Child of the Dead (35 page)

“Grandmother,” signed Mouse, “I would ask you of my people.”

The woman appeared confused, and the daughter spoke to her, apparently explaining Mouse’s inability to speak their language. The woman nodded, and motioned for Mouse to go ahead.

“You were with the band that went south, Grandmother?”

Only now did she notice that the woman’s face was deeply pitted with the tracks of the
poch
. On an impulse, Mouse pushed back her hair to show one of the deeper marks on her own skin. The woman’s expression brightened.

“You were there?” she signed.

“Yes, yes!” Mouse responded eagerly.

“I remember you!” the woman stated. “Yes! Your
husband died too, just before mine. But how is it that you cannot speak, Rabbit Woman?”

Despair swept over Gray Mouse. She had actually found someone who had been there, but whose mind was gone. The woman thought that Mouse was someone else, a friend who may have died. This could tell her nothing. Mouse lifted her pendant.

“Do you know of this?” she signed.

“Yes, yes. Many times. Very pretty. It is good.”

“I am sorry,” the daughter signed. “Some days are better. You were there?”

“Yes,” Mouse signed, tears streaming. “I was too small to remember much. My parents died. Your father?”

“Yes. Nearly the whole band. There are three, maybe four lodges, north of here. You could find them.”

“How far?”

“Two or three sleeps, maybe. But stay tonight. Here, I have stew. Bear …”

Bear meat. To the People, to eat the flesh of the bear, who often walks on two legs, would be close to cannibalism. Mouse knew that their allies, the Head Splitters, hunted bear on occasion, and relished the meat. Now these people, too.

“Thank you,” she signed. “But my almost-brother, here, cannot. His people do not eat bears. And I will honor his customs this time.”

“I understand. You will stay?”

“Yes … Thank you. We will camp by the stream there.”

“It is good,” the young woman signed.

Gray Mouse lay sleepless for a long time. She could hear the slow breathing of Antelope beyond the fire. It was good that he slept, because she could not.

She had not known what to expect, but surely not this. Maybe she had hoped for a relative to welcome back the lost sister with a warm embrace. Instead, there was only a mild curiosity … “Oh, yes,
that
band …”

An owl floated across the star-filled sky.
Be careful
, Kookooskoos, she thought.
You are in danger here. Aiee!
She had known, but had not fully thought this
through. These people not only killed owls, but bears, and ate the flesh.
Do they eat owls, too?
she wondered.

Kookooskoos
, the messenger … Wait … Could the owl that had just soared across overhead have been bringing a message to
her?

As if in answer came the distant cry, the owl’s hollow rendition of his own name. But
what
message?

She stared at the Real-star, and at the Seven Hunters making their nightly circle around it. At least that was the same.

Maybe that thought was the thing that caused her other thoughts to begin to fall into place. Whatever the cause, by the time the first pale yellow smudge could be seen against the eastern horizon, she was certain.

Dark Antelope stirred, and looked across the ashes of their dead fire into her eyes. He smiled.

“Antelope,” she said, “let us go home. Shall we ask Grandmother when we can marry? It is pleasant in the Moon of Falling Leaves, no?”

And it was good …

About the Author

D
on Coldsmith was born in Iola, Kansas, in 1926. He served as a World War II combat medic in the South Pacific and returned to his native state, where he graduated from Baker University in 1949 and received his M.D. from the University of Kansas in 1958. He worked at several jobs before entering medical school: he was YMCA Youth Director, a gunsmith, a taxidermist, and for a short time a Congregational preacher. In addition to his private medical practice, Dr. Coldsmith has been a staff physician at the Health Center of Emporia State University, where he still teaches in the English Department. He discontinued medical pursuits in 1990 to devote more time to his writing. He and his wife of thirty-four years, Edna, operate a small cattle ranch. They have raised five daughters.

Dr. Coldsmith produced the first ten novels in the Spanish Bit Saga in a five-year period; he writes and revises the stories first in his head, then in longhand. From this manuscript the final version is skillfully created by his longtime assistant, Ann Bowman.

Of his decision to create, or re-create, the world of the Plains Indian in the early centuries of European contact, the author says: “There has been very little written about this time period. I wanted also to portray these people as human beings, men and women, rather than
as stereotyped ‘Indians.’ As I have researched the time and place, the indigenous cultures, it’s been a truly inspiring experience for me. I am not attempting to tell anyone else’s story. My only goal is to tell a story and tell it fairly.”