Spirit and the Skull

by J. M. Hayes

  The mosquitoes found me. Eyes narrowed, mouth closed to keep from inhaling a cloud of them, I danced across the tundra. By the time I reached the bottom of the ridge, I was a mass of welts.

  ***

  The band mourned for Tall Pine, one of our leaders. The girl, Down, told me after seeing me cross the spine of the ridge above our camp. Her sharp eyes caught my silhouette against the sky and recognized my gait. She left the wailing women and raging men and met me on the first shelf above camp. It should have been Stone or Bull Hump or Takes Risks—our other leaders. Or at least another competent warrior. Instead, Down’s was the observant eye that picked me out and knew I was no threat.

  “It’s Tall Pine,” she told me.

  “Dead?” I frowned. “You know better than to name the dead.”

  “Tall Pine,” she said again.

  I shook my head but didn’t repeat my warning. She’d heard me use the names of the dead often enough and was no more frightened of their spirits than I. In fact, I’d never known Down to show less bravery than the most courageous member of our band.

  “Murdered,” she added.

  I took a deep breath. According to the spirit’s rules, murder made it even more important not to name him. But how could it be murder? The People didn’t kill each other. Not that way.

  Men sometimes fought for power or women, though rarely to the death. According to The People’s laws, a formal challenge had to be issued first. And accepted. Then, if someone died, that person had given permission for their life to be taken.

  Bands occasionally quarreled and fought and, sometimes, people died as a result. But, again, only after the issuance and acceptance of a formal challenge.

  We warred against members of other tribes when they trespassed on our territory or raided. Killing Enemies, who weren’t Persons, wasn’t murder. It was defense of yourself and your band—defense of The People against evil beings whose souls weren’t blessed by The Mother.

  The People believed murder—any killing outside of legitimate challenge—was the ultimate crime. The only exception was when the survival of the band required it. Sometimes the old, the ill, or the crippled had to walk away or be ejected so the rest might survive. That had happened in our band last winter, but no one had been forced. Pressured, yes, but they weren’t murdered. They agreed to leave. Nothing was done secretly. Only under the most extreme circumstances would Stone have forced them to go rather than persuaded them to do what was necessary. Under similar circumstances we sometimes put out babies who couldn’t yet care for themselves. But they weren’t People yet. Not until they were old enough to walk and talk and be ceremonially accepted into the band.

  Any other killing of someone who hadn’t been challenged, except in self-defense, was murder. Murder rarely happened among The People. I’d heard of only one instance in my lifetime. But when murder did occur, the murderer ceased being human, and thus became fair game for any revenge. And revenge wasn’t an option. It was necessary. While a murderer remained among The People, the spirits would no longer bless us. We would experience hunger and disease and accidents. We believed we would continue suffering until the killer was punished or we, The People, were destroyed.

  Down interpreted my silent thoughts as doubt. “Really. He was murdered. Someone stole Tall Pine’s life.”

  I sighed. I’d scouted and returned with such important news. And suddenly it wasn’t nearly as important. Not in the face of murder. It was hard to accept.

  The last murder among The People took place when I was a boy, and so far away we only heard rumors of why it happened and how it was avenged. Most members of our band hadn’t been alive then.

  “What makes you call it murder?”

  Down, Stone’s daughter, was still a child, though barely. She was on the verge of womanhood, but hadn’t yet bled. She was tall, slim, skinny almost, but with a hardness to her, a hidden strength I admired. She might never be as beautiful as Blue Flower, Stone’s woman, but she was already pretty. And smart. I’d be willing to pay a fine dire wolf pelt for her when she came of age. Except Stone wasn’t likely to accept it. He’d prevented me from having a woman for years. A man of the spirits should remain pure, he’d decided. Many of The People agreed. And he told the women that being associated with a Spirit Man was dangerous for them.

  As far as I could tell, the spirits weren’t in the least interested in whether I enjoyed the pleasures of the flesh. If they cared, why had they let me experience and enjoy them when I was young? I still yearned for a woman. And the spirits didn’t seem to mind my occasional secret rendezvous.

  One advantage of my age was that I had learned a great deal about how to please women. The women of our band knew that. A few risked encounters to share that pleasure. Others sought me out to learn how to give more to, and receive more from, their men—and how to better control them. My services might have been more popular if the men hadn’t also heard those rumors about me. Most watched their women very carefully. A woman who cheated on her man couldn’t be killed, but she could be beaten or disfigured. Even sent away from the band to survive on her own. And the man she cheated with was nearly always issued a formal challenge that was hard to refuse.

  “We found a bowstring,” Down said, “wrapped around his throat from behind.”

  I reached inside my tunic for the medicine pouch that hung from a thin leather string around my neck. It held a few herbs, a pinch of clay from the sacred place where I sought my first vision, some rocks with unique shapes and colors, pollen, and a crystal of great power.

  “No. Not like that.” She shook her head. “Bow sinew, pulled tight, like the garrote you made me. So tight it’s buried in his flesh.” She made a face, bugging out her eyes and letting her tongue loll from her open mouth. “Strangled.”

  I had to concentrate on how serious this was to keep from laughing. And I had made her a garrote. “You didn’t…?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Of course not. I’d have told you right away.”

  “Who killed him then?”

  “That’s what has my father so upset. No one knows. Gentle Breeze found the body when the old woman got up to stoke the morning fires. He was sprawled by the front of our tent, as if he’d been sitting beside the fire and someone came up behind him and…” She made the face again.

  “What does Stone say?”

  She shrugged. “You know my father. He’s angry. Tall Pine was one of his favorites. He says the man who killed Tall Pine must pay the ultimate price. Someone has to know who did it and they’d better speak up. I think my father and Bull Hump and Takes Risks are all secretly afraid. But so far, all they’ve done is carry Tall Pine out of camp and down toward the lake.” She nodded her head at a knob at the base of the ridge overlooking a small lake glowing golden in the afternoon sunlight. “They left him facing away from camp, of course, so his spirit won’t see us in case it’s looking for revenge.”

  That was as it should be. A dead person’s spirit would always be angry. More so, a murdered one’s. But that was only one of many things that needed to be done.

  Stone’s shout interrupted my thoughts. “Raven! You’re finally back. Stop trying to seduce my child and get down here. We need you.”

  “It’s not his fault,” Down yelled back at her father. “I’m the one who’s trying to seduce him.”

  She blushed with those bold words, though she stood beside me, straight and tall for everyone to see. She liked me well enough, but she’d be teased for this. She’d taken the sting out of it because of how she’d twisted her father’s insult. Still, some people would take it seriously and ask what she wanted with such an old man. Did she hope an ancient like me might teach her sexual secrets so she could take many lovers? The boys and young men she was most likely attracted to were the ones who’d mock her most. And the girls near her age. I didn’t envy her the taunting, but she could handle it.

&nbs
p; “Our friend is dead,” Stone told me. “We need a Spirit Man to bury him. That’s you.”

  “Murdered!” I said into sudden silence. Our People’s need to know had briefly overpowered their need to mourn. “If it’s murder, I must find his killer.”

  Stone didn’t respond. He probably had no idea how to solve any crime, let alone a murder. He knew brute force. It was the way he led. What I’d said was presumptuous. It should be his job, but I knew he’d be willing to leave this complicated task to me. If I succeeded, I might further prove my value to the band—above and beyond my ability to scout, hunt, heal, and intercede with the spirits. I’d demonstrate that my advice was worth hearing. That I could protect the band from enemies Stone couldn’t even imagine. I didn’t let myself think what might happen if I failed, or that I had no idea how to solve it either.

  Before I started down the path toward the irregular cluster of tents, I pulled a short branch covered with waxy leaves out of my pack and handed it to Down. “Here’s another plant for you to study. Don’t eat it.”

  I brought her unusual plants to examine when I came back from scouting. Our band’s healer, Gentle Breeze, was even older than I, and Down was the only person among us clever enough to assume the old woman’s duties.

  Down’s eyes grew wide. “Is it poison?”

  “No, but don’t eat it. See if you can discover what its use might be. Tell me later. I’ll be busy this afternoon.”

  “With Tall Pine’s funeral. Can I help?”

  “Not yet.” At that moment I realized her skills might extend beyond healing into the realm of spirits. “And stop using the names of the dead, at least in front of anyone but me.”

  Down grinned and nodded. Her father shouted for me again. His patience was exhausted, and I obeyed.

  ***

  Our band had eleven tents. An unlucky number—one more than a man’s fingers. Twelve was better—ten fingers and two feet. Or twenty, of course, if you counted toes instead. But there weren’t many bands big enough to count toes. Luck was one reason I hoped to persuade Stone to take the mammoth. Another, because our camp was cramped and crowded. I was tired of lying in the dark, listening to Stone mount Blue Flower or Bull Hump rut with his two wives. I confess, it might not have bothered me so much if I’d had my own woman.

  As I entered the confusion of the bereaved camp, I stopped and reassured Stone I’d do what must be done, and that I’d speak further with him and the other leaders shortly. Then I headed for the largest tent, the one I shared with Stone and Bull Hump and their families.

  Stone didn’t like me. He wasn’t sure he believed I could actually read spirit signs or communicate with them. But he wasn’t sure I couldn’t. Either way, he saw me as a threat to him, and so he kept me close.

  I went to release Snow. The dog howled when he saw me, and shuffled toward me wagging his great feathery tail. I dropped down and hugged him, untying the hobbles and leather rope Stone put on him to stop his following me when I left to scout. Snow, one of a dozen dogs in camp, was our best sentry. No stranger, no hungry bear, no rabid wolf, no one who wasn’t a member of the band could come near without Snow’s vigorous warnings. He’d been barking for me to let him loose since I arrived. But all the dogs were barking, joining their voices with the cries of the band. I’d only half freed Snow when he knocked me over and stood on my chest, welcoming me home with an eager face-washing. I wrestled with him until I removed the last bit of leather that secured him. Like a bolt, he shot across the tent and relieved himself on Stone’s quiver. Not wise, but no one was there to see and I agreed with his opinion. He ran out then, looking for the other dogs or a ground squirrel to chase. I followed, to search among the wailing women.

  There were two old women in our band. Gentle Breeze, who’d found Pine’s body, and Scowl, born with a twisted face that made her look sullen and angry. Both were older than I, the only two people left in our band who were. Gentle Breeze had been my woman when we were very young. We had two sons. One died just after his birth. The other was killed by a wolf. Bad luck. I’d always suffered from it. Gentle Breeze and I weren’t given another chance.

  Bear Claw, Stone’s father, traded one of his daughters to me for Gentle Breeze, who became his third woman. He wanted more sons and that was what she and I’d produced. But she gave him only daughters. After three, I might have had Gentle Breeze back. But Bear Claw’s daughter, Willow, refused to share me with a second wife. Taking Gentle Breeze back might have lost me Willow. I lost her anyway, swept to her death as we crossed a swift river. I’d mourned her for many years, enough for Bear Claw to die and Stone to decide I shouldn’t have a woman by the time I wanted one again. Almost twenty summers—too long.

  Gentle Breeze and Scowl had followed the rituals, cutting themselves and rubbing ashes onto their skin and hair. The band had picked this campsite because it caught the wind and kept away mosquitoes and biting gnats. Not all, though, so wearing the ashes wouldn’t be disagreeable.

  I greeted them formally. “You found him,” I said to Gentle Breeze. “So you’re already unclean and must be purified.”

  She nodded. She’d never forgiven me for not taking her back when Bear Claw didn’t want her anymore. I’d left her at risk—a single woman, one of the less necessary, except she’d become our healer, a mistress of herbs and poultices. I’d taught her then, as I was teaching Down now. Yet Gentle Breeze taught herself far more. So though I’d left her abandoned, I’d also introduced her to the profession that saved her. We remained friends, in our fashion, but our relationship was easy to strain.

  “You know the rules of burial,” I said. “You know what must be done. Until I can cleanse you and everyone in the band of the contamination from this crime, it’s only logical for you to help me prepare his body.”

  Gentle Breeze agreed.

  As I turned to Scowl, Snaggletooth—next to Snow the most dominant dog in our camp—danced around my feet, sniffing me. Like most of the dogs, he’d stopped barking when Snow reappeared. I ruffled Snaggletooth’s ears.

  “Yes, I know,” Scowl grumbled. “I’m so old I’m practically dead already. Better to risk the victim’s spirit vengeance on someone like me than a woman who can still bear children. And I know the rituals, too. Of course I’ll help.”

  “Gather his things.” I told them. “Get his women. Meet me at the main fire.”

  They went to do so.

  Stone and Bull Hump and Takes Risks were tearing down the tent Tall Pine had shared with Takes Risks and their women and Tall Pine’s children. Takes Risks had no children yet, or none who’d survived. They would bring me the tent so I might wash and purify it, making it harder for Tall Pine’s soul to find it or harm the people who sheltered there. They’d set aside his tools and I picked among them, choosing the ones he’d find most useful in the world of the dead. I’d burn or discard what I didn’t select—unless there was something Stone and his friends wanted to keep badly enough to accept the danger of doing so. Tall Pine would need what I picked when he went to live in the sky and built his hearth, another star among the countless fires that filled the night. Or had, when the sun set and we could still see them. That was another reason for concern. If Tall Pine couldn’t find his way to the fires of the dead, he might try to remain with us. That was what Spirit Men had taught us for as long as I remembered. I taught the same message myself.

  “Tell me about the one who died.” I avoided Tall Pine’s name. Stone and his friends would expect that.

  Takes Risks shrugged. Bull Hump shook his head. Stone bit his lip as he considered what to say. The three were strong and cunning, but not deep thinkers.

  “Gentle Breeze found him by the main fire,” Takes Risks said. “He was strangled.”

  I already knew all that, of course, but it was my duty to ask.

  “Were there signs of a struggle?”

  Stone looked south toward the shimm
ering mountains of ice, as if they might tell him the answer. “None that I saw.”

  “When Gentle Breeze found him, was it because the dogs barked? Did Snow sound the alarm?”

  “No.” Stone was stunned. He hadn’t thought of that.

  “Ah,” I said.

  “What?” Stone immediately regretted asking me. If someone else knew the right answer, he could pretend to have known it all along. Thought of it first, even.

  “The killer must be one of us,” I answered. “A member of our band.”

  ***

  We buried Tall Pine in a small rock shelter near the top of the ridges above our camp. We couldn’t dig a fitting hole for him, as we would have in the old country. Our options here were only ice or rock. If we dug into the tundra, we’d hit ice and find ourselves standing in a pool of freezing water too cold to work in for more than a few moments, making it impossible to dig deep enough. We couldn’t dig on the ridges, either. Too much rock. I chose to put him in the rock shelter and cover him with more rocks. The women and I had a hard time of it, dragging him up to the spot and enlarging it. But what’s necessary must be done.

  When we finished the rituals, I sent the women down to the stream to wait for me to come purify them. We’d wash in the icy stream and then I’d dust us with pollen and brush away the danger with a grass whisk. But first, I must seal Pine’s tomb.

  I waited until the women were out of sight before I untied the bundle in which we’d wrapped Pine. I used a sharp stone blade to cut the bowstring out of his neck. The sinew wasn’t fully cured, though it had proved tough enough for the job. It came from the elk we’d killed ten days ago. I’d left sinew bowstrings like this curing in Stone’s tent. Most of the men in the band probably had them as well.