Raven Mocker

by Don Coldsmith

  But by the time Snakewater left Old Town, there were none of those memories left. The unpleasant ones had come crowding in. Even her home, once a place of refuge, had become a threat. It had become a dangerous place, and it was good to be gone from there.

  What a contrast now. She had been here only a season, but she had friends here. There had been no one in her life, since the death of Snakewater the elder, to whom she had been close. Now she realized with some surprise how difficult it would be to leave Kills Many and his family. They had joked about it, she and the young man. She had called him “almost-son.” He had become the son she had never had, and could never have now. That possibility was long behind her. Yet, for a season, she had been able to experience the emotions, the feelings, and the joy of having a family. It had been good. But the ever-present danger of her past had become, in a way, a danger to them, her adopted family.

  Pigeon… Ah, what a joy! Looking back, she saw that the child had done much for her. A season ago Snakewater would never have imagined that she could become a storyteller. Now she was actually in demand as one. Could Pigeon ever realize how much influence she had wielded in Snakewater’s transformation? The old woman smiled to herself. Quite possibly—she had always felt that Pigeon seemed to have all the wisdom of an older adult, packed into a small body. She must take some time with the little girl, to explain her impending departure.

  “Pigeon,” she began haltingly, “I must tell you something.”

  “What is it, Grandmother? A secret?” The child’s eyes danced with excitement. “No, no …”

  This was more difficult than she could have imagined ….

  “No, not a secret. Everyone will know. I wanted to tell you first, to explain.”

  She took a deep breath.

  “Are you troubled, Grandmother?” asked the girl sympathetically.

  “No… well, yes, a little. I am troubled that I must leave here.”

  “When will you come back?”

  “I—I don’t know. Maybe never.”

  A look of alarm swept across the small face.

  “You are to cross over?”

  “No, no, child, not that. But I will be far away. I am going with the trader and his wife.”

  “But they will come back!”

  “Yes, that is true ….” She had not even thought of that. “But I will probably not.”

  The large dark eyes filled with tears.

  “You are angry with me, Grandmother?” Snakewater put an arm around the girl and drew her close.

  “Of course not, child. This has nothing to do with you. I have had a dream, a night vision, that calls me to go.”

  Pigeon brushed away tears. “I don’t want you to go.” She cuddled more closely.

  “Pigeon, I… Ah, we must do things sometimes that are hard, no?”

  Now there were tears in her eyes too.

  Pigeon sniffed and wiped the back of her hand across her nose.

  “And your dream tells you to go?”

  “Yes. Dreams are important.”

  “I know ”

  Of course you do, child, thought Snakewater. You understand all things.

  “I will miss you, of course,” said Pigeon, more calmly now. “My heart is heavy. But maybe you will come back?”

  “Maybe so.” Snakewater smiled.

  “But”—Pigeon’s face fell again—“I will miss you both.”

  “Both?”

  “Yes, you and Lumpy. He will probably go with you.”

  “Lumpy?”

  As far as she could remember, Snakewater had never mentioned the name. This was very disconcerting, maybe even a bit dangerous.

  “What do you know of someone called ‘Lumpy’?”

  Mischief sparkled again in the dark eyes.

  “Why, nothing, really, Grandmother,” she teased. “What could I mean?”

  Now Snakewater was truly confused. Had Pigeon overheard her talking to the Little Person by name? Possibly… or …could it be that Pigeon, too, was in contact with the Little People? Not unheard of. She tried to remember a similar conversation with her own mentor, when she first thought she saw a lumpy-looking shadow in the corner. At about Pigeon’s age? But it was a conversation that must not go on.

  “You make no sense at all, child. I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she scolded.

  Pigeon giggled. “Of course not, Grandmother. But I will never tell.”

  Tell what? Snakewater longed to ask. But she could not do so. The answer to that question would itself break the taboo. Pigeon had led this conversation very skillfully, and in a way, Snakewater was pleased and even proud.

  “I know you won’t, Pigeon.”

  An understanding passed wordlessly between them, and it was good. This child, thought Snakewater, has truly received the gift.

  “When will you leave, Grandmother?”

  “I don’t know, Pigeon. When it’s time, I guess.”

  The departure was delayed as Snakewater made her hurried preparations to accompany the traders. Time, except for the changing of the seasons, was of little serious importance. A little more trading, a social smoke, the readying of Snakewater’s mare, the packing of Snakewater’s few possessions, all helped to consume most of the day. Tomorrow would be soon enough.

  There were two pack animals, in addition to those ridden by the trader and his wife. Snakewater’s packs and bundles were easily added to the load of the pack horse.

  The other pack animal was a strange looking creature, unfamiliar to Snakewater. It had the long ears of a donkey but the body and legs of a horse. It had startled everyone from time to time with its loud braying call. Snakewater was a little uneasy about it.

  “This is a big donkey?” she asked.

  “No,” laughed Rain Cloud. “It is called a mule. Its sire was a donkey, from which it gets its ears and its voice. Its body and legs, from its mother, a mare. It is very strong and, in some ways, wiser than a horse. It will not overeat like a horse and can go longer without water.”

  “Where did it come from?”

  “Fox traded for it. Before that, I don’t know.”

  “It has worked well,” added Fox. “Its long ears and loud voice attract attention.”

  “And this is good?” asked Snakewater, somewhat puzzled.

  “Oh, yes, for a trader. Anything that will gather a crowd. I had thought,” he added as he and Cloud expertly looped the hitch on the pack mule’s load, “that maybe a wagon would be easier. Maybe we will try that next year.”

  “Kills Many travels with a wagon,” offered Snakewater. “I came here with them last season.”

  “Yes, I know,” said Fox. “I have talked with him. But some of the trails farther west may not be suited to wagons. We will see, this season. Then, maybe next year… For now, our pack horses can go anywhere a person can walk upright. Maybe they are better than a wagon, no? We will see.”

  The mule did travel well, even with a bigger load than the horses. They camped that night without any settlement near. At least none that they knew of. Their start had been a little later than they’d expected. The time to leave had not arrived, so it had become a short day’s travel.

  Their campsite had obviously been used before, as had most of the stopping places on the ancient trails. Any traveler, stopping for the night, needed the same amenities: water, a level place to sleep, and grass or browse for the animals. Some camping spots became famous in their own right, for an especially good spring, or a magnificent view, or for geographic features that provided safety. Many of these spots later became towns and cities, for the same reasons.

  But, for this evening, it was a pleasant place to camp. The horses and the mule, freed of packs and saddles, rolled luxuriously on the ground, and rose to shake themselves free of any debris before beginning to browse.

  They quickly established their camp and built a fire. It was not so much for warmth, or even for cooking, but to establish a presence, a permission to camp here. Here I propose to ca
mp is the statement that a fire makes. It is a ritual, a contact with any spirits who might dwell here.

  Fox opened his pack and tossed a pinch of tobacco on the growing flames as a ritual to honor those same unknown spirits and to ask their help and protection. Snakewater was glad to see this. Those who spend much time in contact with other cultures sometimes forget their own. It was good to see that Fox had not departed from the simple amenities that any traveler should observe. She was sure that the spirits, too, must appreciate such recognition.

  There was a twinge of loneliness for a moment as the shadows lengthened. This startled her when she actually thought about it. She had been a lone person by choice for most of her life. It had been only in the last year that she had actually enjoyed the company of other people. Back at Old Town her relationship with Log Roller and Three Fingers, the town chiefs, had been understanding, but mostly business. She had respected and admired both but had not considered either a close friend.

  Her closest relationship was that with Kills Many, her almost-son, and that was good. And little Pigeon… ah, she had never missed the joy of motherhood until now.

  Looking back over the year just past, she found to her surprise that she now almost enjoyed being with people. Except for her old mentor, these friends among whom she had been living were closer to her than any others she had ever known. And all in a single year? She must be changing herself, because surely there must have been some people in Old Town worth knowing.

  These lonely thoughts whispered through her head as she watched the trader and his wife walk down along the stream, hand in hand. She had felt a shadow of doubt about going off to unknown places with unknown people. But had she not had a dream-vision? And the trader was known to Little Horse and his band. Even so, it was a great lift to her spirit to see the couple in this setting, relating to each other with such affection. A slightly bittersweet lift, maybe, since she herself had no one. She sighed, then turned suddenly toward a patch of shadow across the fire.

  “ What? Oh, yes, Lumpy. Yes, I do. And I appreciate it. Don’t tease me about it.”

  She was feeling much better, however, by the time twilight deepened and Fox and Rain Cloud returned. Both carried sticks for fuel, and they seemed content with the world.

  In such a setting and in such company, who could feel otherwise?

  24

  The country through which they traveled was rough. Not in the sense of crags and bluffs, though there were many of those along the rivers. This land was a series of hills and ridges, steep yet rounded, and mostly heavily timbered. In some respects it reminded her of the mountainous regions near Old Town.

  Fortunately, there were trails or roads, begun centuries before by the hooves of deer and the padded feet of the bear. Even smaller creatures made use of the ancient trails—quail, turkeys, and the foxes, bobcats, and other predators who hunt them—and, Man. Moccasined feet had traveled these paths for countless generations, as man utilized the primitive instincts of his fellow creatures, seeking the easiest way to travel from one place to another. Still more recently the tread of horses’ hooves had marked the ancient paths.

  In some places there were massive blocks of stone littering the trail, making it necessary for them to thread their way among the fallen slabs from the shelving hillside above.

  “I am made to think,” said Fox, “that the white man’s wagon would not do well here.”

  The women laughed.

  “Maybe,” said Rain Cloud, “that is why there are few yonegs here. Those who do come are trappers, and they walk or ride horses, as we do.”

  They stopped to trade at towns along the trails. A day without travel was good for both the travelers and their animals.

  “A horse spends much time in eating,” Fox explained. “About half the time. But when we travel all day, it is hard for him to get enough to stay fat. Now your mare, there, is an easy keeper. But even she has lost some flesh. Cloud’s gelding loses quickly, and so does the pack horse. Rabbit, there, is always fat.”

  Rabbit was the pet name that the trader used for the mule.

  “He calls him that because of his ears,” Rain Cloud had explained.

  Her husband chuckled. “Well, that and the look on his face,” he said.

  Snakewater looked. Yes… It was not that a mule looks like a rabbit, but that this individual animal did. The facial structure, the downturned nose, and the big, suspicious eyes… yes, it was easy to see the startled, half-frightened look of a rabbit in the mule’s face.

  “I like him,” Fox said. “He draws attention when he cries out, and a trader needs attention. I was told that a mule is stubborn, but I am made to think this: If Rabbit does not want to do something, there is a reason. A pack is slipping, the trail is unsafe—he sees things that we cannot.”

  “Things of the spirit?” asked Snakewater.

  “Maybe that too,” answered Fox, “but I was thinking of his skill on the road.”

  Snakewater was learning to pack the animals, an entirely new experience for her. There was a rhythm, a sequence for looping the lashing across the packsaddle and the bundles, carefully balanced on each side. It required two persons to accomplish the best job, with short, one-word communication at the proper moment.

  “Take slack ….”

  “Hit!”

  Both packers gave the appropriate response, and the four-cornered hitch tightened. Fox was pleased to have another packer. It was not long until any two of the three travelers could quickly load and pack. This eased the tasks of setting up and breaking camp considerably.

  “We should have found you before,” Cloud told Snakewater. “It is good. But did Fox warn you? Rabbit has a bad habit. There is a place on his flank. I’ll show you …. Right there.”

  She gently touched the soft flank just in front of and below the hipbone. The mule jumped and squealed, first hunching his back and tucking his muscular hips under him, then lashing out.

  Snakewater had seen horses kick. They often do, in play or in a scuffle for superiority in the herd. Never had she seen anything like this. Both heels struck out, straight behind, as sure as the strike of the rattlesnake and almost as swiftly. Just as swiftly it was over. Rabbit stood quietly, almost sleepily, head drooping lazily with eyes half closed.

  “So,” laughed Fox, “don’t touch him there!”

  As they stopped to trade, Snakewater quickly learned some of the trader’s secrets. On one occasion Fox was in the final stages. The potential customer had apparently reached what he considered his limit. His array of the items offered lay on the blanket in front of him. In front of Fox, an almost new rifle. It seemed that the bargaining was about to collapse.

  “You will offer nothing more? This is a fine gun,” lamented Fox, disappointed.

  “But it is not new,” complained the other. “I do not know if it shoots well.”

  Just then Rain Cloud passed by, and paused a moment.

  “You are trading your favorite rifle for that?” She gestured at the assortment of furs on the blanket between the men. “Huh! Your favorite rifle!”

  She marched away indignantly.

  The customer hesitated only a moment, then gave a deep sigh. He reached into a pack behind him and drew out a beautiful mink pelt, nicely tanned, which he added to the display.

  “This is my last offer,” he said.

  Fox appeared to ponder for a moment, but that was only for appearances.

  “Well,” he said finally, “if that is your limit …”

  He lifted the gun almost reverently and handed it across, just a hint of doubt in his expression. One would have thought the weapon a family heirloom. In reality Fox had traded for it only a few days before at another town. He had cleaned and greased it, and added some brass tacks to the stock as decorations.

  Snakewater, always observant, watched such proceedings with interest. Human nature, though sometimes unpredictable, is often quite transparent. And in the realm of trade a very slight shift of mood is everything
. It becomes a matter of showmanship.

  A few days after the episode with the rifle, Snakewater noticed a potential trade that had nearly come to a stalemate. The customer was quite indecisive about some shiny ornaments, and she thought that Fox was becoming impatient. Fox would never show that, of course, but it was slowing the rhythm of the trading.

  “Fox,” she said abruptly, “I was made to think that your wife wanted to keep those trinkets.”

  Instantly the item became more desirable. Fox looked irritated, but that, too, was an act. The trade was quickly completed.

  “Snakewater, you would make a good trader!” he told her later. “That was well done.”

  Her other function, that of storytelling, she had not particularly seen as allied to that of the trader. It had been something of a shock to her to find that children were attracted to her. Pigeon had been the reason, initially. But she had found herself associating with the children of West Landing, and enjoying them. They, too, enjoyed her. It had been a new experience. All of her life children had feared her and would even run and hide when she approached. Now she admitted sadly to herself, it had been partly her doing. She could throw a furtive look that would make the most determined child quake in his moccasins.

  Now, thanks to Pigeon, Snakewater’s approach to a child was no longer with a glowering stare, but a friendly smile. She was not quite certain how and when that transformation had taken place, or how and why. But something was happening to her.

  “Lumpy, did you have anything to do with that? Don’t laugh at me! Ah! Go on, then. Disappear, just to show you can.”

  Irritably she turned to something else. It was futile to waste emotions on the Little People. She recalled, though, that they are said to have a sense of humor. Would that not be a great joke, to watch a grumpy and disagreeable old hag become an attraction to children? Even Snakewater could see the humor involved. She could not share this theory, of course, because Fox and Rain Cloud had not known her before. They would not understand an account of such a transformation. In truth, she did not understand it herself. She only knew that she was becoming a different person.