NEW GUARDIAN
There lay the child, near where she had last been. The girl was sitting up, looking around in confusion, and crying softly. Running Deer hurried toward her, and the child started to run away.
“No, no, child. I want to help you. I came to stay with you.”
There was doubt in the pitiful little face. Gray Mouse made the sign for a question. In this case it was almost surely “Why?”
“I want to be with you. You will be my daughter.”
“You are my grandmother?”
Deer thought for a moment, and then smiled. “Yes, child, if that is what you wish.”
With a sudden rush, the little girl flew into her arms. For a moment Deer felt a revulsion at the scabbing sores. They were even worse when seen at close range. She closed her eyes, and that helped. Running Deer enfolded the sobbing little form in her arms and rocked gently.
There flitted through the back of her mind an undeniable fact: there was no turning back now. Close on the heels of that came another, in the form of the words of the Death Song.
The grass and the sky go on forever,
But today is a good day to die.
At least to begin to die, she thought.
Also by Don Coldsmith
TRAIL OF THE SPANISH BIT
THE ELK-DOG HERITAGE
FOLLOW THE WIND
BUFFALO MEDICINE
MAN OF THE SHADOWS
DAUGHTER OF THE EAGLE
MOON OF THUNDER
THE SACRED HILLS
PALE STAR
RIVER OF SWANS
RETURN TO THE RIVER
THE MEDICINE KNIFE
THE FLOWER IN THE MOUNTAINS
TRAIL FROM TAOS
SONG OF THE ROCK
FORT DE CHASTAIGNE
QUEST FOR THE WHITE BULL
RETURN OF THE SPANISH
BRIDE OF THE MORNING STAR
WALKS IN THE SUN
THUNDERSTICK
TRACK OF THE BEAR
THE CHANGING WIND
THE TRAVELER
WORLD OF SILENCE
RIVERS WEST: THE SMOKY HILL
RUNESTONE
To our friends Julienne and John Judd, who will understand the intricacies of these conflicting cultures
Introduction
In the eighteenth century, the coming of more Europeans into the Great Plains brought danger of a new kind … disease. The natives had little natural resistance against some of these, since they had never experienced them before. One of the most dreaded was smallpox, which decimated various Indian cultures as late as the 1860s. It may even have been used as a sort of bacteriological warfare somewhat later.
This is a fictional account of an accidental early epidemic among the People of the central prairie. The active Europeans in the area at that time were French traders. For this reason I have chosen to use the term “poch.” This is an early French word for pocket, pouch, or pit, from which the English name of the disease derives: pox. It seemed to me that the first name used by the Plains Indians for the “spotted death” would be that used by the French: poch.
This is not primarily a story about smallpox, however. It, like others in this series, is a story about people. Cultures and their diverse problems come and go, but people remain people. They have hopes and dreams, happiness, disappointment, laughter and tears, love and loss, but a will to survive and search for something better.
DON COLDSMITH
Part One
1
Running Deer watched the big lodges come down, one after another. It was always a time of mixed emotions, the day after the Sun Dance. Already, the Mountain band had finished their packing and departed. They were usually the first to go, because they had traveled farther to the reunion. The ragged line of people, horses, dogs, and pole-drags could still be seen to the northwest, their plume of dust growing smaller in the distance.
The Red Rocks, too, had traveled far from the southwest into the plains for the occasion. They, too, were nearly ready for the trail.
The Northern band, with their usual efficiency, would probably be the next to leave, she thought. That band, larger and with more political prestige, took great pride in such things.
Her own, the Southern band, was in no great hurry. The Sun Dance had been in their area this season, and they would travel only a few days to their summer range.
It was expected that the Eastern band, noted for foolish ways and inefficiency, would be the last to break camp. Was it not always so? Probably they would not be ready to leave until tomorrow. It was past noon now. Why, she wondered idly, did the Eastern band behave so? They often showed resentment over the jokes and jibes of the other bands. Yet, they continued to behave in ways that made the jokes all too easy.
“He cannot help his foolishness,” someone would say. “His grandmother was of the Eastern band, you know.”
Running Deer was sure that they sometimes brought it on themselves. It must be a sad thing, she thought, to have no better way to gain attention than to behave foolishly. Ah, well …
Actually, her thoughts were sad anyway. Since she was a child, she had felt this time of sadness, a letdown after the Sun Dance. The festival itself was so exciting, so wonderful, that the day after its conclusion was an anticlimax. It always reminded her that she would not see friends and relatives of the other bands until next season’s Moon of Roses. Some she would never see again for always. Cold Maker took his toll in lives during the Moon of Snows and the Moon of Hunger.
Deer shook her head, trying to clear it of such depressing thoughts. She wiped a tear from her left eye, hoping that no one had noticed, and turned her attention to packing.
Just to the east of the Southern band’s camp, the people of the New band had struck their lodges and were preparing to travel. That was a thing which had happened only a few seasons ago. A band of strangers, with a completely different language, had joined the People. There had been some friction at first, but the new people had proved their friendship. There was even talk now of giving them a seat in the Council. The Big Council. Already, their leaders met in the councils of the Southern band.
She did not care. Let them do what they wished. Running Deer was no longer interested in politics. There was not much that interested her now, since the loss of her husband. She had not taken that well, she knew. She did not care about that, either. The opinions of others no longer mattered to her, because nothing did.
Theirs had been a good marriage. The best, actually. It had been a hard time for her when Walks in the Sun had gone with that ill-fated expedition to the south. But she had never lost faith. She had always known that he would return, even when others had given up hope. And he had come home, two seasons later.
She had welcomed him with open arms, secure in the knowledge of their love. It had been possible for her to survive that dreadful time because of his position as a holy man of the People. Walks in the Sun had been made to think that it was his duty to go with that exploring party to give them guidance. She had been able to accept that, and had rejoiced in his return.
Of course, she had been younger then. Considerably younger. Deer could not have told now how many winters she had seen. She had lost count. Not as many as wrinkled old Mare’s Tooth, three lodges down, but too many. Her children were grown and had lodges of their own, and her grandchildren were quickly becoming tall. But lately, she had lost interest even in her family. It was not so much her age, she thought, but her bereavement. She had never managed to recover from the death of her husband.
Walks in the Sun had been one of the most respected men in the entire nation. Even the Real-chief, who was of the Northern band, had sought advice from Sun. His status, his wisdom, his ability to bring home the survivors o
f the expedition “too-far-south” … But Deer, though she had taken great pride in all of this, had loved him for his love. There was a strange mixture of feelings that had remained with her after his death. Pride in what he had been, in the respect that the People had held for him. Even in the manner in which he had died, for the good of the People, in a last selfless gesture, singing the Death Song. Her son, Singing Wolf, had told her about that. He had witnessed it. Others congratulated her, and told her how proud she should be …
They do not understand! she had told herself fiercely, many times over the intervening years. Her feelings were mixed, but when it came right down to it, she had to admit it. Walks in the Sun had made a choice, one that must have been terrible for him. He had had to choose between his love for her and his concern for the People. He had chosen the People. He broke an ancient taboo knowingly, fully aware that in doing so he would die. It made her furious, even now, that there had been something more important to him than their love. She almost hated him for that sometimes. Then she would be immediately filled with guilt and remorse for feeling that way. Many nights she had spent alone in her lodge, crying over her loss. Why, why did you have to leave me?
It had seemed to her that every attempt to comfort her made her feel worse. Her friends told her how proud she should be. Her sons and their wives had always seen that she lacked for nothing. Even now, they were folding and rolling the cover of her modest lodge, preparing to travel. That made her feel old and helpless, too. Both of her sons’ wives had asked her to live in their lodges, but she had refused. Partly, she hated to give up her independence. Partly, she was afraid that her occasional nighttime crying would be discovered. So, they helped her constantly, and the situation did not improve.
One thing had infuriated her, a short while after her husband’s death. Someone had come to her lodge, knowing that her husband was dead, but seeking the power of his medicine.
“But did he not leave you his gift?” the man asked.
True, that sometimes happened. The gift of the healing spirits might be bestowed on the wife of a dying holy man. It could be accepted, and even gained strength sometimes through the use by a capable woman. Many wives, including Deer, were assistants to their husbands, and could easily repeat the rituals and chants. She could also refuse it, of course, and it would disappear.
To Running Deer, there had been no choice. To her, the thought of taking over his gift would have been to dishonor his memory. True, the widow of an owl prophet of the Northern band had done it quite successfully, but Deer could not. She had chased the erstwhile client from her lodge with a stick. He had retreated in astonishment, to tell everyone he knew about the strange behavior of the widow of Walks in the Sun.
Soon people began to avoid her. Her friends disappeared. Now, she knew, she was regarded as an unpleasant, crotchety old woman. She did not care, or at least pretended not to care. She knew that even her own grandchildren feared her a little. That was just as well. She was left in the solitude of her memories, little realizing that those memories which she called up were the wrong ones. She wallowed in pity for her loss, and in bitterness for the injustice of it all. She aged rapidly, and her former friends whispered of it.
It had been several years now, and her moods were no better. Worse, usually. She had gotten a mild lift from the Sun Dance, but the corresponding depression today, the day after, was worse than ever. If she could only cross over, be with her husband again … How could she accomplish it? She had thought many times of taking her life. Probably the only thing that had prevented it was the thought of her husband. It must be done in a way that would bring honor to his memory.
She had heard a story at this Sun Dance that would bear some consideration. An aging warrior of the Northern band had done it. During a late storm in the Moon of Hunger, food had become scarce. There was a very real danger that some would starve. This old fighter had tottered out into the teeth of the blizzard, stripped for battle and singing the challenge of the Death Song, as one would when facing an enemy in battle:
“The grass and the sky go on forever,
But today is a good day to die!”
He had been facing an enemy, the dreaded Cold Maker, spirit of all the dreadful chill which the People always expected in the moons of winter. In doing so, he may have saved the lives of some of the children.
Now, that sort of thing she could do. It would solve her own problems and bring further honor to her husband. Yes … she would say nothing, but treasure this idea in her mind. There would come a time when she would do it. Probably not until winter, for there would be no chance. Maybe not even this winter, but the chance would come, sometime. Then she would carry it off with defiance, with honor. Her former friends would be sorry.
“Mother?”
“Yes … yes, Wolf. What is it?”
She had been lost in thought, and had not even heard her son speak.
“I said, will you ride the pole-drag, or …?”
“No!” She interrupted his question. “That is for the old and infirm, or tiny children. No, I will ride … Would you bring my gray mare?”
“Of course, Mother.”
He went toward the horse: herd, and encountered a family friend.
“What is the matter?” asked Bear’s Tooth.
“I do not know … Nothing, maybe. But my mother … Did you notice, this morning? She seems almost happy.”
“Aiee! That has been a long time coming!” said Bear’s Tooth.
“Yes. But it is good, no?”
“I hope so …”
Wolf went on to the herd, and caught the mare with little difficulty. He was still surprised that his mother would choose to ride. He swung to the back of the gray … The animal had not been ridden for some time, and it would be good to take off the first skittishness before his mother tried to mount.
He slid to the ground before the nearly abandoned lodge site, and handed the rein to Running Deer.
“Did you think an old woman could not ride a fresh horse?” she chided him gently. “I was riding long before you were born, Wolf.”
He was puzzled. It had been a long time since his mother had teased playfully like this. Not since his father’s death, maybe. Still, he was uneasy. There was something here that he could not quite grasp.
Well, he would think on that later. Maybe, even, talk to his mother at greater length. For now, he must help with the preparation of his own lodge for travel. He joined his wife and began to load the rawhide packs on the pole-drag.
“What is it?” asked Rain
“I am not sure,” he answered slowly. “My mother … She seems almost happy.”
“Aiee! And this is a thing for worry?” she teased. “It is long in coming, Wolf.”
“That is true,” he agreed. “Well, we will see.”
He could not shake the idea that something was being overlooked here. Something ominous.
2
The sway of the gray mare’s gait was pleasant, rocking her into a relaxed mood. Running Deer could close her eyes, and dreamily pretend that she was a girl again.
She had loved to ride, and had even participated in a few hunts with the young men. She was proud of that. Still, having accomplished it—she had once even made a clean kill, unassisted—she had proved her worth. It had been pleasant to settle down with Walks in the Sun in their own lodge, to raise their family.
Just now, her daydreams carried her back to those times. She was young again, not the bitter old woman she had become. The mare was comfortable to ride. Deer could forget, or at least postpone the thought of how stiff she would be tomorrow. Well, so be it. If she did not feel like riding the mare, or even walking tomorrow, she would ride on the pole-drag behind one of the other horses. Her decision about what she would ultimately do with her life had given her a new outlook. She felt that for the first time in many seasons, she had taken control.
Yes, that was it! She now had few responsibilities. None, actually, because her grown children ha
d seen to her every want. But today, she had the feeling that she had taken back her life. The decision that she would cross over in a grand suicide gesture pleased her. It must be at the proper time, of course, carefully staged. In her mind’s eye she rehearsed what she would wear, how she would sing the Death Song. As bravely as any warrior ever did as he rode into a hopeless battle.
She must keep her intention secret, of course. Her family must not have the slightest hint that she had such a goal. They would probably try to prevent her from carrying out her plan. No, it would be her secret, hers alone.
In making her decision, she felt that she had now regained control of her life. It was a good feeling. She could now do as she wished, not as others thought she should. I can do anything I want to, she thought triumphantly. Hers was the privilege of age, to do as she chose.
Running Deer came very close to smiling as she rode, but was able to stifle the: urge. To let the others see any hint of pleasure in her face would surely give them the idea that something was wrong. No, she must continue to be the bitter old woman that she had become, so that they would not suspect. That should not be difficult.
Dreamily, she drifted into the past. The rocking motion of the horse took her back to her childhood, her earliest memories. Like the other infants of the People, she had been entrusted to the care of a dependable old mare. Deer’s mother, along with the other women, had often been occupied with the tasks of butchering and tanning skins, drying the meat of the buffalo hunts. The older children could help. Tiny infants could ride in the pack boards on their mothers’ backs. The toddlers, however, would only be in the way.
She dimly remembered the strong hands of her father lifting her to the back of one of the horses and tying her in place. It was high, far above the ground, and Deer was proud, as he turned the mare out to graze. The People were horsemen, known for their skills. This too was a matter for pride, but was it any wonder? Most children of the People had learned to ride as she had, almost before they could walk.
Child of the Dead Page 1