Children of the Dawn

by Patricia Rowe

  As they worked, the men of Shahala blood talked about berrying in the land of their ancestors. Telling the Tlikit gave them an excuse to relive good memories.

  It took a long time to get enough berries to impress anyone. The hunters told each other they were glad that berry-picking was the work of women. When their stooped-over backs told them they’d had enough, they tied their bulging, dripping skins into packs, and headed for home.

  The people of Teahra Village were so excited by the berries, they gave little attention to the deer. The hunters laid their skins out, and people ate the squashed fruit right where it lay.

  All that work, Tor thought, devoured in a heartbeat. No wonder women sometimes hoard what they pick.

  Ashan made plans for a trek to the huckleberry fields… a lost strand from the past picked up once more and woven into the future. In the good mountain air, men would hunt while women picked and dried berries. Little ones would play more than they helped, young people fall in love, old ones tell stories and enjoy the cool after the heat of summer on the river. Nights of talking around a fire; sleeping under stars… the autumn trek for huckleberries was a wonderful time. Once, the whole tribe would have gone…

  The Shahala people had thought they’d never go berrying again. Some couldn’t wait for the trek to begin. But others thought it sounded like work; they didn’t miss huckleberries.

  The Firekeepers, once silent slaves, now talked as much as anyone. Born in a forest, they chattered happily about being among tall trees again.

  Most of the Tlikit wanted nothing to do with mountains. Their legends said evil spirits lived in high places.

  Long after his mate slept, Tor lay awake. He had another thing to do. He’d saved the biggest huckleberries, putting them in an extra moccasin he carried, being careful they didn’t get squashed on the way home. At eight summers, his secret daughters had never tasted huckleberries; he thought they should have the best.

  Tor sneaked away without waking Ashan. It was a moonless night, but he didn’t need light to find his way to Tsilka.

  Most of the Tlikit people still lived in the cave. At their old home by the dried-up lake, they’d had mud-covered brush huts that leaked and sometimes blew over. Shahala huts were better, and Shahala people would have helped them with the work. But except for a few, the Tlikit said no, they liked their cave.

  Tsilka had made herself a hut of wood and hides.

  “Like a Shahala hut, but better,” she’d told Tor, showing him pictures she was carving in the wood.

  Occasionally Tor went to Tsilka’s hut while the village slept—not to see the woman, but to leave things for the twins. It made him feel better about not being able to act as their father, even if they didn’t know where the gifts came from.

  Tsilka could be cold and distant when he came, or warm and tempting. Tor knew she would give anything to have him for her mate. It might seem better to stay away from her, but he knew what she was capable of… the scar on his leg reminded him of being stabbed in his sleep with his own fishing spear. Tor told himself that coming here once in a while kept Rattlesnake Woman under control.

  Tsilka’s hut sat by itself outside the cluster of Shahala huts, with the door facing away. Tor scratched on the skin.

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  He entered. Hanging mats closed off the space where the twins slept. The air smelled pleasant—she had learned from Shahala women to keep herself and her little ones clean.

  An oil lamp cast a soft glow over Tsilka, lying on her side on a fur spread out on the floor, wearing a short sleeping robe—obviously waiting for him. She preened, pulling strands of hair through her fingers, looking up at him from under lowered eyelids, full lips smiling. The soft leather robe slipped from her shoulder, showing her breast before she pulled it up again. A beautiful woman, she knew how to use her body to make men think of taking their pleasure with her. Tor wondered how many did.

  He had to admit that he sometimes liked it when Tsilka behaved this way. But tonight it annoyed him. They were twenty-seven summers, not young people. Ashan didn’t do things like that anymore.

  “Sit,” the she-cat whispered, patting the fur.

  He sat, but not where she wanted him. He brushed a spot on the floor, put down a mat he’d brought, and emptied his extra moccasin onto it.

  “I saved the best huckleberries for the girls.”

  “Oh,” she said, rolling her eyes, sounding bored.

  He preferred it when Tsilka appreciated what he did for the twins. Keeping such a secret was difficult. He could just stop bringing things.

  “It wasn’t easy to keep them from getting squashed.”

  She shrugged.

  He pointed to the pile of berries.

  “You can have some.”

  “Already tried them. Not much taste. Made my tongue purple.” She stuck out her tongue—pink in the lampglow.

  She made Tor laugh—one reason he liked coming here. Tonight he felt full of himself, proud to have found the berry field, excited about Ashan’s plans for a trek.

  “Going to the mountains to pick berries,” he said. “A tradition as old as the Misty Time. You’ll love it, Tsilka. All women do. So do little ones. I’m glad these girls will have some good Shahala fun.”

  “We won’t be going.”

  “What?”

  “Flatland people like to see in all directions without forest in the way. Once some men went to a mountain and never came back.”

  “Everyone goes, Tsilka, even grayhairs. There’s a ritual for berry spirits. You people need to start learning these things.”

  “My people know what they need.”

  “Fine,” he said. “You do what you want. But my girls are going on the berry trek. You don’t need to worry. I’ll look out for them.”

  She shook her head. “I’m not going to a mountain, Tor, and neither are my girls.”

  “We will see about that.”

  Tsilka had ruined his mood. As he left her hut, Tor thought, Soon enough, woman: I’ll see your backside stooped over a berry bush while my daughters play in the mountains.

  Tor had assumed that Ashan would make everyone go. He was wrong. She let people decide for themselves.

  Would he ever understand women?

  CHAPTER 27

  THE MOONKEEPER WALKED ACROSS A HILLSIDE OF autumn-gold grass, followed by sixty chattering, laughing people. A fresh-smelling breeze came up the Great River, blowing her hair back from her face, making the osprey feathers on her new walking stick dance. She wore low moccasins, a skirt of grass woven in the Tlikit way, and a deerskin cape with squirrel tails swinging from the bottom. The cape was hot, but it looked good.

  “Ahh!” she said to Tor. “It feels right to be at the head of a great tribe again!”

  “It is!” he agreed with a big smile.

  There were little ones right behind them: Kai El, the twins, and three or four others. Little ones always liked to be at the front of fun. Ashan turned and spoke to them.

  “Treks to hunt and gather, to move from the winter home to the summer home—these have been Shahala tradition since the Misty Time when Coyote Spirit took the First People on a walk just like this one to show them what to eat. We love these treks. Are you having fun?”

  “Yes, yes, yes!” a little one said. “How can we not be having fun? We’ve never been this far from the village. All that we see is new.”

  Before Tor found the berry field, Ashan had heard people say, “If there’s one thing missing from life at the Great River, it’s the need to make treks. We liked the changes they brought.”

  At least that’s what they said—when they believed that huckleberries were as lost to them as horses.

  Ashan did not expect that the Tlikit would want to come; their fear of mountains was an ancient spiritual belief. What surprised her was how many Shahala didn’t want to come. It saddened her Moonkeeper’s heart, but she didn’t force anyone. In the six summers they’d been here, she had never used magic a
gainst people.

  Still, Ashan was pleased. At least half the tribe had come on the trek—plenty to do the work that needed doing, plenty to create fun. The laughter she heard said they were already having fun.

  The people stopped at sunset, and talked late into the night before they slept. After walking two more days, they left the Great River and followed a smaller river coming down from the mountains. The higher air was nearly as hot, but it was crackly dry—not like the heavy, late summer heat at the Great River that clung to the skin. Afternoon thunderstorms rumbled across the sky, but they brought no rain.

  The people from Teahra arrived at the ridge with its view of the sacred mountain, dropped their packs, and ran cheering into the huckleberry field, eating like starved creatures. Ashan couldn’t remember when she’d last seen her people so happy—or when she had been so happy herself. The sweet, juicy berries were the best she had ever tasted, but it was more than that. The joy came from finding a connection with their ancestors they believed to be forever lost.

  Tor said, “I’ll show you where we should make camp.”

  Ashan walked with him down the slope between clumps of waist-high berry bushes.

  “Not so fast,” she said, plucking and eating as she walked. “I can’t get enough.”

  A small creek meandered along the lower edge of the slope. Ashan crossed ankle-deep water with her moccasins on, cooling her feet. There was a meadow on the other side, backed with cedar trees that climbed up another slope. From the meadow, Ashan could see the beloved sacred mountain.

  “This is perfect, Tor!”

  The people from Teahra Village settled in for a stay of more than half a moon. Families chose places to keep their things and sleep. A firepit was dug, and surrounded with downed wood to sit on. A place for women’s work was prepared with tools and mats.

  The traditional autumn berrying was under way. Work filled the days. Song and dance filled the evenings. The nights were cool and breezy, sweet with pine smoke, noisy with cricketsong to lull people to sleep under stars seen through swaying treetops.

  Spreading out in twos, threes, and fours, women filled their baskets with berries while they filled the air with talk about men, little ones, who was in love and who wasn’t. They returned to the camp many times each day, spread berries on mats to sun-dry, and went out to pick again. Old women waved leafy branches over the drying fruit to keep bugs away. Little ones could help if they wanted to, but mostly they played—part of the reason for being here was to have a good time.

  The men left the camp at dawn and returned at sunset, weighted with deer and beaver. After eating what the women cooked, they drummed, danced, and told stories around the fire. Women skinned the kill and cut the meat into strips for drying. Men were asleep when they finished their work. Tired as they were, most awoke their mates for quiet lovemaking under the stars. The people who had come from Teahra Village were having a great time.

  The Moonkeeper Ashan went out to gather medicine, sending the Other Moonkeeper Tenka in another direction so they could search the most land. Ashan was thrilled to find pine, alpine fir, yew, red mountain berries, and others she thought she’d never see again. These medicines would make life easier and healthier for her people.

  On the second morning, a little one approached Ashan as she left the camp: one of Tsilka’s twins, now eight summers… Tahna, the one who’d pushed aside the old ways and made up new ones for herself.

  “Moonkeeper, could I come with you? I could help gather plants.”

  Ashan enjoyed time by herself, and didn’t get enough of it. She almost said no, but changed her mind. She had admired Tahna since the Naming Ceremony. It had taken great courage for the child to make up her own name and force everyone to accept it. Ashan would like to know such a person better.

  “Gathering medicine is serious,” she said. “Not like playing games or picking berries. You will have to do exactly what I say.”

  “Oh, I will!” Tahna said. “You will see!”

  When Ashan had first come to the Great River, she couldn’t tell the twins apart. Six autumns later, it was easy.

  Their pretty, little-girl faces were shaped alike, hinting at the dawn of womanhood: upturned noses a bit longer, slimming of cheek and jaw, wider smiles with bigger teeth. But their distinct personalities gave them different looks. Tahna’s look was bold, eager, wild. Ashan had seen flashes like fire in her dark brown eyes. Black, shoulder-length hair separated into twisty strands that looked windblown even on a calm day; she didn’t seem to mind when it fell across her face. Some part of her clothing was often hanging loose or missing. Tahna never walked where she could run.

  Ashan was glad she’d brought her. The little one knew when to ask questions and when to be quiet. She was smart for eight summers, and eager to learn. Her energy made Ashan remember her own childhood. Her funny way of seeing things made Ashan laugh.

  She thought, There are things about this child that remind me of myself,

  Ashan found a big patch of starflowers in a meadow.

  “These make tea for babies with hurting stomachs. Pinch off the flowertops carefully, so you don’t pull the stems out of the ground. That way they’ll come back, and we’ll gather them next autumn.”

  The woman and the little one crept along on their knees, picking white blossoms and talking.

  Ashan said, “I know you’re a brave girl, Tahna, but I’m surprised that you weren’t afraid to come on the trek. Many Tlikit people believe evil spirits live in mountains.”

  “But you said it isn’t true. I believe you, Moonkeeper.”

  That pleased Ashan. She might never change the way adults thought, but little ones held the future in their hands.

  “I’m surprised that your mother allowed you and your sister to come.”

  “It wasn’t easy.” Tahna hesitated. “I had to be mean to her.”

  “Oh?”

  “I told her that the God Wahawkin was coming on the trek, and wanted us to come.”

  “Really? Did your Spirit Guardian tell you that?”

  “Well, no—but don’t tell my mother.”

  “I won’t. What did your mother say?”

  “She didn’t believe me at first. So I told her Wahawkin said we must come, or he would burn our hut.”

  Stunned, Ashan stopped picking and stared at Tahna as she continued.

  “I took a stick from the cooking fire. I gave my mother a look with my eyes—like this” Tahna glared; her voice took on a fierce sound. “I pretended I was going to touch the burning end of the stick to the floor mats. Then I made my eyes plain again, and put the stick back in the fire.” Tahna’s voice changed back to a little-girl lilt. “And so my mother said we could come.”

  What kind of child is this? Ashan wondered.

  One morning the Moonkeeper and the girl left the camp, following the creek. Red alders grew here. Ashan wanted to take back a supply of inner bark.

  “Look,” Tahna said as they walked along. She pointed to a high ridge. “See where the rock is painted white? What is that?”

  “I think it’s an owl cave. They drop their waste over the side, and that’s why it looks painted. Do you know what owls are?”

  “Of course. Night-flying hooting birds. But I’ve never seen one. You mean they live up there?”

  Ashan nodded.

  “Let’s go see!” Tahna said.

  “No. Sit down, and I’ll tell you a story.”

  The girl was disappointed, but she sat down. Ashan sat next to her.

  “These are owl feathers,” she said, showing Tahna the pledge band on her upper arm—the arm not on the side of the heart; the heart-side arm was for Tor’s pledge band.

  “When I was a girl of fifteen summers, I got them from a cave like that.”

  “They’re beautiful,” Tahna said, though the feathers were ragged with age. “I’m only eight summers, but I’m strong. Why can’t I go up there and get some? I would love to have an armpiece like that.”

 
; “It’s not just an armpiece, Tahna. It’s a pledge band, the sign of a Moonkeeper’s courage, and no one else may wear one like this.”

  “The Other Moonkeeper Tenka doesn’t wear owl feathers. Will you bring her here to get some?”

  “No.”

  Removing her headband, Ashan pushed the hair from her forehead.

  “These are owl scars.”

  Tahna sucked in her breath when she saw the faint old talon slashes.

  Ashan said, “See? They go up into my hair.”

  She pulled the hair back around her face and tied her headband on.

  “It may look like an easy thing to get owl feathers, but I almost died doing it. I was afraid. I didn’t want to go. But Raga, the Old Moonkeeper, forced me. The owls attacked me, grabbed me with their talons, and threw me from the cliff into a raging river. I was sucked through a whirlpool. I didn’t wake up for three days.”

  Tahna listened with wide eyes.

  “Fear was the old way, Raga’s way. Fear is not my way. That is why I will not bring Tenka here. Feathers are just feathers, not something worth dying for.”

  Ashan stood. “Let’s get some red alder.”

  Choosing one whose trunk was about the thickness of her thigh, Ashan showed Tahna how to remove pieces of the smooth bark in a way that wouldn’t harm the tree. With a stone blade, she sliced two up-and-down lines, as long as a child’s arm, three fingers wide, deep into the soft bark. Cutting a point at top and bottom, she pried the strip out with the blade.

  She handed the blade to Tahna. “Be careful. It’s sharp.”

  The first piece Tahna cut looked as good as Ashan’s. When they had enough, they sat down to peel the inner bark, the only part they would take back.

  “What will you use this for?” Tahna asked, holding up a thin, slippery strip.

  “When someone gets hair bugs, I boil red alder bark with wood sorrel leaves. They put the tea on their heads. The bugs die.”

  “Really? We just pick them off each other’s heads and squash them.”

  “I know. Without red alder and sorrel—which I found growing by the creek where we’re camped—there isn’t anything else to do.”