Raven Mocker

by Don Coldsmith

  Snakewater had clearly heard her name spoken, and now she rejoined the world with awareness of her surroundings. She kept still ….

  “My mother says she’s a witch,” said a young girlish voice.

  “Maybe so,” said another, also young and girlish.

  Ah …Two girls, maybe more, having found a private, secluded spot, were in the midst of a girlish conversation. Snakewater listened carefully. It did not bother her to be called a witch woman. Actually, she felt somewhat honored. It had never occurred to her that she had been given such a gift. She had merely learned the use of herbs and chants and rituals from the old granny…. At what point had she herself received the power? Or had she at all?

  Well, yes, now that she thought on it …. Maybe there was not one point in time when it had happened. Maybe the transfer had been gradual, so slow that she had not even noticed. Yes, she did know, and did use the incantations and potions to accomplish what she needed. Maybe she had not given enough serious thought to the fact that the people of the town had even transferred the name of old Snakewater, the witch woman, to her. It was a strange feeling, one that gave her a surge of confidence, of power…. Yes, maybe so… Strange, it had been so many years now. She did not even know how many. Too many! But she remembered times when a success with a difficult charm or ritual had made her feel that she was indeed filled with power, and invincible.

  Now the girls were talking again.

  “My mother says that old Snakewater is good at what she does,” one of them was saying, “but I am still afraid of her.”

  “No need to be,” answered the other. “She cannot use that power for evil, can she? It would turn and hurt her!”

  “Maybe… but who knows what she might think good or bad?”

  “It would not matter, would it? If it hurt someone, that would be bad.”

  “But… sometimes, the person she is treating dies anyway.”

  “That is true …. Nobody has enough power to stop all death.”

  “But maybe… What if she causes it?”

  “A medicine woman would not do that!” said the other indignantly.

  “But what if”—the girl lowered her voice carefully—“what if she is a Raven Mocker?”

  There was a gasp and a stunned silence. Snakewater found it hard to discipline herself to remain quiet. She must hear this.

  “Think about it,” said the same voice. “How old is she?”

  “I—I don’t know. Do you?”

  “No… No one knows. She is older than anybody in the town, is she not?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Neither do I. But my mother can think of no one older. So, how does one become older than anyone else? Maybe by stealing a part of the lives of others.”

  “A—a Raven Mocker… ”

  The voice was tentative and full of wonder.

  “Yes! So my mother thinks. How many times has she sat beside the bed of one who is dying? Many times. And at the death of a child? Ah! She could steal a whole lifetime and add it to her own. Just think—two or three young persons… She might already be a hundred winters old!”

  Snakewater did not know whether to be offended or amused. There were some frosty mornings when she felt a hundred winters old, but really! All in all she was inclined to treat this as a joke.

  “My mother told me to stay away from her,” went on the talkative one. “She may be able to suck the breath from your lungs to feed her lifetime! She is dangerous!”

  Well, so be it. Young people must have shocking stories with which to frighten each other, no? Snakewater had heard stories of the Raven Mocker as a child. They were exciting and scary, and quite possibly designed to frighten small children into good behavior. Nothing more. If you don’t behave, the Raven Mocker will get you, suck out your breath and steal the rest of your lifetime for himself. Or, in this case, herself. She smiled. She could not believe that there were adults who could take such a tale seriously. She went about her tasks, but even as she did so, she could not stop thinking about it.

  On a hunch she found herself at the same spot on the wall the next day. It did not take long. There was the sound of footsteps and the rustling of somebody moving around. Then voices, the same two …. This must be a secret place for the children, perhaps a space between a house and the stockade wall.

  “Did you tell your mother what we spoke of?” asked the more authoritative of the voices she had heard yesterday.

  “Yes. She said maybe it is true. Old Snakewater was present at the death of her uncle, when he was very young.”

  “Ah, yes, and how many more?”

  “But… she was making medicine to help him!”

  “Are you sure? Maybe to help him cross over, so that she could steal his life-years. He had many left, no?”

  “Well …yes ….”

  “And almost everybody in this town has lost somebody, sometime. And usually old Snakewater was there.”

  “But… Rain, she is usually there when people are sick, to help them.”

  Ah, thought Snakewater. A name: Rain. Now she knew who this child was. Summer Rain, daughter of Bluebird and Kills Two.

  She had never had any unpleasant dealings with that family. With any family, actually. There was no one to whom she felt particularly close either. It was not her way. Thinking back, she realized that she had been a misfit as a child. She had been attracted to the old granny, possibly because both were misfits. Now, she was the witch woman, Snakewater. It had taken her some time to realize that. The old woman’s medicine, her powers, had been passed down, and now she possessed them.

  Another thought struck her. To whom would she pass them? She had no pupil. She had really never thought about that, about her own mortality. Now the thought caught her by surprise. Why had she just assumed that she would simply go on and on? She felt as she always had. She felt… well, middle aged. That concept had changed, of course. She had once considered a person of thirty winters old. Now that seemed quite young. To complicate all this thinking, she had to concede that the stiffness in her bones on a cold morning told her that she had seen quite a few winters. She had lost track of how many, but she didn’t really feel any different than she had at forty. Her mind was the same.

  It had been a milestone when she had stopped menstruating, some years ago. There had been restrictions on what she could and could not do during her “moon time.” Preparation of the herbs and medicines was prohibited until it was past. Now she could mix potions at any time of the month, simplifying her work considerably. And even that, the cessation of her menses, had been a long time ago now. She could not remember how many years.

  But… to whom would she pass on her powers, her medicine? There was no one. That did not bother her as much as the fact that she had never felt the need to pass it on. Did she expect to live forever? Why had it never concerned her?

  The voice from the other side of the wall brought her back to reality.

  “Well, we should think about it,” said the one called Rain. “My mother says that it could be dangerous to be around old Snakewater. Especially if you’re sick.”

  “But when you’re sick, you need her medicine, her healing power.”

  “Ah, yes,” Rain answered. “That is what she wants us to think, so that she can steal our life-years. Clever, isn’t she?”

  3

  It was quite a shock to Snakewater to realize that some people thought along such lines. She had never cared much what anyone thought. She was content to prepare her medicine and to respond to those who wanted her help. Now this…

  She thought briefly of going directly to the parents of the girl, Rain, and explaining what she had heard and how. But Rain’s mother, Bluebird, already had her suspicions, judging from the girls’ conversations. To make that contact might not be wise. It might even come down to whether Snakewater had actually heard the girls talking through a chink in the wall. Maybe Rain’s parents would assume that some mystical ritual had allowed Snakewater to learn of the
conversation. No, it would be better not to reveal what she knew.

  Instead she now tried to recall all that she knew about the Raven Mocker. It had been many years since she had heard anything about such an entity, or even thought about it. An old story, told with those of Creation, and of the time when all men and animals spoke the same tongue. Tales of Rabbit, Fox, and Bear, and of Brass, the bad deity. Brass was so evil that the other immortals wanted to kill him to protect the human race. But they were unable to do so, because of his immortality. At last they had tricked him and weakened his power, enough to take him to the bottom of the sea. There they drove a great pole through his body and staked him to the ocean’s floor. He remains there yet …. Her mind had wandered and she drew it back.

  What about the Raven Mocker? It was a scary story, told by firelight, of a kind used to frighten children into good behavior. If you don’t behave well, something bad will happen. Fear of the unknown is a forceful thing. The threat of a mystical entity, ready to steal your very life to feed its own, was a more threatening story than most. He (or she) would literally laugh at the carrion eater, would “mock the Raven,” and live forever. Or for as long as he was able to steal a few years, even a few moments, from the lives of those around him, to add to his own disgusting lifetime. It would be a sort of artificial immortality at the expense of others, a parasitic existence.

  She had been just a bit amused at first, to hear the girls talking. Children often try to frighten each other with stories. But there was something different here. Parents were involved. At least the mother of the one girl, Rain …. Possibly, even, the woman had started the rumor.

  Snakewater was still not fully convinced that this was a serious problem. After all, who would believe such a tale? Well, yes, there might be a few who were gullible, but surely most would have the common sense to understand ….

  She wondered, though, what might come of this, beyond talk. She could not remember any part of the story that dealt with attempts to prevent Raven Mocker’s activities. People feared, sometimes detested, the person, but what could be done? Surely someone would wonder if it were possible to kill the Raven Mocker. Yet he is immortal, or nearly so. Anyone attempting such an assassination would be in great danger, probably. The Raven Mocker, with all the accumulated powers of stolen lifetimes, might add the life-years of the erstwhile assassin to his collection. All in all the Raven Mocker would be a very dangerous neighbor. If, of course, one believed the story. Snakewater was not certain that she did. It was all pretty imaginative.

  Another thought fluttered through her mind. Could it be that belief and acceptance of the story was necessary for the Raven Mocker’s success? If one did not believe, for instance, would it be possible for the stealer of lives to accomplish the theft? Here was another variable to ponder. Would one who did not believe be safe? Maybe… Unless, of course, at the last moment, when the Raven Mocker approached, the resolve weakened ….

  Yet another angle occurred to her: What use are unused years to a dying person? Wouldn’t the Raven Mocker merely be utilizing something of no use to the previous owner? In a way, preventing waste, as the scavengers do after the butchering of a large animal. Buzzards, coyote, maybe others…

  She gave a great sigh. This was a very complicated puzzle.

  It rained the next day, and the next. She did not even try to listen at the wall. She knew that would be futile. The girls would not come out and sit in the rain just to exchange outlandish suspicions. Snakewater had all but decided to regard the whole thing that way. It was ridiculous to worry about it.

  On the third day the skies began to clear. It was good to see the sun. The Going to Water was observed, made somewhat more difficult by the rise of the rushing stream. The ritual of thanks for a new day was modified to allow for the muddiness of the bank and the water. As usual there was little conversation between Snakewater and the other citizens. A formal nod of greeting, a remark on the coldness of the water, or the foggy morning.

  Snakewater finished her ceremonial cleansing, dressed, and made her way back toward the hut. She was thinking about what the day might bring. It would be too muddy, probably, to do much harvesting of herbs, but in another day or two there should be a good crop of mushrooms. Some varieties were useful, and rare at the season.

  “What’s that, Lumpy? Oh, yes …. A day or two ….”

  A woman nearby noted the old woman’s conversation with herself and shook her head, half amused, half afraid. She altered her course slightly, to avoid a path that would be any closer. She gently herded her children along with her, moving them, too, away from the course of the old witch woman.

  Snakewater noticed, of course. This was not unusual. Such actions were expected. It had always been so, even when as a child she had gone to water with her old mentor, whose name she now bore. It was a part of her status and position and, in a way, a form of respect and honor. At least it had always seemed so to her. This morning, though… Was there something a little different about the woman’s attitude, the sidelong glance over her shoulder? A slightly different look, of fear and dread, in her eyes? Ah, maybe not.

  She reached the little house and began to think of some food to begin the day. Hmm … Not much in her larder …. A couple of rings of dried pumpkin, a pouch of corn, another of beans, a couple of onions.

  It had been some time since there had been much illness. There had been little need for curative medicines. Possibly the change to rainy weather would alter that. She hated to think along such lines. It was much more rewarding to think of love potions and romance. But no one would bring her any supplies unless they wanted something, some spell or charm or… Maybe she could take the blowgun and hunt just a little for herself. Squirrels should be active at this time of year, especially after their work had been hindered by the rain.

  She looked over at the weapon in the corner, unused for a long time now. Any darts? She rummaged for a little while and discovered a half dozen of the projectiles, sharp pointed and as long as a finger. Two would need new tufts of fluff, but that was easy. Milkweed pods were plump with their cottony fiber.

  Snakewater lifted the long tube and wiped dust off the mouthpiece end. An experimental puff proved the bore to be clear. At least, air could pass through. Lifting the blowgun, she peered through it at the sky outside. It might be that mud daubers or spiders had chosen this place to build their houses. But, no, it was clear and clean. A good sign…

  “Lumpy,” she said, “we are going hunting.”

  She tucked the usable darts in the thong around her waist, and started away from the town.

  Never shoot a barking squirrel was the hunter’s motto. The one doing the scolding is the lookout, and his barking keeps the others informed. If he stops, something is wrong, and all activity ceases. The hunt is over for the day.

  Snakewater’s quest was a little different. Most hunters were interested in numbers. The more kills, the more food for the family. She needed only one, for herself, for today. Yet she hated to depart from custom. She had watched the barking gray creature for some time now, from her place in the thicket. She knew that this one was aware of her presence, but she was looking for the next squirrel to happen by, curious as to what the scolding was about.

  But no next squirrel appeared …. Maybe this area had been hunted heavily by the young men, and squirrels were scarce here. Maybe she should look elsewhere. There were nut trees in several places near the town. Pecans, chestnuts, several kinds of oaks. Squirrels would be busy gathering and storing. But she hated to spend the whole day looking for one squirrel. The only reason not to shoot a barking squirrel, as far as she knew, was that you wanted more, and she needed only one. With what she had, she could put together a stew that would furnish several meals. She could do the stew without the meat, but it would not be the same.

  Her heart was set on a squirrel now. The one on the sycamore limb above her seemed to be taunting her, as if he knew the custom. Twice she raised her gun and then lowered it again, hop
ing for another target. Finally she could stand it no longer. She raised the weapon, selected the best of her darts, and inserted it into the mouthpiece. Carefully she aligned the tube and placed her lips on the opening. It had been a year or two since she had used the blowgun, and she was unsure. I should have tried a practice shot or two, she thought. Too late now…. A deep lungful of air, a puff …

  She knew as the dart left the tube that it was an accurate shot. When it feels right, there is no doubt. There was only a glimpse of the speeding missle, and the barking squirrel ceased to bark. He tumbled from the white branch and struck the ground with a thud, kicking feebly. The woods were silent as she shuffled forward to claim her prize.

  Snakewater pulled out the dart, wiped it on a leaf from a nearby bush, and tucked it back in her belt. It was apparently undamaged.

  She took a thong, looped it around the creature’s neck, and suspended it, too, from her waist. Now she was ready to start home.

  She looked up to see a young man rising from the bushes a few steps away. She had been unaware of the other hunter’s presence.

  “I am sorry,” she said. “I did not see you. I thought I was alone.”

  He nodded slightly but did not speak. The expression on his face, though, told much.

  “I only needed one ….” She realized that she must sound ridiculous.

  “Here, take it,” she offered.

  The youngster shook his head. He still held a look of mixed puzzlement and disbelief. She had spoiled his hunt, and his wordless resentment came at her with great force. You shot a barking squirrel his eyes accused.

  4

  She regretted the confrontation with the young squirrel hunter, and his odd reaction. She had not been aware of his presence and would have gladly given him the squirrel. His actions were strange, it seemed. It was doubtful whether he had been aware of her presence, until the squirrel tumbled out of the tree. She had spoiled his hunt, probably. He would have waited for other squirrels, and shot at them. He might have procured two or three by waiting. Now he had none. But she had apologized, as common courtesy would demand, and had offered the results of her own hunt. That should have been sufficient.