“Then I heard something that scared me, and at the same time gave me courage: They were planning to raid our home.”
Shocked sounds rose.
“Yes. Teahra Village. To get more slaves. I thought of my daughters. I thought of all of you. I saw slaves killed, just to show how rich their owners were.”
The people of Teahra couldn’t believe it. Even the Tlikit, who had once kept slaves, had never killed one.
Tsilka said, “How could I let that happen to my own people? I stole food and leathers, and slipped away from their village in the night. It wasn’t enough just to warn you. I had to stop them from coming here. So I did what Tor did that time… remember how he tried to scare us by dressing in feathers and yelling?”
People laughed. What had seemed so terrifying then was now seen as a joke—no one would admit they had ever believed Tor was a god.
Tsilka continued. “Raven is the trickster of the Masat, like Wahawkin is to the Tlikit, and Coyote to the Shahala. Hiding in the forest, I carved a raven’s head out of cedar wood to fit on top of my head, and painted it black, with a huge yellow beak and orange eyes. I painted the stolen leather black, cut feather shapes, and made a cape that looked like wings.”
She pointed at Tor. “You who looked like a half-dead crow would have been impressed. I looked like a huge, fierce raven—a god with no mercy, and power to kill. I stood on a tall rock at the end of the village. Flapping my arms, I yelled at them in a voice of wind and thunder. Of course I knew their language by then.
“I said, ’You stole Tsilka, one of my people from up the river, but I came and flew her home. Now I hear you talk of stealing more. I say you must not. Take people who live in the forests, and ones who live by the endless water, but you must leave my river people alone, or I will tear you to pieces, starting with the chief.’”
“They believed you?” someone asked.
“Oh, yes. What happened next terrified them. The chief clutched his chest, gave a loud groan, and fell to the sand. I disappeared behind the rock, and made my way home as fast as I could.”
“Are they coming?” people asked.
“I don’t think so, but we must be careful from now on.”
Tsilka had not been kidnapped, but the rest was true. Her tolerable life with the Masat ended when she heard about the slave raid they were planning. It wasn’t the people of Teahra she cared about—many of them deserved to be slaves. But her daughters! Her beautiful twins! Leaving them with Tor was one thing, but they were not born to be slaves. Tsilka had to stop it. There was a good chance that she had: The Masat would believe that Raven struck down their chief for stealing river people.
On the long way home, Tsilka let herself dream of being called a heroine, but it didn’t turn out that way. Teahra people knew her too well to believe her—though for a time they guarded the village.
They had not liked Tsilka before, and still didn’t.
Being back in her own hut with her daughters was enough to make up for the rest. Tsilka felt better than she had before she left. She tried being nice, as she’d been forced to do to survive with the Masat. People responded by being nicer to her.
Within herself, she made peace with Ashan. No more tricks. Let Ashan have Tor. There were better lovers somewhere else. One would someday come her way. And she would leave again.
This was not her home anymore, nor were these her people.
CHAPTER 33
ASHAN’S SON GREW TO AN ALMOST-MAN OF SIXTEEN summers. Her mate enjoyed long hunts with old friends. With Tenka and Tahna sharing Moonkeeper work, Ashan now had time for herself. She liked to spend it at her place in the cliffs above Teahra Village—her takoma, where trails that spirits traveled crossed in the sky.
In the Summer of Little Deaths, the lives lost were minor compared to human life. But the deaths were odd.
A gray bird came to Ashan’s takoma. The next day, she brought oily sunseeds and dry worms. The bird ate the sunseeds and stayed. Ashan began to look forward to their perfect visits: She talked, the bird listened. Soon it would sit on her knee and eat from her hand.
She saw the bird as she approached one day, sitting at the edge of a rock. It fell over when she touched it. She made a small fire and burned it. Because it was her friend, she didn’t keep its feathers.
Peeping guided her to two nestlings—half-yellow fuzz, half-gray feathers. Ashan brought mashed seeds and water to the ugly things until they grew beautiful and flew away. She admired the gray bird, who had lived long enough for her babies to be safe.
A cougar came to the women’s washing place at the Great River’s edge, lay down on the flat rock, and died. The women with babies in their futures shared the beautiful, unmarked fur to line cradleboards.
Teahra Village had one tree, an ancient oak back near the cliffs. It gave the people summer shade, and dropped its leaves in autumn so the sun would warm them in winter. Its dried leaves made comfortable stuffing under sleeping skins. Its acorns—ground up, soaked, and rinsed to get the bitterness out—made a bland, white meal.
Long before people came to live here, the oak had split into the shape of a man with his arms out. The arms were monstrous branches, like two trees growing out of a trunk that took four or five children linking hands to encircle it. The deep grooves in the tree’s bark were like an old person’s wrinkles… a proud thing.
When the Tlikit warriors captured slaves, the oak gave them a place to tie them. Mats were attached to the trunk to shelter the prisoners from rain. After the slaves had been given their freedom, and their new name, Firekeepers, they built a real hut for themselves and their little ones against the trunk of the ancient oak.
Ashan used it to teach about Balance.
“When you look at that tree, its arms growing straight out instead of up, each with a huge top, you wonder why it doesn’t split in the middle and come crashing down. Can you think how heavy those branches must be? They have to grow together, stay the same weight. They depend on each other. That is Balance.”
The previous autumn, one side of the oak tree had lost its leaves as usual. The other side browned, but the dead leaves clung all through winter. They drifted down in spring, while the other side greened. That summer there was only half as much shade. People noticed that the side still living had covered itself with acorns—more than the whole tree used to give them. They worried.
“What will happen when the dead side falls? What will hold the living side up?”
“It will be many winters before the dead side falls. Look how healthy the living side is.”
What could they do but wait? And stay out from under it, once it started giving occasional creaks.
Many were there when the dead branch gave up, warning them with groans from deep inside. Out of reach of its arms, people watched in fascination.
With a loud crack, the huge branch slowly peeled from the trunk, seemed to hang in the air, then fell with an echoing boom. The ground shook. A dust cloud filled the silence.
Alone against the sky, the living branch was too heavy to hold itself without the other for balance. It crashed down. The butt smashed the Firekeepers’ hut to splinters. A mound of green leaves covered it.
They saw that the tree’s heart was dark and hollow where there should have been living wood.
It took days to haul the wood out of the middle of the village. When the debris was all gone, the ground underneath was thick with acorns.
The newborn showed its glistening head.
The Moonkeeper urged, “Again, Shavon! Push!”
The Shahala almost-mother bore down. The grunting and gnashing of tenacity over pain stirred Ashan’s memory of her own triumph long ago: Kai El’s birth, the purest joy she had ever known.
The tiny warrior slid into the Moonkeeper’s hands. She wiped his mouth and nose. He howled before she had to slap him, a sign he’d been here before.
“A boy!” she said, holding him up. “Eager for life!”
The baby’s cries were lost in
the cheer that arose in the women’s hut at Teahra Village, echoed by the men waiting outside at a safe distance.
Ashan put the baby in his mother’s arms.
“You did well, Shavon. He’s beautiful.”
Exhaustion and pain, forgotten in the wonder of birth, washed over Ashan.
“Tenka, you finish.”
She handed Tenka the sacred blade for cutting the cord, left the women’s hut, and made her slow, painful way downriver.
After her recent fall, Ashan had given up medicine work. Tenka, the Other Moonkeeper, could have managed a birth by herself, but this baby was so special that Ashan would not have missed the privilege of welcoming him.
The one just born was the first of mixed Shahala-Tlikit blood. Who would have thought he would be eleven summers coming? Or was it twelve since she had seen the Great River for the first time? It was becoming harder for Ashan to remember things like that without looking at her time ball.
Twice before, a mixed-blood baby had been lost in birthing—one took its Tlikit mother with it to the otherworld. Ashan had prayed nothing would go wrong this time. Some people would take another failed birth as a sign that the tribes should separate. There had always been a small, unhappy minority who felt that way. After Tsilka, their leader, was subdued by her life as a slave, they had caused less and less trouble in Teahra Village. The Moonkeeper wanted to keep it that way.
Ashan reached the Great River. Tall bushes hid large, flat rocks at the water’s edge… the women’s washing place. Early morning was the best time to be here. Sunlight floated on the water. Ashan cleaned herself, her robe, and a spot on her moccasin. She spread her robe in the sun to dry, and pulled her long skirt around her shoulders as a cape. Sitting with her head on her knees, the Moonkeeper listened to the Medicine Drum, muffled by the lapping water, welcoming the newborn. The sun gave her energy. Wind blew up the Great River, taking exhaustion away.
Because of a trick of the wind, she heard the Medicine Drum as if it came from the cliffs instead of the village. Her takoma called to her, or maybe it was the wind-whipped drumsong, or her own longing.
Ashan hadn’t been to her place in the cliffs for more than a moon. Not since the day she’d slipped coming down. Her feet had flown out, and she’d landed on her back. Not much of a fall—she’d had worse—but that one moment ruined life.
Crippling had come on suddenly. Life had been hard on Ashan’s body. She didn’t know anyone whose bones had taken more abuse—anyone still living. The old wounds had healed without lingering pain. But since that little slip, pain and stiffness in her back grew worse by the day. She’d seen the same thing happen to old people. Ashan wasn’t old, but thirty- three summers was way past the middle of life. Before the fall, she had found it hard to believe her advancing age. This pain made it easier to believe. Fearful of moving the wrong way, of even being touched, she felt old.
She put her head underwater—a good, cold shock—then shook out her hair, long and black as in her youth. She filled her chest with air. This morning she felt good. But crippling never got better with time.
The Moonkeeper longed for her place in the cliffs, where invisible lines of beauty, peace, and harmony crossed overhead. She had to accept that she wouldn’t see the world from her takoma many more times—not through human eyes.
With the Medicine Drum giving a bounce to her steps, climbing was easier than walking had been lately. Ashan noticed everything with pure clarity, touched a rock, smelled a plant, looked at the sky. Clouds trekked in from Where Day Ends. Far-off thunder rumbled. The people of Teahra had enjoyed a long dry summer, but it couldn’t last forever. The first clouds arrived, furiously scattering a few raindrops—for some reason making Ashan laugh. The sun came out again. The needy earth smelled happy to be wet. The Medicine Drum sang for it.
At last her takoma welcomed her. Pain denied while climbing enfolded her. She settled on the stone seat, knees pulled up, back against familiar rock. Each breath made her moan.
Through tears of pain she gazed across the Great River, wondering if people lived on the other side.
Below, Teahra Village lay under shifting shadows of cloud and sun. Ashan felt the joy of her people all the way up here. With the birth of this morning’s child, the tribes finally had shared blood to bind them together.
How the Moonkeeper loved her people, wanted life to be good for them. She hoped this birth would help them see that life would be good for one only if it was good for all… Shahala, Tlikit, and Firekeeper.
She took her time ball from her medicine pouch. Hers was different from those made by other women, marking not only her own life, but the life of the tribe during her time as Moonkeeper. The tribe had the time ball of every Moonkeeper, from Shakana the First Woman, to Ashan. Of the fourteen, Ashan’s was the largest. Not surprising… she was chief of two tribes.
She held her time ball to her cheek, breathing old odors, then unwound the beaded string, going back to the beginning.
Remember… she touched a fragment of polished antler.
Tor, our youth, our passion for living and each other. How lucky I’ve been. I have you to this day. The flame between us still burns fierce, with love enough to feed it forever.
Remember… she touched a clear crystal from Ehr’s cave. Kai El, my baby who’s grown into a warrior. Remember when we were alone together, just me and my little boy. Such a beautiful time. No other comes close.
Memories dried tears. Sleep took Ashan. The time ball slipped from her fingers.
Rattling like the wind in the autumn oaks of Anutash, a Dust Ogre came up the Great River. The whirling cloud of sand danced above the water, touching down here and there. The Dust Ogre paused over Teahra Village, then twirled up the cliffside and came to a spinning rest before the Moonkeeper.
Inside she saw an old man, who changed into an old woman, who changed into Coyote. The sand spinning around Coyote changed to sparks of light. Ashan had no fear of yellow eyes and bright teeth as the creature wearing a whirlwind settled nearby.
Wolf Friend, she thought, gazing into sparkling eyes.
Coyote asked: “Do you treat these people well, or are you one of those evil women?”
She considered. Hunger was only a memory. People were healthy. Most lived in huts. Only a few still clung to the Tlikit cave.
“They live well. And I’m teaching them to build good huts.”
But Coyote’s eyes said that he wanted more.
Ashan said, “I’m teaching them to live in Balance.”
The creature nodded. Glittery eyes softened.
“Soon the world will change,” he said. “Women will no longer be chiefs. You have been a good chief, Whispering Wind. I reward you: You shall stay here and watch over the people who live here forever.”
Thunder cracked, with Ashan inside. Her blood stopped. Pain squeezed across her shoulders, down her arms. A moment’s panic, then used-up, pain-racked flesh went limp.
Ashan soared.
I have hurtled through this darkness splashed with sunset colors; seen the Light, brighter than the sun, beckoning. This time my loved ones are here.
Her mother, Kira, and father, Kahn. The Old Moonkeeper, Raga. The grandfather, Ehr. Others she did not know. They carried her on wings of love.
“All of creation,” they sang. “Into our world has come a new life. Make her path smooth, so she may live among the stars, or at the Creator’s side, or in the minds of people.”
Most of the men, including the Moonkeeper’s mate and son, were away hunting when the tempest exploded over Teahra Village. With thunder shattering their ears, and lightning so near they smelled it, everyone hid in the cave.
As frightened as anyone else, Tenka was more frightened to think of Ashan out there all alone, too weak and crippled to get to shelter. Taking Mani, she went to find the Moonkeeper.
When they stopped to rest halfway up the trail that led to their chief’s special place, they saw her, stretched out on her stone seat, surrounded by c
oyotes. One stood over her, nose to nose, sucking out her life. Tenka thought she heard it speak.
Screaming at the animals, they ran toward her.
When they got there… No Moonkeeper. No coyotes. Nothing but her unwound time ball on the stone seat.
Above and behind, rain beat on the strangest thing they had ever seen: A slab of stone, wide as a woman’s reach, tall as her chest, reddened with ochre, incised with a beautiful image… a face with soulful eyes, arched brows, owlish horns, mouth open to speak the wisdom of ages, silent as only stone can be.
The rock picture was too high to reach from the stone seat. It had not been there before, would have taken moons to make, yet there was no work debris.
It was just there in the pounding rain. And the Moonkeeper wasn’t.
Tenka and Mani held each other and wept… Mani for the loss of her best friend… Tenka for that, and for the knowledge that all was now upon her small shoulders.
CHAPTER 34
KEENING ROSE FROM THE CANYON TO MEET THE MEN returning from the hunt. Dread seized Tor’s heart. He broke into a run, crested the last hill, and looked down. Teahra Village reeled in panic as if it were a hive of bees whose mother had been lost. In the confusion of wails and shouts he heard, “The Moonkeeper!”
“What happened?” he yelled, running down the trail.
Followed by a jabbering swarm, his sister Tenka reached him.
“Oh, Tor!” she cried. “Ashan is dead!”
He grabbed her shoulders.
“What do you mean?”
Tenka collapsed in his arms. “I can’t take her place,” she sobbed. “What am I going to do?”
Tor shook her. “Where is Ashan?”
“Coyotes killed her! Up in the cliffs!”
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