Child of the Dead

Introduction

I
n 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.

D
ON
C
OLDSMITH

Part One

R
unning 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 of 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?