The weather held, with warm days and cool nights. They were seeing a gradual change in the land. The stone that forms the shelves and rocky slopes of the Sacred Hills is white limestone, laced with veins of the top-quality blue-gray flint so prized by the People. To the south, the rolling hills appear quite similar to the inexperienced eye. But their base is different, a yellow to brown sandstone. Here conditions are favorable for the growth of a variety of different plants and trees. There are groves of oaks of several kinds, hickory, and pecan, in addition to the massive walnuts farther north.
Running Deer’s goal just: now was to reach the first of the scattered strips of scrub oak thickets. This was an area favored by the People for wintering, because of the shelter available.
There was a possibility, even, that they might encounter her own Southern band. Deer was not certain how she felt about that. It was too soon to tell. The circumstances under which they had parted made it difficult. Her decision had been final, or so she had thought. She had been angry with her family, with the People, and would die alone, never having to face them again. She had relished the thought of their mourning her. They would be sorry, to think of her dying alone, racked with pain and fever …
But it had not happened. With the sometimes puzzling, even perverse ways of the spirit, Deer was still alive. She had planned so carefully, had concealed her departure from the People, planned every detail of how she would comfort the poor dying child of the strangers, and then cross over herself. Her plans had included every possibility except this one. Running Deer, in the emotion of planning for her own death, had neglected to think that she might live.
There were times now, when she was tired and discouraged, that it seemed to her her entire life was a failure. She tried to console herself with thoughts of her happy marriage, of her successful sons. Yet there always came flooding back the despair over the loss of her beautiful daughter, and later, her husband. It was easy to slip into the dark moods of depression when she thought of such things, and to think that her life had been meaningless. She had accomplished nothing, really, nothing important in her entire lifetime. Any other woman could have been as good a wife for Walks in the Sun, could have managed their lodge as well. Maybe better.
And now, in the twilight of her life, Deer had been given the opportunity to die with dignity, trying to help someone. It had seemed a good thing, but now, even that had turned sour. She had failed in that, too. She had lived. It was not intended to happen that way, and she was unsure of herself. How was she supposed to handle this?
Yet even while she thought such black thoughts, Deer was taking the appropriate actions. Her entire life had been one which revolved around doing what must be done, what was needed. So, without really thinking about it, she continued to prepare for their food and shelter from day to day, and to plan for the cold moons ahead.
There were, of course, some major decisions. It might have been possible to winter with one of the Grower villages that were dotted along the rivers and streams. The People, hunters by tradition, had traded with the Growers for many generations, exchanging meat and skins for corn, beans, and pumpkins. It was their way. Surely, it would have been possible to ask for shelter in one of the permanent towns. They had passed several as they traveled southward. That had not been a difficult decision, though. First, her pride would not allow Deer to ask for help.
Then, the other thing, more indefinite … a dread of closed places. To a nomadic child of the prairie, the thought of the semi-buried lodges of the Growers was repugnant. Deer remembered as a child once when they had camped beside a Grower town to trade. The children had begun to play together … there are no cultural or language barriers among the very young … Deer had accompanied one of these new friends to her lodge. There was a slope down into a hole in the ground, and inside, the heavy, closed-in smell of human bodies. It reminded her of the smell of a mouse’s nest, or of a cave that was said to be a bear’s den, near the People’s winter camp one season. Young Deer had turned and fled from the earth lodge. How much better to live in a skin lodge, which could be rolled up in summer to catch any refreshing breeze, or pegged down and stuffed with dry grasses in winter … No matter. She did not think that she could survive a winter in a hole in the ground. That possibility was quickly rejected.
Her plans were rather vague beyond that, however. She could have inquired as to where the Southern band of the People were wintering. Growers gleaned gossip and information such as this from everyone who passed. But Deer was not certain that she was ready to rejoin the People. Pride … Aiee, sometimes it makes us work harder. Deer was not certain … Maybe she merely wanted to prove herself … Maybe she merely hesitated to let it appear that she had failed to accomplish her purpose, that of dying.
These dark thoughts did not occupy much of her time. There were other things to think of. Camp sites, fuel, water, food. Once an idea was rejected, like that of wintering with Growers, it was gone. It did not exist. Deer had no clear idea of what preparations she would make for winter once they found a place to camp. She only recalled that when the People wintered in the scrub oak thickets it had been easier. There were natural windbreaks, there were nuts and acorns to gather. There were also deer, turkeys, and squirrels that came to share such a harvest.
In addition, it is difficult to remain in a dark mood when one’s companions are a child and a playful young dog. Mouse was learning quickly, and already could carry on a conversation in the tongue of the People. Only occasionally would she resort to hand signs.
Running Deer soon realized that this was no ordinary child, but one of high intelligence and wisdom beyond her years. That, of course, accounted for her survival. With her parents dead, her world falling to pieces, her body fevered, her people abandoning her, the little girl had managed to find food and water, and to survive.
Sometimes Mouse would stare into the distance, lost in thought. At those times, Running Deer would avoid interrupting such flights of memory. Deer would move quietly, staying near until the child’s attention returned to the present.
Oddly, perhaps, the girl seemed to be a happy child, too. She loved to watch the silvery minnows in still pools along the streams where they camped. She giggled at the antics of a trio of fox pups, rolling and biting in mock combat on a stretch of grassy bank across the stream. A scolding jay, a sunning turtle, all brought exclamations of joy.
Twice as they traveled, they encountered small bands of buffalo. These were scattered groups, strayed from the huge herds. Those would migrate through, following the dying grasses as Cold Maker began his push from the north. They would come later, and would provide the great fall hunts for the people of the prairie. These scattered bands were also moving south, drifting slowly, warned by the shortening of the days. An old cow or two, left behind when the main herd moved north … Maybe a young cow, late calving, had stayed behind with her calf … A young bull, chased away by the massive herd bulls. These loners, companionable by nature, would band together. Possibly they would rejoin the larger herd later.
For now, however, Running Deer was glad to see them. She did not want to try for a kill just now. It would be too difficult to care for the meat, and she wanted to reach a suitable winter camp site. But since these scattered buffalo were moving south, too, aiee! Let their winter meat furnish its own transportation! She thought that she could manage a kill among the scrub oaks when the time came. The pattern of patchy thickets and grass made for good hunting for a single hunter on foot.
Deer had not tried the bow that she had salvaged. She must do that soon. There was little doubt in her mind. In her younger days she had hunted well. Now, she knew that she did not have the strength to draw one of the stout hunting bows of a warrior. She had intentionally chosen one of lighter pull, that of a young man, probably. It would still hurl an arrow with enough force. Well, later …
They were now seeing patches of oak thickets, straggling along a sunny south slope, or up a rough gully. The groves of nut trees were
more numerous and larger. But they kept on. Running Deer had in mind exactly the setting that she wanted. Not a specific place, but one with certain qualities about it.
Why does a nesting bird investigate several sites which seem identical, rejecting each until one seems right? Does she search for a place where the spirit is good, and start to gather twigs only then?
It was that way with Running Deer.
“Here, Grandmother?” Little Mouse would say eagerly.
“No, child. The thicket on the north is too narrow.” Or, “No, we cannot see far enough to the south.” Or, “It is too far from the stream.”
One spot which nearly satisfied Deer was finally rejected because there were tall trees to the east. It would be mid-morning before the winter sun’s rays would be able to reach the camp. They moved on.
Finally, they came to a spot that satisfied all the requirements. It was still early in the afternoon, but Running Deer shrugged off her pack and set it aside.
“Here, Dog,” she called.
The animal, sensing heir tone, ran to her. Deer loosened the straps of the harness and began to unload the travois.
“It is here,” she told the girl, “that we will spend the winter. Its spirit is good.”
Part Two
15
In front of their lodge, the stream made an arc perhaps fifty paces across. At the upstream end to the west of the camp was a shallow riffle, where it was possible to cross easily. Beyond that, a wide grassy meadow stretched into the distance in the southwest, toward wooded hills a day’s travel away.
To the southeast, a closer thicket of scrub oak sprawled across the hillside. That, thought Running Deer, might be a place where turkeys and deer would be likely to winter. For now, she would avoid it, to leave its spirit undisturbed.
Possibly the best feature of their winter camp was the thicket behind them on the north. It was a strip of dense scrub oak, perhaps two or three bow shots wide, which covered the south slope of the ridge. The slope was rather steep, and she realized that this would help with the warming qualities of Sun Boy’s torch. Yet even better was the protection from the howling winds of winter’s annual onslaught. Cold Maker would bide his time as the days grew shorter. Already she could tell at dawn and dusk that Sun Boy’s torch was beginning to fade. When the time came for Cold Maker’s traditional attack, it would be one of surprise. Maybe just a heavy frost at first, just a parrying thrust or two, but then … aiee, she did not look forward to it. Her aging bones reminded her in the morning chill that she had used them hard and long.
But here … Running Deer had already visualized how it would be. Cold Maker’s thrusts always came from the north. That was where he lived. Sometimes he would veer in from the northwest, to try to catch the unwary by surprise, but that was little different. She had stood in various places along the stream through the meadow, sighting along the timbered slope and the ridge at the setting sun. She verified her opinion after dark by the position of the Real-star in the north, the star that never moves.
Yes, a winter thrust by Cold Maker would have to top the crest of the ridge before it reached them. That would expend effort, and the partially exhausted Cold Maker would pause to drop much of his snow in the brushy timber of the slope before it reached the place she had chosen to camp.
The spirit of the place seemed good, too. She walked along the edge of the woods, searching for just the right spot. There … an irregularity in the grassy border that abutted the thicket … It was cupped toward the south. There was some protection to the northwest, but the bulk of the scrub growth was directly north of her chosen site. She picked the spot for their fire, kindled it with great ceremony, offered tobacco as the flames licked upward, and it was good.
“Here we intend to winter,” Deer chanted in the singsong ritual of the Song of Fire. “We ask the acceptance of our presence and of our offering.”
Just to make sure, she added another pinch of tobacco.
Now there was much to be done to prepare for winter. The next morning Running Deer began to plan.
“We will make a lodge,” she explained to the little girl.
“A big lodge, Grandmother?”
“No, no, child. We do not have enough skins for a big lodge. Or poles, either. And if we did, we could not set it up, just you and I, could we?”
“That is true.” Mouse giggled. “Did you have a big lodge, Grandmother?”
Running Deer smiled sadly at the memory. “Yes, once … My husband, Walks in the Sun, was a great holy man. We had a fine big lodge. But he is dead now.”
“Then how do you put up your lodge?”
“Ah! I did not have that big lodge any more. A smaller one, after the big one wore out.”
“And you could lift that one?”
“No, no … It was too big for one old woman to put up.”
“As big as mine … my mother’s?”
“No, not that big. But: I had help. My sons … You saw my sons, Mouse?”
“Maybe … when I was sick? Those men came on horses?”
“Yes, those are the ones.”
Her heart was heavy … They must think her dead. She marveled at the resiliency of the child, who had lost both parents as well as everything else.
“Did you tell me once that you had a little girl, Grandmother?”
“Yes, maybe I did.”
“How was she called?”
“Her name was Bird … Little Bird,” Deer said thoughtfully. “Little Bird.”
“Is she grown now?” asked Mouse.
“No, she is dead, little one. Long ago. She was not much older than you.”
“My heart is heavy for you, Grandmother.” The girl paused and then brightened. “Was she pretty?”
Running Deer had not talked with anyone for a long time about her daughter and the loss that she had suffered. There had been the boys, the busy days of helping her husband’s work. Then her sons had grown up and set up their own lodges. She had seldom talked with Walks in the Sun about their lost daughter. It had been so long ago, and there seemed little point.
“Yes,” she mused, “Little Bird was a beautiful child, like you.”
Gray Mouse smiled. “Tell me more of her, Grandmother.”
“Well, as I said, she was beautiful. But not only in face and form, but in spirit, too. She was kind and happy and loved all things. She could run and swim and ride, and …”
The feelings that had been held in for so long now came pouring out, and she found herself laughing and crying and recalling scenes that had not entered her mind for many years. Aiee, she thought, I have never mourned her properly until now! There was a joy in sharing these things with this orphaned child, who had lost so much more … Deer gathered the girl to her.
Finally she rose. “Come,” she said. “We can talk of such things later. Now we have much to do.”
She had already been planning in her mind the sort of shelter that she would be able to construct. In her lifetime, she had been in contact with several different tribes of people, all of whose customs differed slightly. Their dwellings did, too. In addition her own, the People, used several makeshift shelters when they traveled. The big conical skin lodges were normally erected only if they intended to remain for an extended time.
Now she tried to plan a shelter for the two of them, using materials that they had or could acquire. It must be soon, too. Nights were already cool.
Her general idea was to build a sort of lean-to, open on the south. She could cover the top and sides with brushy limbs and twigs, and to make it windproof, with skins. She would need more skins, but a kill or two … It need not be very big. In fact, the smaller the better, so that their body warmth would help to warm it.
“What sort of lodge will we have, Grandmother?” Gray Mouse asked.
“I will show you … Look, these two trees will be the back corners, these the front. Here I will chop out the brush between them. It must be clear and flat … You can pick up the rocks, there. Then we wil
l cut some grass to make our bed soft.”
“We sleep in it tonight?”
“No, no, it will not be ready. We sleep in our robes a night or two.”
They began to lay aside poles for the framework. The leafy brush was saved, too.
“We will pile some of that around the back and sides. Then maybe pile snow around that,” Deer explained.
By the day’s end they were tired, and it was good to eat a little, sit by the fire, and watch the sticks turn to glowing coals. Yellow Dog lay near, exhausted from chasing squirrels, who clearly had the advantage. They could take to the nearest tree when pursued.
“Grandmother … a story?” Mouse pleaded, creeping into her lap.
“It is good,” agreed Running Deer. “Which story do you want?”
“A new one … one I have not heard,” the girl suggested. “I know! Where did your people come from?”
For a moment, Deer thought that the girl meant this summer, but obviously, that was not it.
“You mean long-ago times?”
“Yes! How did they get here?”
“I see … Well, the People lived deep inside the earth, and it was dark and cold, and they wished for something better. So they sang and prayed, and finally, a god-man came, and he found a hollow cottonwood log. It was leaning, so …” She demonstrated with her hands. “The roots were still in the earth, and this Sun Boy … well, he still carries his torch … but that time, he took a drum stick, and sat astride the log. He pounded on the log, and a man crawled out into the light. He did it again and a woman came out. Then, each time Sun Boy struck the log, another, and it became easier, and they kept coming.” She paused and waited.
“Aiee! Are they still coming, Grandmother?”
Running Deer smiled to herself. That was the desired response. It was a joke to be played on those to whom the story was new. Usually the listener would ask, if the storyteller was skillful. Then the standard answer:
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