“Did you want one of your horses?”
“No. I was looking for No Tail Squirrel. He is not herding?”
“No, Uncle. Squirrel does not herd much any more. He rides as wolf now.”
“Of course. I should have known. Well, you too will ride as wolf someday, no?”
“Yes. Soon, I hope.”
“May it be so! Does Squirrel ride the big horse?” Wolf gestured toward the stallion.
“Sometimes. Not today, I think. His brother, there, says he is sick.” The herder gestured toward the other young man on night-herd duty.
“Ah! His brother?”
“Yes, Uncle. Over there by that tree.”
“Good. I will talk to him.”
He made his way around the herd, trying to remember … what was the name of Squirrel’s younger brother …? No matter.
“Ah-koh,” he called, and the youth rose from the rocky outcrop where he had been seated.
“Yes, Uncle?”
Wolf walked over to sit beside him.
“Your brother is No Tail Squirrel, who found the horse?” he asked.
“Yes. Is it not a wonderful thing for him? You saw the horse, no?”
“Yes. A fine animal.”
“Good fortune for my brother! Aiee, what a horse! And a good saddle and blanket, too.”
Instantly, a chill gripped the heart of Singing Wolf. His stomach tightened.
“There was a saddle?” he asked casually. “I had not heard.”
“Oh, yes, Uncle. A good saddle, a forked wooden tree. Not a pack saddle. An almost new blanket, too. A bright-striped blanket, from the traders.”
Wolf’s heart sank. This was the missing part …
“When did he find this horse?”
“Ah, I do not remember, Uncle. Several days ago. No, more than that, maybe. I know … two or three sleeps after we saw the Camp of the Dead.”
“Someone said your brother is sick?”
“Yes, too bad. He took sick yesterday, but he will soon be better.”
“Yes, I hope so. Maybe I will go and see him.”
“It is good. Squirrel would like that.”
The young man lay near the campfire of his parents, his face flushed and sweating. His mother was bathing his face, neck, and chest, and there was concern in her eyes. She rose and the two stepped aside.
“He is very sick,” she said, her voice trembling. “He rode the travois today.”
It was apparent that the young man must be very sick if he would ride a pole-drag, usually reserved for tiny children, the elderly, or the incapacitated. It would have been beneath his dignity if he had the strength to protest.
“Yes, I see, Mother,” Wolf said.
“He has not been the same since the coming of that horse,” she lamented. “It seemed to take over his life. He is almost crazy over it. I wish he had never found it!”
“I, too, Mother,” he said sadly. How strange, that the woman should have identified the threat, but did not understand it.
“It was said that the horse had a blanket?” he asked.
“Yes. He is proud of that, too,” the woman said with disgust. “It is new, but stained and dirty. But he insists on sleeping in it. Aiee, look at him there.”
Wolf looked, and his heart was heavy. He must find Broken Lance and discuss this. This threat was very real, not only to the family of No Tail Squirrel, but to this entire band of the People.
He wished that he had the wisdom and advice of his father. There were harsh decisions to be made.
11
The council was quiet tonight. Participants spoke in hushed tones, due partly to the heavy dread that hung over the People. Singing Wolf, the holy man, had been right. The poch had descended on the band. There had been arguments and denial at first. Everyone, even the family of No Tail Squirrel, denied any contact with the Camp of the Dead. Everyone was telling the truth, Singing Wolf agreed, but the curse had followed them. How? In the blanket of the horse found by Squirrel, Wolf was convinced.
Again, denial. Who had ever heard of such a thing? Wolf related it, as he had been told by the French trader. The poch could ride on blankets or robes. Still there was disbelief until No Tail Squirrel died in agony, with great round sores on every part of his body. By this time, his mother and his brother were sick, too.
Panic flew swiftly through the camp. Two or three families quickly packed and departed. That was not a bad plan, Singing Wolf thought. For the People of the Southern band to scatter would lessen the danger of spread of the evil poch-spirits. Yet it was also dangerous. They were not totally without enemies. Suppose, for instance, that Shaved Heads to the east or the Horn People to the north of the People’s range discovered what was happening. Both were nations with whom they had warred in the past. The news of scattered families of the People, virtually defenseless on the wide prairie, might bring war parties down into the Sacred Hills like wolves to the bleating of a lost calf.
But something must be done. Wolf was not certain what. And, this time, Broken Lance came straight to the point of the council, and no one seemed to care. As a strong leader, the old band chieftain knew when to call for discussion and when to say how it will be. In this case, he did the latter, and no one objected, because no one had a better idea, and they were all afraid.
“Something that I can fight, I do not fear,” said one old warrior. “But this … aiee!”
“So be it,” Broken Lance announced. “Any lodge that shows the sickness will stay behind. All those living in that lodge, sick or well. The rest will keep on moving until the poch is left behind.”
“Then where is summer camp to be?” someone asked.
“We do not know. Wherever we are when the spirits leave us alone, maybe,” said the chief. “But … let us winter on the Sycamore as we had thought to do. Is that not good, holy man?”
“It is good, my chief.”
Wolf did not really know. Surely this horror would be over by then. If not, the survivors could still gather and decide what to do about the coming winter.
“What is to prevent those left behind from following us?” asked someone.
“Honor,” replied Broken Lance. “If that fails, the Bowstrings will stop them.”
It was possibly the harshest rule in the history of the People, yet few objected. But of course, in a matter of honor, there was little possibility that enforcement would be needed by the Bowstrings anyway.
“What of the horse? Is it not the cause of our trouble?”
They were still camped where death had overtaken No Tail Squirrel, while his family performed the burial arrangements. They had already decided to stay behind to care for their younger son, who had now sickened. The mother had used Squirrel’s blanket to wrap his body, so Wolf had not made further suggestion on that.
But the horse …? It was not unknown to sacrifice a horse for the dead hunter to ride on the Other Side. Some tribes, Wolf knew, even tied the animal to the burial scaffold and let it starve to death, but the love and respect that the People had always held for the horse usually prevented that. (“Are we not called the Elk-dog People by others?”)
Some felt that the horse should be killed, but the argument was feeble. Singing Wolf was glad. He was still sure that it was not the horse, but its blanket, on which the poch had been carried, but it could not be proved. The blanket was now out of consideration, so he said nothing more of his theory. But after all, the poch was French, and so was the blanket, no? It made sense.
It was decided that the safest thing to do was leave the horse behind, and to drive it away if it tried to follow.
“Aiee, what a loss,” observed Beaver Track as he took one last look over his shoulder at the proud stallion. “I would breed all my mares to him.”
Singing Wolf felt much the same.
“You did breed all that you could, Beaver, did you not?” he chided as they moved out.
Behind them, the mourning family of No Tail Squirrel looked pitifully defenseless. They gr
ew smaller in the distance, standing beside the burial scaffold of their son, until the column crossed over a low rise and they were not seen at all.
There were a few days when it seemed that the world had returned to normal. A good day’s travel, a halt for the night, move on. The prestige of Singing Wolf rose, because the holy man’s advice had enabled the band to avoid the deadly sickness. The loss of one lodge and its three warriors was regrettable, but did not seriously affect the defensive strength of the band. There was a spirit of optimism, and there was talk of considering a place for summer camp.
Then the poch rose again, striking down a young man who had been a friend of No Tail Squirrel. The connection was obvious. There was much concern, but little panic as the band left another family behind and hurried on. They changed directions this time, at the suggestion of one of the older men of the band. It might confuse the bad spirits that pursued them.
The course was now more southerly than their previous southwest direction. In another two days they changed again. This began a zigzag pattern that was not really a recognizable pattern at all, to further baffle the spirits. Wolf was not certain that it was a valid theory, but it could do no harm.
Another family announced that, although there was no sickness in their lodge, they were leaving the band.
“We are tired of running,” said the woman. “We will stay here, and join the band for winter camp. Sycamore River, no?”
“Maybe,” answered Broken Lance. “Where will you go now?”
“We stay here. There is water, grass … the place is pleasant, no?”
“That is true. May it go well with you.”
“And with you, Uncle!”
The others moved on. The band had begun to look alarmingly small to Singing Wolf as he looked back along the column.
Many sleeps away, a small girl dozed fitfully by a dying fire.
Her little world had been a happy one. Plenty to eat, loving parents, other people that she knew and trusted. There had been other children, with whom she played. They had learned many things … The Children’s Dance … that had been sheer enjoyment and excitement. The rhythmic thump of the drums, the hopping steps, the praise and pride that had been hers.
And the stories … she loved the stories of long-ago times. How Bobcat lost his tail, why Rabbit has only a little fat …
She could not remember when or how things had begun to change. There had come a time when the dance drums were silent and there were no more stories. There was singing, a sad chanting that made grownups cry. Some of the people that she knew lay still and cold. They were wrapped in robes or blankets and placed on platforms of poles like lodge poles, with much more crying and singing, and they did not come down. They were seen no more. That she found disturbing, and even more so when it happened to some of her playmates. There was the day when Songbird could not come out to play, and then was not even there any more. Why would her friend leave her that way, without saying anything? Mouse’s mother said that the girl had “crossed over.”
At least her parents were one solid strength on which she could depend. She sat on her mother’s lap at a council one evening, frightened by the serious tone of the talk. She had hoped when they gathered that this was to be a story fire, but it was quite different. Old men discussed in worried tones what should be done. Gray Mouse did not understand why there should be such worry. The talk was boring, and she fell asleep in the pure protection of her mother’s arms.
Then her mother had fallen ill, and great ugly sores grew on her face. People tried to keep her away from her mother, which made the girl frightened and angry. When she was told that her mother had crossed over, it was devastating.
“She left without me!” Mouse wailed.
By that time she was sick herself. So many were crossing over that there were not enough left to wrap them and sing the sad songs. There were not enough to look after each other among the living, either. Mouse found herself wandering among the lodges. She had been told by those who had been caring for her to go away. Confused and weak, she sought her own lodge. Maybe her father was there … she would be safe with him.
Father was there, but he, too, was still and cold, beside the bed where her mother lay. Frightened and crying, Gray Mouse crept close to her mother and sobbed until she fell asleep.
When she awoke, there were shouts and confusion. People were saddling horses and packing belongings, obviously preparing to travel. She was puzzled as to why most of the lodges were still standing. She approached a woman in the lodge next to her parents, a woman she knew. Surely Left-hand Woman would help her. But the woman looked at her and recoiled in terror.
“Go away, girl!” the woman shouted. “We are leaving.”
“But I …”
“Stay back! We will kill you if you follow us.”
Gray Mouse did not understand at all. She was frightened and still angry. Why would everyone leave her, when she needed them …?
She woke, terrified. She had dreamed it again. Almost every night, it happened. Quickly, she looked to see that the grandmother was still there. Yes, soft snores came from the robes beside her.
And Yellow Dog … he raised his head and wagged his tail. At least these two would never leave her. They had not yet, anyway. A shadow of doubt crossed her mind. The grandmother was sick, and looked much like those she had known who had crossed over. Would she, too?
12
There were many things that Gray Mouse did not understand. One was the grandmother. She did not even know who this woman might be, who had come out of nowhere. It had been good … This was the first human who had treated the girl with kindness in a long time, it seemed to her.
But, kind though she might be, there were puzzling things about the grandmother. Her strange language … Her garments, slightly different than the ones familiar to Mouse. The manner in which her hair was plaited …
These things were not really distressing, because it was apparent that the woman was kind. The lap, the comforting arms, were those of a woman who understood the needs of a lonely child, abandoned and frightened. Gray Mouse had perceived immediately that here was a mothering-person. A person older than her own mother, though, so it must be a grandmother. Mouse had inquired, through hand signs, and it was verified.
That was when the girl felt her very worst. There were a few days that she did not even remember very well. The mind blocks out and forgets much of the unpleasant and the painful to spare us part of the bad memories.
Grandmother talked to her a lot. At first Gray Mouse knew none of the words at all, and was too sick to care. Then, with repetition, she began to recognize words and phrases. Water, food. Go to sleep. Dog, lodge, corn, meat … fire.
The woman had built a sort of lodge to shelter them. Poles and sticks and a big sheet of hide that she had cut from the lodge skin of Stumbling Elk in the camp below. Elk had no need for it, Grandmother told her. That was true. He was on one of the scaffolds downriver now.
Among the very confusing things were the stories. Mouse had seen stories in hand signs before, when a traveling trader had camped with them, so that part was nothing new. The stories themselves, however. She, Gray Mouse, had requested stories. Stories told by her mother or her father had always been part of happy times, and had made her feel better. She had wished for things to be happier. The new grandmother had agreed, and had held her in comforting arms, had sung and rocked her, and had told stories in words and hand signs.
Now came the confusing part. The stories were different. Bobcat … Do you know how he lost his tail? the grandmother had asked. Yes, Mouse knew and loved that story. Bobcat had had a long tail at Creation. He had lost it when he stood motionless, watching Rabbit, with the long tail hanging down in a pool of water. A sudden shift in the weather had frozen the pool, and when Bobcat pulled away, his tail, frozen in the ice, broke off short. This is why even now, the bobcat’s tail is short and he does not like water.
It was with great surprise, then, that Gray Mous
e heard a quite different story. The new grandmother had said that Bobcat had slipped into a hollow tree to hide from a hunter. But his long tail (that was the same) … his tail stuck out through a knothole, and the hunter had chopped it off to decorate his bow case.
This was quite puzzling. Which story is right? thought the girl. She was sure that her own version, that of her parents, must be the correct one. She was almost indignant that anyone who did not even know how it really happened would try to tell the stories. But she had been too sick to care, really. The important part had been that she had been held, rocked, and comforted. So she decided to say nothing.
Now confusion and worry had fallen on her again. The new grandmother was sick. There was a feeling of panic … What if she leaves me, too?
Gray Mouse had decided to be as helpful as she could, so that maybe the grandmother would not leave as everyone else had done. The reassurance that she had tried to give, that “I will take care of you,” had been a desperate attempt to hold the sick woman, to induce her to stay.
For the next few days, Gray Mouse tried to do all she could. She brought food and water, though sometimes the grandmother was too weak and feverish to eat. At those times Gray Mouse would bathe the hot face and hands, and would sing to the sick woman. That had been a comfort to the girl when she was the sick one, so maybe it would help. Even so, the grandmother spent much time in crying.
Gray Mouse herself ate, slept, and played with Yellow Dog sometimes when Grandmother slept. Day followed day …
For Running Deer, it was a terrible time. She was feverish, weak, and probably dying. Over and over, she relived her life, and every event that she wished she had handled differently. It was a sort of desperate sadness, a regret for a life that had gone nowhere, and was now to end in even further tragedy. She told herself that at least she should try to teach the little girl some things that might help her to survive a little longer. But she could not seem to summon enough energy to do so.
She was repelled by the sores that erupted on her body, as well as by the pain and itching that never seemed to subside. Finally, she was burning with fever, hallucinating, talking with people who were not there.
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