Child of the Dead

by Don Coldsmith

  “Of course not! A fat woman got stuck in the log, and no more could come through. They are still down there.”

  Usually there was laughter at that point, but little Gray Mouse seemed concerned.

  “But what happened to Fat Woman?”

  Running Deer could not recall that anyone had ever asked that before. At least, she had never heard it. But she could see the concern in the eyes of the girl. What a sensitive child.

  “Well … I …” How could she answer? “Well, then the others, those still below, you know … They saw that they must help her. Two men took her by the ankles and pulled and pulled. Finally, she popped loose, so hard that the log was shaken loose, and the hole closed up. No more could come through.”

  Mouse giggled and clapped her hands. Once Fat Woman had been rescued, the child was quite happy with the rest of the story.

  Deer wondered, though, about the changed ending that she had devised. Well, why not? She knew that the stories change sometimes, through generations of storytellers. She recalled one version that had the deity on the log a different god, even. The trickster, Old Man of the Shadows, wasn’t it? It seemed likely. It would have had to be someone with a sense of humor to bring humans into the world, would it not?

  And Fat Woman herself … One version said that it had been a pregnant woman instead. That surely would have bothered the sensibilities of Gray Mouse!

  She stroked the girl’s hair … Mouse was almost asleep now. There would be more stories later, through the long winter. Maybe Mouse could tell some of the stories that she knew. Maybe, even, Running Deer could learn more about who the girl’s people might be, who came to and died in the Sacred Hills.

  16

  It was not long before the camp began to seem like home. Nomadic dwellers settle in quickly because of the nature of their lifestyle. When the first fire breaks the chill of the evening as darkness approaches, the camp site becomes home.

  That was how it seemed to Running Deer and her orphaned foster child. It may have helped, too, that the spirit of the place was good, and that it matched theirs well. Deer had cut and trimmed poles for the small lodge that she had in mind, but did not begin to assemble it yet. Thongs of rawhide were needed, and they would come from a kill. She was not concerned about when that would occur. They had food enough for now. An opportunity would present itself. Deer or buffalo, either would do. She would prefer a buffalo. The skin, or part of it, could be dressed and tanned with the fur on, to make another warm robe for the coming winter. After she had cut the necessary thongs from it, of course. She was partial to the flesh of the buffalo, too. Its flavor was sweeter, and lacked the strong taste of meat from the deer.

  It was a sacred thing, the bond between the People and the buffalo. The herds furnished not only food, but clothing, shelter, tools … No other creature was so important to the life of the People.

  Running Deer hoped to obtain two buffalo kills during the autumn moons. She did not want both at once, because she could not do the work involved with two skins and the vast amount of meat that must be processed. Meanwhile, a deer would furnish the thongs that she needed. There was much deer sign in the area. They tied the dog each night to prevent his chasing deer. She wanted them to stay near, undisturbed.

  It was on their third day in what would be winter camp that she saw the turkeys. A flock of about thirty birds emerged from the thicket to the southeast of the camp, and worked their way across the meadow, moving almost straight northward.

  “Stay here. Hold the dog!” Deer whispered to the girl as she picked up her bow and ducked into the thicket.

  She had practiced a little, shooting at a hummock of soft dirt. She hated to risk the loss or breakage of an arrow, but she felt that she must test the weapon. The results had been quite satisfactory. The bow handled well. You have chosen well old woman, she told herself. The prospects were exciting, beyond what she would have imagined. And now she would be able to try her skill on a real target.

  The People had not often hunted turkeys, especially after the coming of the horse. Larger game was preferred. One does not risk the loss of a good arrow on lesser game when it might be used to kill a buffalo. Even so, sometimes it became necessary to try for turkeys or even squirrels. Running Deer had selected an arrow intended for this purpose. It lacked the carefully designed flint tip, which should not be risked on such a shot. To provide the weight needed on the point of the shaft, this arrow was equipped with a heavy wooden head. Carved as a larger portion of the shaft, sharpened to a cone on the tip, and hardened over the fire, this arrow point was less subject to damage, and was ideal for small game.

  Deer nervously fitted the arrow to the bowstring as she moved through the oaks. She carried only one. It was not likely that she would have more than one chance. She was breathing heavily, both from exertion and from excitement. It had been a long time since she had experienced the excitement of the hunt, and it was good. She smiled, amused at herself. It was like her first hunt as a child, when she stalked a rabbit.

  Now she could see through the foliage of the scrubby trees ahead, and into the grassy meadow. Ah! There were the birds … As always, she was startled at their size. And how black they appeared! They were moving slowly past her, catching insects in the grass. Always, two or three stood motionless, heads up, watching, at any given time. Then the watchers would hunt for a few moments, while others kept a lookout.

  The flock was nearing a stand of real-grass, and soon she would no longer be able to see them. She must act before the birds finished crossing the open area, which was covered with short curly buffalo grass.

  Suddenly a jay in a tree near where she knelt happened to notice the crouching figure and began to cry a raucous alarm. Instantly, every bird in the meadow was alert, head up, looking. She would have only the space of a few heartbeats … She drew the arrow to its head, leveled it at the large male bird nearest her, and released the string.

  As the bowstring twanged, she knew that she had missed. Her shot was high … She knew that she had jerked the string as she released it, a childish mistake. But as the arrow flew, the great bird, alarmed at the movement in the thicket, rose in flight. A sweep of its broad wings, another, a third. Its heavy body rose ponderously into the air. The bird was perhaps half the height of a man above the ground when Deer’s arrow reached that point, too. She could see the massive wing raised high, exposing the thinly feathered ribs above the breast. The most vulnerable spot, maybe, as if the deadly shaft knew, and sought it out. Transfixed, the turkey fell heavily, flopping aimlessly in the grass as life ebbed quickly. The other birds were disappearing into the oaks, running or flying low.

  Running Deer leaped out of the thicket and ran toward her kill. She remembered well that her very first quarry had escaped because she was too slow. Her arrow had flown true, had struck the rabbit squarely, but had gone completely through and out the other side. She had been so elated at her success that she stood watching in childish glee while the doomed rabbit ran for some distance, crawling into a burrow with its dying struggles. No one else had been present, and her friends had laughed at her story. Worst of all, she had killed for no purpose.

  This time, though, the quarry was beyond any effort to escape. It was a large gobbler, fat from the bounty of late summer’s insects and autumn’s nuts and acorns. It was heavy to carry, and she was breathing hard as she returned to the camp.

  Gray Mouse ran to meet her, eyes shining with excitement.

  “May I carry it, Grandmother?”

  “No, no … it is too heavy,” panted Running Deer. “Here … you carry the bow and arrow.”

  “The arrow is bloody. I will clean it off,” said the girl. “I will call it ‘Turkey Killer.’ Aiee, Grandmother, you shoot well! No other could hit a bird as it flies! How do you do that?”

  “I started long ago, child. It takes a long time.” She was still short of breath.

  “I will be a great hunter like you,” Mouse babbled on. “Will you teach me?”<
br />
  “Of course. When there is time …”

  “It is good. You will make me a bow?”

  “Yes, yes, child. Later.”

  “It is good. I will be a great hunter. You will be proud, Grandmother. Maybe I can be as great a hunter as you!”

  Running Deer was pleased, of course. She saw no reason to explain that it was only a lucky shot, one that would have missed if the bird had not flown at that moment. Why spoil the child’s dream? Anyway, it appeared to be a good omen, and she was grateful.

  As she thought about it, maybe it would be a good idea for Gray Mouse to have a bow of her own. The child certainly showed indications of strength. Maybe she would be a warrior woman like the legendary Running Eagle, of the People. There were no major enemies just now, but there might be in times ahead. But for now, Gray Mouse wanted only to be a hunter. It is good, thought Deer. It will help her to grow strong. I wonder if I can make her a bow. Yes, surely she could devise something. Meanwhile, she: would teach the use of a throwing club. Maybe Mouse already knew of that. And if she were unable to devise a small bow for the girl, probably Beaver Track could help.

  But that would be next season. There was much to do before that time came. She turned to Gray Mouse.

  “You can wash the arrow at the stream, Mouse. Then come right back.”

  The girl and the dog bounded away, and Deer turned toward the task of cleaning and plucking the bird. The wing feathers she would save to fletch arrows. Some of the others for ornaments. The beard … the stiff, hairlike tuft that grew on the front of the throat … That should surely be saved. Its spirit would be powerful.

  Gray Mouse returned with the arrow, and Deer placed it on a nearby bush to dry. She must remember to look at it occasionally. If it seemed crooked she could warm it at the fire and straighten it.

  Several days’ travel away, Singing Wolf sat looking into the sunset. He could not remember when he had been so unsure of anything. Or of everything, maybe.

  The world had been good when they left the Sun Dance. The People had felt the renewed strength, the patriotism, and the personal rejuvenation that always followed this most important celebration of the year. The return of the sun, the grass, and the buffalo, the basis of the People’s very existence … And it was good.

  Even when they had stumbled upon the Camp of the Dead, it had not seemed a problem that had belonged to the People. Such things happen to others, not to us. The People could have gone on, their hearts heavy for those less fortunate, but that was not to be.

  First the thing of the child. That was a bad thing. As far as Wolf could see, there had been no right way to handle it. The band had moved on, with some misgivings about leaving the dying child, but what could anyone have done? At least, without sacrificing his or her own life?

  It was still a hurt that made his heart heavy, that his mother had chosen such an action. Both she and the child were dead by now. He was alternately sad, angry, and even proud. It would have been a story to be retold for generations if it had not been for the other tragedy, that which struck the entire band.

  The poch … How could No Tail Squirrel have known that when he had been honored by the finding of the horse that it was not really an honor but a curse? The poch—spirit must be one of great treachery, as well as great power.

  Wolf was certain that the dividing of the band had been the only thing to do. It was like the action of a band of quail when a fox strikes into their midst. They scatter in all directions, sacrificing one or two. If they stay together, the fox could simply follow, taking one and yet another until all are eaten.

  But it is not so. After the attack and the loss of one or two, the birds scatter and wait. When the fox is gone, they begin to call to each other, and gradually the survivors reassemble.

  That was what he intended for the People. What he hoped for, anyway. There had been some effort to set up a plan to keep in touch, but: it did not seem advisable until the threat had passed.

  And how long would that take? They had no idea.

  He wondered how the others were doing. His own lodge and that of Beaver Track, visible in the distance, were the only ones of which he was sure. The band had left the family of No Tail Squirrel behind, and surely some of those were dead. The next family that had been invaded by the poch … There was no way to know. And beyond that, he knew nothing. Were other families involved also? He was certain only of his own and that of his brother. None of either lodge had yet sickened. Might they do so, even yet? It was nearly four moons. Surely it would have happened already.

  When the band divided, there had been a loose agreement. Those lodges that had no poch would assemble for winter camp on Sycamore River as they had previously decided. Those whose lodges had sickness would stay away.

  Now they were soon to be forced into a decision. Should they go to Sycamore River, or try to winter alone, here? When it came down to it, which would be least dangerous?

  17

  There would be some, Singing Wolf was certain, who would feel that all the misfortunes of the People were deserved. Punishment, maybe, for some infraction of that which is expected of humans by the higher powers of the spirit world. It had always been so. Probably the older members of the band would shake their heads and cluck their tongues in disapproval over some action by the younger generation. He was made to feel that one of the objects of their disapproval would be the thunder-stick. It was only in his own generation that the French trade guns had come into use. He himself had possessed one of the first, captured from a young Shaved Head of the woodlands to the east.

  He could understand the dread of such a weapon by those unfamiliar with its use. It carried much power, and a great deal of mystery. The mystical black granules which burned with such destructive force were in themselves dark and dirty, and left a stain on the hands and garments of the user. It was inevitable that some disapproved its use.

  It would be pointed out that the People had never encountered the poch until they began to use the thunderstick. Singing Wolf was not impressed by this logic. If it were valid, nothing new would ever happen. True, there were some of the old women who even now preferred a good flint knife to the modern implement of metal. Rubbing-sticks to kindle a fire were still used by some, rather than the steel striker which was now common.

  Wolf himself was something of an anachronism. He used the striker and flint as a matter of convenience, but also the fire-sticks. For reasons that he could not have explained, he felt better about a ceremonial fire that was kindled with the traditional fire-bow and yucca spindle. His son, if he proved to inherit the gifts and the duties of the holy man, might feel no such pressure. Times change. He was certain that there had been those who opposed any progress. Glass trade beads to replace the traditional ornamentation by quills must have been scandalous to some. The use of the horse, even, must have met opposition. His father had once told him that maybe the warrior societies had been formed over such a disagreement. It was true that the paintings on the Story Skins showed the Bowstring Society always on foot.

  Singing Wolf did not believe, however, that the poch was a punishment. He was not certain what it was, but doubted that theory. He intended to continue the use of the thunderstick. He could find no real taboo that had been broken by the People. That would be understandable.

  The poch was more like an evil spirit that the People had encountered accidentally. It was apparent that it jumped from one to another. And, as the trader had told him, separating the healthy from the sick seemed to be the only way to stop its spread. But for how long, he was unsure. How careful must they be? He felt that he must talk to his brother. They had spoken a few words from a distance, but had had no closer contact. Now there were decisions to be made.

  Wolf walked toward the distant lodge of Beaver Track, and stopped about a bow shot away.

  Ah-koh!” he shouted. “Beaver, I would talk with you!”

  In a moment his brother emerged from the lodge and came a few steps toward him. Beaver T
rack held a spear.

  “There is trouble?” he called.

  “No, no. Come here. We must talk.”

  Beaver Track approached cautiously. “Is it safe?” he asked.

  “I am made to think so. Let us talk of that. Sit.”

  The two men sat down, a few paces apart. It was hard to overcome the fear that had been instilled by this summer of death.

  “What is it?” asked Beaver Track. He was inclined to follow the advice of his brother in matters of this sort. A holy man must have an understanding of such things.

  “I am made to think,” Wolf began, “that sometime we must rejoin the band. The problem is, when?”

  “How will we know?” asked Beaver.

  “That I cannot tell. But see if what I say sounds like truth.”

  Beaver nodded.

  “You have no sickness in your lodge?” Wolf asked.

  “No. None at any time. And yours?”

  “That is true. Now, Beaver, think on this: the poch jumps from one to another. If two people, or six, or ten get close to each other, it jumps more easily, no?”

  “Yes, maybe …”

  “Now, if nobody has it, as in our two lodges, it cannot jump.”

  Beaver Track was cautious. “Maybe. But what about No Tail Squirrel? He was not even close to anyone with the poch.”

  “True. But the horse blanket … It had been used by someone who did. Squirrel sickened only a little while after he found the horse.”

  “That is true. How long can the poch-spirit lie in wait?”

  “Ah, that we do not know. But there must be a time when it has to leave, or it would kill everyone.”

  “It did, in that Camp of Death, Wolf!”

  “No, not everyone. Some left, remember?”

  “Yes, that is so. Did the traders tell you anything of this … How long, I mean?”

  “No. I should have asked, but I did not know, Beaver. I am made to feel, though, that the poch passes through and is gone. Of this, I remember: the trader said that one who has it and lives is then safe.”