched by a man. But what did it mean? Seketa didn’t know. She was too young to mingle among the people of influence, and the occasional rumors did not awaken her interest enough to listen.
There was some unclear destination in this man’s fate, but whether he was destined to help their people or to harm them, she didn’t know. Judging by his behavior, it could very well be the latter, was her private conclusion, but now, watching the grief-stricken face, she felt something close to compassion. The man was not truly bad. He was just different, odd, argumentative, but he did help the Wolf Clan boy gain his status, and he did love the old War Chief. His grief was clearly a genuine one.
“Seketa!” A hand touched her shoulder, making her heart leap.
She whirled around, startled.
“What happened?” she breathed, peering at Tindee’s frowning face, embarrassed by the glances shot at them. The head of the Town Council was speaking amidst the deep silence.
A wave of the slender palm was her answer as she watched Tindee’s back disappearing toward the well-swept path, which was kept perfectly clean for the condolence ceremony as the custom dictated, with no thorns and no broken bushes.
She hesitated, then began easing away, trying to attract as little attention as she could. The Mothers of her Clan were listening, wholly immersed, grief-stricken and shattered, yet very little was likely to escape their watchful eyes, an improper behavior less than anything.
“Your glorious hero almost got himself into more trouble.” Tindee was waiting behind the curve of the trail, her lips twisted in the typical challenging grin of hers, but her eyes were troubled, full of shadows.
Seketa gasped. “What? What happened?”
“You care, don’t you?”
“No, I don’t!” Involuntarily, she brought her palms to her cheeks, hoping that the burning sensation was not showing, the glittering eyes of her friend telling her that it was showing, all right. “I do care, but not in the way you think.”
“In what way, then, sister?”
“In a good way. He is a friend.”
“A friend, eh?” The prettily round face beamed at her, satisfied. “Well, I’m here not because of this. I was sent to call for the medicine man of the Wolf Clan.”
She felt her heart cascading down her belly. “Who got hurt? How badly?”
“Like you don’t know!” The mischievous smile was gone, replaced by a troubled frown.
“No, I don’t!” Seketa caught her friend’s arm, when Tindee began turning away. “How should I know what happened? You make no sense.”
But Tindee’s eyes flashed at her, openly angry now. “Iraquas? Your cousin? Remember him? It seems like all you care about these day is the savage boy and no one else.”
“Oh, Iraquas, yes, how is he?”
“Not good, Seketa, not good. If I was sent to interrupt the most important medicine man of the town on the saddest of the ceremonies, it has to be serious, no? But why should you care? Your soon-to-be warrior will be all right, unless his own wounds rot, and it doesn’t look like they would, judging by the way he keeps picking fights with people. So you can relax and not worry about anyone of your family.”
She felt it like a blow in her stomach. “I do worry about my family, and I worry about Iraquas. I was sitting with him last night, until the moon began to fade. I kept giving h
im water, and I kept putting wet cloths over his forehead and chest, to make him cool. And we talked, too. He wanted to talk, and he didn’t want to be left alone.” She glared at her friend, enraged. “And you were asleep, very snug under your blanket. So don’t tell me I’m not caring enough.”
“Oh well.” Tindee shrugged, then turned around. “Come. Let us find the Honorable Healer.”
“Did Iraquas’ wound begin to bleed again?” asked Seketa, not pacified in the least, but following nevertheless. She needed to know what happened to the wild boy, what trouble he got himself into.
“Yes, it’s full of smelly things coming out of it, and no one can wash the wound anymore because he is screaming with pain when they as much as try to touch it.” The girl looked back, her eyes glittering with tears. “He won’t live, Seketa. They all know he won’t!”
“But maybe the healer…”
She felt her limbs heavy, numb with desperation. Another condolence ceremony, but this time a small, quiet affair. Iraquas was just a young warrior, not a prominent man, not yet. Not ever now. Just a promising youth, like the foreign boy, but not even with a glorious act of killing the brown bear.
“What happened to the Wolf Clan boy?” she asked quietly, catching up to keep close.
Tindee shrugged. “Oh, he’s got into a near-fight with Hainteroh and some other boys.”
“Why?”
“Because of you, sister. What do you think?”
“Me? Why me?” Grateful for the briskness of their walk and the way her friend kept staring ahead, Seketa felt her cheeks beginning to burn anew.
“I don’t know. I wasn’t near until they were shouting, threatening each other. But it was about you. The boys from the Porcupine Clan did not like the way he keeps staring at you.”
“It’s not their stupid place to say anything about that!” cried out Seketa, forgetting to keep quiet. They were back near the edge of the crowd, and some people turned to look, startled. She cupped her mouth with her palms. “It’s not their rotten business,” she whispered, unable to keep entirely quiet.
“Well, they think it is.” The mischievous spark was back, lightening Tindee’s dark eyes. “And you are not helping, the way you are gazing at him whenever you see him these days.”
“I’m not!”
“Hush, sister. Stop screaming. You are disturbing the solemn ceremony.”
More glances were shot in their direction, openly reproachful now.
“What happened in the end?” whispered Seketa, grabbing her friend’s arm. “Who stopped the fight? Tell me before we find the Honorable Healer.”
Tindee’s eyebrows climbed so high they almost met the fringes of her fluttering hair. “Your glorious hero grabbed the knife, and it made the Porcupine boys back away. The same knife that killed the grizzled bear. I heard people saying that. They say there are cuts in the pelt to prove it. So, it’s only natural no one wishes to face that knife just now, not so near the killing. The savage boy lives up to his reputation.”
Another suggestive glance and Tindee was gone, diving into the crowd, pushing her way politely, muttering apologies. Thoughtfully, Seketa followed, her heart beating fast. He was feared now, the Wolf Clan boy. Feared and appreciated, even if not better liked than before.
Did he really kill the huge grizzled bear with the knife? It didn’t seem possible. No one she knew had done such a deed, although there were plenty of stories to this end, told and retold by the best of the storytellers; stories of bravery and wonderful deeds, stories that were to be told by the winter fire only.
Oh, but this one was no story. This deed had actually happened, only two, three dawns ago, done by a mere youth of seventeen summers, a person not grown-up or experienced enough to do a half of it. Two Rivers was there, helping him with advice, of course. Yet the boy was the one to face the beast. Not the renowned hunter and warrior, but him, and him alone. The frightful cuts upon his chest and his right arm proved that he had done it all alone and, indeed, in impossibly close proximity.
She breathed deeply, trying to calm the wild pounding of her heart. Tonight she would find a way to talk to him, to ask him all about it, to have him all for herself.
***
Two Rivers wiped the sweat off his forehead, feeling it trickling down his back, soaking his shirt, unpleasantly sticky.
Nauseated by the smell, he forced himself to lean closer, holding the burning hand of his friend, trying to give it strength. The smell was heavy, revolting, the distinct smell of corruption and decay, not softened by the pleasant aroma of burning tobacco.
“What do you see, Brother?” he asked, seeing the eyes of the wounded clouding, his life forces evidently weakening, beginning to wander, maybe already seeing one of the Sky Paths studded with stars.
The feverish gaze came back, concentrating. “Nothing,” groaned Iraquas. “Nothing but pain.”
He felt the knot in his throat tightening. “Forget the pain. It is meaningless now, nothing but the shadow of the earthly life. Concentrate. Watch for signs. Prepare for the journey.” He pressed the dry, burning palm. “I’m here, keeping a watch. My strength is yours, if you need it.”
The anguished gaze bore into him, burning his skin. “I try. I see nothing.”
It took him a heartbeat to compose himself, to make sure his own voice was firm, not trembling. The effort made the sweat break anew, the pain in his head merciless, pounding like a heavily weighted war club, his stomach twisting violently, fighting the nausea, his throat constricting.
He swallowed hard. It was not the time to let the grief out. His friend needed his strength, all of it. The dying man should be surrounded by tranquility, by nothing but dignified calm. He should accept his fate and prepare for his journey toward the Sky World with proper serenity and peace of mind; otherwise, his traveling would be long and difficult, fraught with ordeals. Restless souls could get stuck half way, taking a whole span of seasons to reach the Sky.
“Think of the Sky World,” he said, when able to talk. “Don’t let the earthly thoughts overtake you. Call for your ancestors. Nothing will interrupt you now. I’m here and watching.”
He caressed the feverish palm, feeling it shriveled, unpleasant to touch, already bony and thin, the life seeping out rapidly, as though in a hurry now. He remembered these arms, strong and masculine, swift, wielding an axe, or a war club, or a spear, their instincts good, their strength natural. A perfect warrior, now to go away from his clan and his people.
It should have been me, he thought, clenching his teeth until they screeched. It should have been me leaving, not him. If only there were a way…
“I will be here, to make you strong, to help you prepare…” He looked up helplessly, seeking the faith-keeper of the Beaver Clan among the surrounding faces, blurred in the dim, smoke-filled air. The faith-keepers and the medicine men knew better how to prepare a person, how to make him accept his fate, to depart with appropriate calm and dignity.
People squatted around the fire, crowding the corridor, muttering prayers, staring at him, their gazes stony, unreadable, disapproving somehow. He didn’t dwell on this. He knew what he'd done wrong this time.
Pretty Seketa, Iraquas’ cousin, caught his eyes before he turned back, a beautifully painted bowl trembling in the girl’s gentle hands, threatening to splash the water it held. He motioned her with his head, and she rushed to hand the bowl over, her face stark and grayish, eyes overly concentrated, lips pressed tight. It wouldn’t be long before this one would flee into the freshness of the night, he reflected.
The head of the Beaver Clan came closer, accompanied by a faith-keeper of another clan and some women. Two Rivers moved to make a place for them, but the grip on his arm tightened.
“Stay.” The hoarse voice of the dying man was impossible to recognize. Did it belong to Iraquas, to the strong, cheerful, vital youth full of jokes and mischief? “You… you make me ready… You see me off. Not them. Only you.” The feverish eyes clung to him now, huge and glitte
ring.
“Yes, I will see you off, Brother.” He leaned closer, taking hold of the burning shoulders. “You will reach the Sky World soon, with your journey light and pleasurable. Grandmother Moon will take some of your hair, and she will weave it into her mantle. She is watching us now, smiling, proud of you.” He saw the anxiousness receding, making the glittering gaze soften, clouding, like that of a child about to go to sleep. It was difficult to form the words now. “And then Gadowaas will admit you through his gate. He will reach for one of the stars, the brightest star of them all, and he will take it and add it to his belt, for you to have a proper guidance while traveling across the sky.” He swallowed. “The South Wind will be your aid, and your journey will be wonderful, an endless tranquility and comfort. The Sky Path that awaits you is wide and easy because your life had been worthy.” The air stood still, suffocating. He paused again, to clear his throat. “And one day, we will meet again. You will wait for me in the Sky World.” He suppressed a humorless grin, so utterly inappropriate here. “Something is telling me you will not have to wait too long.”
The half closed eyes did not open, but the grip upon his arm tightened again.
“One day, yes… but not soon. It will not be soon. I know this.” The pull on his arm was hardly tangible, yet the effort left the dying man exhausted, covered with sweat. Clenching his teeth against his desperation, Two Rivers leaned closer, suddenly anxious to hear. “You are destined to do great things… I know you are. I always knew… I waited for you to start. I wanted to be a part of it.” The dry breath burned his face, coming in gasps. “I knew you would leave one day, and I wanted to come with you. But maybe I could still follow… follow as a spirit. I can postpone this journey… for ten dawns every spirit can, can’t it?” The sweat-soaked face twisted, losing its calmness once again. “You have to leave. You are not safe here… not anymore. I heard people… on the raid… the War Chief was worried. And when we came back… people talking…” The burning eyes bore into him, desperate. “Promise you will leave. After the rites for me are over. Promise!”