People of the Earth (16 page)

 
          
 
"They've never understood . . . Power
brought me here . . . you 're the important one. Power wants you. You 're the
one to save hen to bring her back. " Warm Fire's strange words buzzed like
summer flies around blood. "Promise . . . promise . . ."

 
          
 
"But, Warm Fire," Bad Belly
whispered into the chill darkness, "I can't leave this place. This is my
home."

 
          
 
With finality, he shook his head to clear it
and turned his steps toward Warm Fire's grave. He knew where to find Tuber.

 
          
 
White Ash bore the weight of her foster
mother's body on one shoulder as she climbed the rocky slope. Footing in the
snow was treacherous and slippery. The icy wind and stinging flakes of snow
blowing down from above didn't help matters any. It was a miserable, blustery
day in which to attend to a terrible task.

 
          
 
Grasshopper—the wife of Bobcat—and tall, thin
Rock Mouse helped carry the load. They had wrapped Bright Moon's body in the
camp's finest tanned elk hide, smoked to a deep sienna color. The aroma of the
smoke lingered in

           
 
White Ash's nostrils. Bright designs had been
carefully dyed into the leather to make a fitting shroud.

 
          
 
Why did the dead always seem to weigh so much
more than when the person was alive? Did the corpse grow heavier once the
buoyancy of the soul fled, or did it only feel that way to the somber person
who bore the weight: a reminder of inevitable mortality?

 
          
 
Despite the cruel weather, Bright Moon had to
be attended to lest her soul feel slighted and take anger. If only Sage Ghost
could have come. If only . . . What silly words, full of hope, and so
meaningless.

 
          
 
Flying shreds of clouds, dark-gray and white,
continued to streak out of the snow-encrusted peaks high in the
Red
Rock
Mountains
to the west. They passed low overhead and
as if pursued by foul demons, raced for the far-off
Grass
Meadow
Mountains
on the ragged eastern horizon. Flakes of
snow twirled about like tiny wraiths. The frigid wind bit into White Ash's
cheeks and sought every flap of clothing with fingers of ice. Sagebrush, its
branches like claws seeking to hamper her progress, scraped along the sides of
her moccasins.

 
          
 
Her lungs labored under the effort of the
climb, but the dead had to be taken to a high place so that the soul could rise
to the wind and the sun. Once the soul was aloft,
Thun-derbird
would find it and carry it to the Camp of the Dead, high above. Old friends who
had gone before would welcome Bright Moon to their fires. She would spend all
of time laughing, joking, and telling the old stories.

 
          
 
White Ash believed it was so. How odd that her
native Earth People placed their dead in a womb of soil to replenish what
they'd taken in life. To the White Clay, the idea reeked of horror. The soul
would remain locked in darkness, imprisoned by the dirt around it. What more
wretched fate could be imagined than to have your soul trapped forever, unable
to move, weighted down by black earth and rock?

 
          
 
She sniffled and wiped at her nose. Which was
right? How could the Earth People—who lived in one place—leave their dead
around on the ridge tops? What a terrible thing it would be to walk by every so
often and watch the progressive rot and dismemberment of a loved one. The White
Clay, on the other hand, left their dead and moved on. If they returned to the
place, it would be after the ravens, coyotes, and buzzards had picked the bones
clean.

 
          
 
As White Ash cleared the crest of the ridge,
the wind caught her full in the face. Snow stung her exposed skin. She hunched
over, stepping forward with determination.

 
          
 
''Hope Bright Moon doesn't mind cold,"
Grasshopper grunted.

 
          
 
"The soul doesn't feel cold," White
Ash responded automatically, remembering the drifting sensation of the Dream.

 
          
 
"And you know that?"

 
          
 
White Ash smiled, the memory sweet in her
mind. "Yes. I felt her go. I felt the passing of her soul. It's
wonderful."

 
          
 
"Uh-huh."

 
          
 
White Ash winced at the skepticism. Well, by
now they should have begun to accept that she was different. "I Dreamed
it."

 
          
 
No response came. They lowered Bright Moon's
body and placed it so she faced the western horizon and the setting sun. Wind
tugged at the colorful elk-hide wrapping and flung the dead woman's braids
about in macabre merriment. A fine dusting of snow—pushed by the relentless
gusts—began to drift around the body.

 
          
 
Old Flying Squirrel puffed as she topped the
ridge behind them; her eyes
slitted
against the wind
and frosty breath ripped away as she exhaled. The rest of the women and
children from the camp followed in the old woman's steps. One by one they
formed a circle around Bright Moon's body.

 
          
 
Flying Squirrel went to stand behind the
corpse, raising her hands to the sullen skies. Her voice cried out, wavering,
"Bless this soul to the skies and the sun and the stars. Bright Moon, go
forth, and remember your people, who loved you. Thank you for the happiness you
brought into our lives. Unlike your bones that will crumble and blow away,
you'll live forever in our memories. Go forth now. Take our good wishes to our
ancestors and to the loved ones who've gone before you."

           
 
The wind battered the mourners as flits of
snow rattled softly across the wind-polished cobbles of the ridge top.

 
          
 
"We'll miss your smile. Miss your
friendly joking. You brought us joy. Go with our Blessing, Bright Moon. Go with
our prayers."

 
          
 
White Ash blinked against the tears, unsure if
they'd been spawned by the gaping hole in her soul or by the icy lances of
wind. She's dead. I’ll never hear her voice again. Never feel the warmth of her
touch. White Ash staggered, as if her balance had failed. The gaping hole
expanded, seeking to envelop her, to suck her away into the gale. Only the
lingering traces of the Dream remained for her to cling to.

 
          
 
One by one, shivering, teeth chattering, the
others added their eulogies, praising the woman Bright Moon had been in life,
asking her soul to remember them to the Spirits as they would remember her to
the beings of this world. Finally the last had spoken.

 
          
 
"You wish to add anything?" Flying
Squirrel asked kindly, placing a
mittened
hand on
White Ash's shoulder.

 
          
 
"She became my mother. She loved me. I'll
miss her forever." A knot had formed in the muscles under her tongue.

 
          
 
"Come then. We've done our best for
her."

 
          
 
White Ash barely felt Flying Squirrel's hand
lead her away from that brightly colored form on the ground. She stumbled down
the trail in a daze, hardly aware of stepping over gnarled sagebrush or the
angular feel of the snow-shrouded rocks under her feet.

 
          
 
She walked wearily through camp, vaguely
noting the lodges, all of them snow-caked along the seams and in places where
the roofs sagged. The supporting poles stuck bleakly from the smoke holes,
their ends soot-blackened and stark against the gray sky.

 
          
 
Flying Squirrel kept a hold on White Ash's
elbow, leading her past Sage Ghost's lodge and on to the one the old woman
shared with Whistling Hare. White Ash ducked through the door flap and seated
herself on the robes Flying Squirrel indicated.

 
          
 
She rubbed her hands and brushed the snow from
the folds of her coat. Flying Squirrel kept a tidy lodge. Gaily painted
parfleches
lined the perimeter and gave a person something
to lean against. Hide-wrapped bundles had been tied to the soot-stained lodge
poles overhead. Several rolls of bedding had been stowed to the rear.

 
          
 
"I thought maybe you'd want to talk, that
maybe you wouldn't want to be alone."

 
          
 
White Ash nodded, lost in the void within.
"Up on the ridge, it all became real. That she's gone from this world, I
mean. What will Sage Ghost do? He loved her so much. It'll kill him."

 
          
 
Flying Squirrel sighed, poking around in the
central
firepit
to stir up the coals. She dropped
some sagebrush and juniper lengths and bent down to blow the embers to flame,
one hand keeping her silver-gray braids clear.

 
          
 
"Well, he'll live or die of it. I don't
know, I've seen people I thought were made of rock crack and crumble when the
person they loved finally died. Others, whom I thought would throw themselves
off a cliff rather than let go of a gone soul, have blossomed like a sagebrush
buttercup in the snow. For the moment, I'm not worried about Sage Ghost."
Flying Squirrel pinned her with concerned eyes.

 
          
 
White Ash wiped her nose, staring dully into
the fire. She felt adrift, lost somewhere in the crushing emptiness that
pressed around her. "I'm all right. I was there. I felt her go. I'll
always remember that. Maybe . . . maybe it was the final gift she gave
me."

 
          
 
Flying Squirrel poured stew into a bison-horn
bowl. "I always thought you and Bright Moon were closer than if you'd been
born her daughter. She loved you with all her heart."

 
          
 
White Ash smiled wistfully. "Maybe Spirit
Power bound us."

 
          
 
"You kept her alive all these years. You
know that, don't you? You were her reason for living. She was like that. All
that mattered to her were children. When her own died, well, that's when Sage
Ghost had that Spirit Dream." Keen black eyes probed hers. "Maybe
it's been Power between you all along."

 
          
 
White Ash shot her a quick look.

 
          
 
"Tell me about the Dreams, girl. Tell me
what happens."

           
 
White Ash lifted a shoulder. "I see
strange things. Sometimes a man walks out of a burning forest and turns into a
wolf. Or animals come and talk to me about secrets, like what people really
mean when they do something ... say something. Sometimes a big black wolf comes
in my Dreams and warns me."

 
          
 
“About what?" Flying Squirrel pulled at
her chin, tugging the deep wrinkles in her copper skin into different patterns.
She watched White Ash through narrowed eyes.

 
          
 
"Oh, for example, not to eat this or
that, or maybe to tell me that I should go up on a high place and sleep. The
Dreams usually come better up there. And once Sage Ghost had a sore throat and
I Dreamed that if I used chokecherry tea, it would go away. I gave him some,
and it did. Then, last year, we were starving in the hills this side of the
Gray
Deer
River
, remember? Remember when Sage Ghost went
out and killed those antelope? I Dreamed where he should go."