Raven Mocker

by Don Coldsmith

  “No, from Old Town. I was told of your party by a trader.”

  “Ah, yes… the Choctaw?”

  “Yes, that’s the one. He said you are a few days behind him.”

  “True. We had broken a wagon wheel. But how can we help you, Mother?”

  Good, she thought. A respectful young man.

  “I would join your party.”

  The man’s mouth dropped open in amazement.

  “But what … How… Why… ” he stammered.

  Snakewater had already decided that she would be willing to tell all …. She must do so, to be trusted. She took a deep breath and plunged ahead.

  “I am a medicine woman. A conjuror. There are those in Old Town who do not trust me. Some have tried to kill me, and I have decided to leave. I can help your people.”

  The expression on the face of Kills Many was one of astonishment, but he quickly recovered.

  “How do I know you can be trusted?” he asked guardedly.

  “You don’t. But you could ask the Peace Chief here at Keowee. You have met him. Or their medicine woman, Spotted Frog. Both of these know me.”

  Kills Many nodded tentatively. “But… how could you help us?”

  “With my skills. My medicine. I am skilled with potions and salves as well as conjures.”

  “Hmm… that might be useful. But you might hold us back.”

  Snakewater bristled. “At any time I cannot keep up, you can leave me behind!”

  “Yes, yes, Mother,” he said quickly. “I meant no offense. But the trip may be hard. I was thinking of your comfort. Winter will be coming.”

  “It always does,” she retorted. “Here, there, or somewhere else. Everyone will be someplace.”

  Kills Many chuckled. He liked the spunk of this old woman.

  “I will ask those of whom you speak,” he said. “The conjure woman, the Peace Chief. Maybe their War Chief too.”

  His mind was already made up. He had no doubt that he would receive exactly the answers that the old woman said. There was a complete forthrightness about her that he liked. He was certain that she was exactly what she appeared to be, a spunky old woman with the spirit gifts she had stated. His remark about the War Chief had been a gentle jibe at her aggressive nature. Well, he would ask anyway.

  “You have supplies?” he asked, gesturing toward her horse with the bulging panniers.

  “Enough,” she stated flatly. “I’m pretty good with the blowgun too.” She touched the mouthpiece of the weapon, as it protruded from one of the packs.

  “I see …. Well, we are camping here today. We start on at daylight tomorrow. After going to water, that is. Meanwhile, I will ask about you.”

  “Good. You will find it as I said.”

  “I am sure of that.”

  The Peace Chief was a little vague.

  “I don’t know her well. I heard that there was some sort of trouble down at Old Town. You could talk to their Peace Chief.”

  “No, no. We need to move on. But this Snakewater… You know of her?”

  “Of course. She was conjuring before I was born. Yes, that was it …. No one knows how old she is, and somebody accused her of being a Raven Mocker. You remember that story?”

  “Yes, I think so. The Raven Mocker takes unused life-years of a dying young person?”

  “That’s the one. Do you believe it?”

  “I don’t know,” said Kills Many cautiously. “But her reputation has been good?”

  “Oh, yes. She’s well respected. Or always has been. She wants to go with you?”

  “That’s what she has asked.”

  The Peace Chief nodded. “I think you would be fortunate to have her in your party.”

  “You would trust her, then?”

  “Oh, yes. She could not use her powers for a bad purpose. It would kill her, no?”

  “So I have heard. Oh, yes… Keowee has a conjure woman?”

  “You can’t have her!” said the Peace Chief.

  “No, no,” laughed Kills Many. “I only wanted to ask her about Snakewater.”

  The chief relaxed. “Oh. Of course. Frog… Spotted Frog. That is her house, near the big sycamore.”

  “Wado! Thank you, Uncle.”

  Spotted Frog was reluctant at first, but when she learned the purpose of Kills Many’s visit, she became more friendly.

  “Yes, she came to me with her problem. A bereaved family, rumors and stories… It was I who suggested that she move west.”

  “She can be trusted?”

  “Snakewater? Of course! She will tell it as it is. And I tell you this: You will be fortunate to have her with your party.”

  That was the second time he had heard such a remark this morning, Kills Many realized. His heart was good for this.

  Before the day was over, a traveler who had been to Old Town stopped at Keowee with an odd piece of news. A man who had entered an empty house in the dead of night for some unknown purpose had fallen on his own knife and was dead. There were few regrets, because he had been a scoundrel, it was said. The spirits must have a sense of humor

  13

  Lumpy, did you have something to do with the death of that man in Old Town? Here, don’t you disappear on me…. I know you’re there. They said the man might have fallen on his own knife …. Where are you?”

  Her tirade went unanswered. Snakewater stamped her foot impatiently and turned to unsaddle her horse. The party would not leave until tomorrow, and this was a chance for the mare to graze and for herself to rest. She had had no sleep. It had been a worrisome time for the past day and a half. She spread a blanket on the grass under a tree and lay down, eyes closed.

  “Who were you talking to, Grandmother?” a child’s voice asked.

  Snakewater’s eyes opened, startled. It was a girl of perhaps six summers, standing beside her blanket.

  “Oh… nobody, child. Just the Little People.”

  “You talk to the Little People? Then you have seen them?”

  “I did not say that, girl. I can talk to somebody in the dark without seeing them, no?”

  “That is true,” said the child. “But … it isn’t dark yet. Besides, they would probably answer.”

  “And you heard no answer? Is that it? Maybe I didn’t either,” she said irritably. “But I can talk to Little People without seeing or hearing them, no?”

  “Maybe you were talking to yourself?”

  “No, I… Well, maybe so. Run along, now. I must get some sleep.”

  “Yes, my father said you will go with us tomorrow.”

  “Your father… ?”

  “Yes, Kills Many. He said you will join us.”

  “That is true. Now, run along, child. What is your name?”

  “Pigeon… I will let you rest, Grandmother. And I will watch closely for the Little People.”

  “All right. But if you see any, be sure not to tell anyone.”

  “Yes, I know that. But I could talk to them, no?”

  “Of course. Now, go on! Let me rest.”

  Reluctantly Pigeon turned away, and Snakewater watched her go. “Lumpy,” she said to empty space, “I hope you’ll stay away from that one. She’s too smart for us.”

  Maybe it was only the flutter of the leaves in the tree overhead that sounded like a giggle.

  The little caravan traveled well. The others had already become accustomed to traveling together. There were three families, two approximately the same ages, all with children. Kills Many was the leader. Snakewater had already become acquainted with him, and with his daughter, Pigeon. She rather liked Pigeon, whose inquiring mind and quick understanding were refreshing. The child might become a nuisance, she thought, but was, for now, interesting. Pigeon’s mother was a quiet, pleasant woman with a gentle smile and a comfortable inner satisfaction that Snakewater could see immediately. She was called Rain, and in her warm, calm attitude it was easy to visualize a gentle shower, so welcome in the heat of late summer. Snakewater liked her from the start. The woman was a
well-fitted partner for Kills Many.

  The couple had another child, a boy of about ten or eleven. That one seemed to be a small copy of his father, Kills Many. He was called Redbird.

  Snakewater had had little chance to become acquainted with the other two families as yet. That would happen as they traveled. For now, it was enough to see that one had a wagon, like Kills Many. The man was called Smith, because of his vocation. His forge was carried in the back of the wagon. The Smith family had two children, both girls.

  The third family was somewhat younger, had one boy of three or four, and pack horses instead of a wagon. Snakewater had the idea that they were relatives of Rain, wife of Kills Many. Maybe the women were all related, she thought. Rain had mentioned the Blue Cat Clan, which might indicate the matrilineal connection.

  The wagon of the Smith family had broken a wheel, she learned, and caused the delay that had allowed her to join them. The wheel had been rebuilt by Smith, who seemed quite skilled in the use of tools. He had taken on many of the white man’s ways, much to his advantage and to that of the party, as it turned out.

  Snakewater declined an invitation to ride in the wagon of Kills Many. By evening of the first day of travel she regretted that decision. The bumping and shifting of the packs, bundles, and panniers was a constant challenge. There was no good position in the saddle, and the load kept sliding around. She decided that there must be a better way.

  After they’d halted that first evening, as Snakewater was unloading her packs, Rain approached.

  “Would it not be easier for you,” the woman suggested, “to put some of your packs in the wagon? Since you do not wish to ride there yourself …”

  Snakewater felt as if a great weight had lifted from her shoulders. She was trying her best not to show how difficult it was to move around. Her inner thighs ached, her buttocks felt as if she had been beaten, and cramps in the muscles of her calves seized her with every step. At least she was recovering some semblance of feeling in her feet. When she first stepped down it had felt like the stabbing of a hundred needles.

  I must appear to be walking like—like an old person! she thought to herself. She chuckled quietly over that thought, then paused.

  “What?” she said, apparently to nobody, “I am an old person. Stop it, now!”

  That was only the first time that the others in the party noted that this new companion frequently talked to herself.

  Within a few days the routine was well established. Snakewater found that the excruciating pain in the muscles of her thighs subsided after a day or two, and she began to enjoy the travel. After her body adjusted to the saddle, riding was much preferable to bouncing in the wagon. She had tried that, too, but only for a little while. The swaying gait of the mare was so comfortable that at times it almost lulled her to sleep.

  Usually, though, she was not only awake but enchanted with new sights, sounds, and smells. She had never been far from Old Town, and her knowledge of different scenery was quite limited. It was a thrill to see a distant range of hills and to wonder what lay beyond. Even so, she now knew that those hills lay a full day’s travel ahead. Maybe even two days.

  She was also somewhat surprised that she felt better, younger by far. At first she had thought it was merely relief at her escape from the rumor, gossip, and actual threats to her life that had been oppressing her. Her newfound freedom had been exhilarating, and had replaced gloom with happiness and optimism. She soon realized, however, that it was more than that. She felt stronger, healthier. She could fill her lungs to their greatest capacity, head up and shoulders back, and it felt good. The travel was good, the world was good.

  Days were warm and sunny, nights cool and crisp. Occasionally there was rain, and on those days they camped, kept a hot fire going, and they all huddled under the two wagons until they could move on.

  It was during one of those times, when it seemed that the rain might turn to sleet or snow, that a thought struck her.

  “Kills Many,” she said, “how is it that we are traveling at this time of year? Winter is coming!”

  He chuckled. “That is true. But it was not when we started. We had come a long way before you joined us.”

  “Yes … I know.”

  Then another idea struck her. She had not thought to ask before.

  “I had not inquired,” she said, a bit embarrassed, “but where are we going? Is there a destination, or are we just wandering?”

  Kills Many threw his head back and roared with laughter.

  “Maybe some of both,” he said, after recovering his composure. “A specific place, no. Yet we are not just ‘wandering.’ There are towns… at least three or four, we have heard, in this place called Arkansas. Towns built by Cherokees like ourselves. Our own, Real People. They came from our own country.”

  “And how do we find them?” she asked.

  “We know that they are beyond the Big River,” he said. “The Mississippi. We must find a way to cross it, and then inquire among the locals as to where our people may be.”

  “You speak their tongue?” Snakewater asked.

  “No, no. But there are ways. You know of the Trade Language?”

  “Yes. I do not speak it, though. Do you?”

  “Yes, but that is not it.”

  “There is another trade language?” she asked in amazement.

  “No, no. There are hand signs. A trader told me of this. East of the Big River, Trade Language. West of it, hand signs.”

  “But where can you learn it?”

  “The trader taught me. In a day or so one can learn enough to get by. Look, it is not difficult. See here: you… me …eat … drink, speak… Here is any question, all the same: how, what, where, who… ”

  He held up a crooked finger, moving it out from his mouth, then pointing to Snakewater. “How are you called? Here is water… a flowing motion of the fingers, like that of a stream. Woman, a motion like combing long hair. Well, you get the idea.”

  “Yes, of course. I had never heard of this, Kills Many.”

  “Nor had I …. I am eager to try it out.”

  “Would you teach me?”

  “Of course. You have already started. Not too much at once. A little at a time is better.”

  At the beginning Snakewater had considered this journey an escape, her only course of action. She’d had no other choice. Now it was different. Not only was she feeling better than she had in years, she was actually enjoying the travel itself. And ahead it promised to become even better. What other surprises lay ahead, across the Big River?

  14

  Before they could approach the Big River, however, they must cross the mountains. Snakewater had little conception of the distance and time involved. She had been oriented to Old Town and the hut where she had grown up, just outside the town wall. Her recent trip to Keowee had opened her eyes to some extent, showing her the changes that were taking place. Still, there was no way that she could know how many whites were moving into the area, how many towns they were building.

  “Of course! That is why we move west,” explained Kills Many, when she had mentioned it. “You have been out of the mainstream, there at Old Town.”

  He seemed to enjoy talking with her, and the two people, of entirely different generations and traditions, struck up an enjoyable friendship. Snakewater was old enough to have been the grandmother of the young leader, but they seemed to understand each other, and it was good. She could ask him about the common things of which she had no knowledge, and know that he would not ridicule her ignorance. In turn Kills Many knew that he could benefit from her years of experience in dealing with things of the spirit.

  Snakewater was still enjoying the newness of all the things that were happening. The new vistas of landscape as they crossed the mountains were wondrous to her. She actually felt years younger, with the fresh mountain air and the exercise that had been forced upon her. She had been aware of that for some time now and was reveling in it.

  Then came the night
when, for some unknown reason, she woke and lay there unable to sleep. She changed positions …. Then again …. She could not seem to recover the comfort that she usually felt in her blankets. Was she too cold? Or too warm, maybe …. She adjusted her covers, and still nothing seemed right. Maybe if she were to get up, empty her bladder, move around a little ….

  She rose and attended to the call of nature. She noticed the chill of the night as she returned, and tossed a couple of sticks on the dying fire. Then she picked up a blanket and draped it around her shoulders, to sit by the fire a little while. It was not unpleasant, as she warmed, to be alone in her wakefulness, listening to the night sounds. It was too late in the season to hear crickets and other insects with night songs, but there were other noises. She heard the soft whicker of a raccoon down by the stream, and the call of a hunting owl. In the far distance, a sound that always sent chills up her spine, the scream of the great long-tailed cat, like that of a woman in agony. She moved a little closer to the fire.

  Then, for no apparent reason, a thought struck her. She had been with Kills Many and his party for several days now, and her mood and her physical activity had been that of a much younger person. How had this happened, the rejuvenation? She gasped in surprise that she had not thought of it before, yet the sheer horror of such a thought repulsed her: What if … Could it be that her invigoration was not merely from exercise, but from some external source? She tried to remove her thoughts from the threat that now thrust itself upon her. What if this renewed energy was that which had been stolen from someone else at his death? There had been that death in Old Town on the very night she left. It had happened in her house, under circumstances that were very peculiar. She had suspected that the Little People were involved. At least one. She had found that possibility mildly amusing, but now …

  Am I the Raven Mocker after all? she thought.

  The man who had died by the knife in her house was said to have been a young man, with many years ahead of him. That same night her own world had changed completely. She felt now like a different person.

  Maybe I am! Maybe these feelings of youthfulness are only from the stolen life-years of another, a younger person.