Child of the Dead (18 page)

The portion of the herd now being maneuvered by the wolves of the People was probably fewer than two hundred animals. There was no purpose to large numbers, and they would be more difficult to manage. Slow, careful work had separated this smaller herd from the main migration, and moved it toward the lush meadow that would be the scene of the hunt.

It must be admitted that one may as well expect things to go wrong in such a situation. Large numbers of people and animals in interaction produce unpredictable results. Yet this time it was not so. It was as if the powers that supervise such things smiled on the effort.
It has been a hard season for the People
, some higher authority may have decided.
Let them not be faced with starvation, too
.

The animals moved as if directed, and nearly every hunter counted a kill. There was plenty to share with the few who were unsuccessful.

Wolf, hunting with a bow, rode into the hunt and almost immediately found himself approaching a yearling bull from the right side. It was like a dream, placing an arrow just behind the short ribs to range forward into the heart and lungs. He would try for another … a fat cow crossed in front of him and actually turned to present an easy shot. Two kills!

Wolf turned, looking for his brother, to see Beaver’s quarry go down kicking. Other buffalo were falling before the lances and arrows of the hunters. He could see that the hunt was good.

In a short while the herd was gone, thundering out into the open prairie to rejoin the main herd. Wolf
looked around quickly, counting the bodies of buffalo lying scattered across the meadow. Yes … enough. Plenty for each lodge. It would be a winter without hunger.

Wolf rode back to his first kill, the yearling bull, and dismounted to perform the necessary ceremony. Never had the words of the apology been more sincere, as he addressed the lifeless buffalo.

“
We are sorry to kill you, my brother, but upon your flesh our lives depend, as you depend upon the grasses. May your people prosper and be many …
”

He remounted and looked around for Beaver, who was now riding toward him.

“
Aiee
, what a hunt!” Beaver chortled. “Shall we go now?”

Wolf glanced at the sun. It was still high overhead. Why not?

“I want to change horses,” he said.

“I, too.”

They headed back toward the camp, and met the butchering parties heading toward the meadow. Most of the women were leading pack horses. They located Rain and Heron and paused to tell the women their intention.

“It is good,” agreed Rain. “Your pack is ready. How many kills, and where?”

“Two for our lodge,” Wolf told her. “A yearling bull, there …” he pointed, “a cow beyond.”

Beaver Track was giving Heron similar information. The wives would identify their kills by the painted patterns of ownership on their arrow shafts.

“You might talk to the wife of old Pale Elk,” Wolf suggested. “I did not see him make a kill. Maybe …”

“Of course,” Rain nodded. “We will take care of it, Wolf. Now go!”

He dismounted for a quick embrace, spoke to the children, and stepped back to his horse.

“Dark Antelope,” he addressed his son, “you are the man of the lodge. But do what your mother says.”

The boy nodded. “It is good, Father.”

The brothers took only a little while at the horse herd. Each had already decided which mount he would use. An entirely different animal would be required for
this long but hurried journey. One would never use a buffalo runner for such a purpose.

Wolf threw the saddle on his roan gelding and drew the girth tight. Beaver Track approached now, leading a rangy dun.

“Not your bay?” asked Wolf.

“No. He is sore-footed.”

Wolf nodded in understanding.

They rode back to the camp, where they picked up their packs and robes, and turned their horses northeast on the back trail. It was just past midday, and they would be far away by the time darkness fell.

It was many days later before the two brothers approached the area they sought. They had pushed their horses and themselves to the limit of endurance. The animals were thin and gaunt, not having had enough time to graze. The men, too, had lost weight and were sore, tired, and irritable.

They had no clear idea of what they might find. The body of their mother? It had been three moons … How long ago would she have fallen ill? They talked very little. Even then, it was mostly short and to the point, relating to camping sites, water, and their dwindling food supply.

Two nights when the moon was nearly full they continued to travel. Much distance was covered, but the toll on the horses was too heavy.

“They need to graze nearly half the time, Wolf,” Beaver Track protested. “If we push them too hard, we will have no horses.”

Wolf nodded. He was embarrassed that he had not realized how hard they had been pushing the animals.

“We will go more slowly,” he agreed.

Eventually, after what seemed an eternity, they sat on their horses, overlooking the scene of the spotted death.

“The Camp of the Dead,” said Beaver Track softly. “
Aiee!”

The place was eerie to look at. It was deathly quiet. Not even a bird or an insect dared to speak in a place so heavy with the presence of spirits crossed over. Many of
the lodge covers had fallen away and lay rotting on the ground. Some of the poles had collapsed, but most were still standing. The wood was turning silvery gray from the sun, wind, and weather, and resembled the bleached ribs of a man who lay outside his tattered lodge. Some of his bones were scattered, but the ribs were mostly intact. A tall seed head of grass grew up directly through what had been his chest not many moons ago. Wolf wondered if there had been anyone to mourn for him.

“Let us look for our mother’s camp,” said Wolf in a voice that did not sound like his own.

The crisp autumn wind sighed through the bare lodge poles.

“It was over here, was it not?” asked Wolf.

“I am made to think so.”

They found the frame of the lean-to, and ashes and bits of charcoal from the fire. Nothing more.

“This is the place, no?” Wolf questioned.

“Yes.”

“She is gone.”

“Yes. But alive or dead? Let me look.” Beaver dismounted and began to circle the area on foot.

Wolf stepped down also and waited, staring at the place where their mother had last stood. The horses grazed eagerly.

Beaver Track returned, a strange look on his face.

“Wolf,” he said. “I am made to think she is alive!”

“You cannot tell, Beaver. Any sign is three moons old!” Wolf snapped irritably.

“I know, but look … There is nothing at her camp here.
Nothing
. Not even a scrap of the hide that we wrapped meat in for her. So she took it, to use.”

“But if she was dying, would she not try to prepare herself?” Wolf asked.

“I thought of that. Maybe she would go to join those on the scaffolds,” he pointed. “But there is no sign of her there. No, Wolf. She was alive … she left here, because she took her things. Her knife, her ax, her robe!”

“Someone else may have come by and taken them.”

“Why?” Beaver demanded. “There were better tools
in the camp below, there. Better robes, too, but think on it, Wolf. No one would take a robe from the dead. No, she is alive.”

“Yes,” agreed Wolf finally. “Or was, when she left here.”

T
hey discussed the situation. Should they start back to the winter camp of the Southern band? What else could be done?

“She must have gone willingly,” Beaver Track observed. “Otherwise, there would be
something
left at her camp.”

“But with whom? And what happened to the child?”

“Yes … we saw nothing of the girl. Our mother may have wrapped the body for burial.”

“Where?” Wolf demanded. “Beaver, she would not place it on one of the scaffolds with others. Maybe she left it in one of the lodges. Or buried it among the rocks.”

“Maybe we should search.”

“No … There is nothing to be done anyway, if we did find the child’s body.”

“That is true.”

“But, back to our mother. We are made to think that she is alive. Or was when she left here. How long since her little camp there has been used?”

Beaver Track shrugged. “That is hard to say, Wolf. It has rained since then. The ashes of the fire …”

“Yes … it has rained … when?”

“Two or three times, the past moon. But maybe it rained where we were, and not here.”

“We cannot tell then,” Wolf mused.

“The ground is dry, though,” Beaver Track noted, touching a crack in the ground. “There has been no rain here for maybe half a moon.”

“Ah! That helps. She left more than half a moon ago, no? And because she chose to leave.”

“It seems so.”

“And she could have been with friends … Head Splitters, maybe. Could she: have been a captive, Beaver?”

The tracker pondered for a little while. “I am made to think no, Wolf. Think on it … No one would carry off an old woman. She has no value as a wife or as a slave. They would kill her or just leave her. There would be no honor in killing an old woman.”

“That is true. Then she left because she wanted to go with them. But with
whom?”

The two men looked at each other for a moment and both came to the same conclusion.

“Alone?” suggested Beaver.

“Maybe. Let us think now. She knew where we would be, on Sycamore River. Would she try to join the band?”

“I am thinking not, Wolf. It is far, for an old woman on foot.”

“And she is stubborn. She would try to winter by herself, Beaver.”

“Yes, I think so. She would head south. Could she do it? Maybe we should go and look for her.”

“I am made to think,” said Wolf, “that it is too late to try. We have to wonder when the first snows will come.”

“That is true. By now, she has found a place to winter, no?”

Singing Wolf nodded. “Unless,” he mused, “she intends to die fighting Cold Maker in the open.”

“But if she planned to do that, Wolf, why would she bother to go anywhere? Why leave here?”

They talked longer, but: kept coming back to the same theory: their mother was alive, and had made plans to winter, either with friends and allies, or alone. And probably, far from here.

There was nothing more to be done. It might be
that they would never know the fate of Running Deer. That possibility was not spoken aloud by either of her sons. To do so might bring it to pass.

Singing Wolf glanced at the sky. In the intensity of their discussion, they had not noticed the approach of a heavy blue-gray cloud bank from the northwest.

“
Aiee!”
exclaimed Wolf. “We must find shelter!” “Let us use the camp of our mother here,” suggested Beaver. “A little repair, some fresh brush on the top, a fire … Then when this storm is past, we must travel hard!”

Running Deer sat under the shelter a few sleeps to the south, and thought on the change in the weather. She had been expecting it, of course, but there is a difference. Such a thing can be expected, but one is never really ready. When the wind turned, and Cold Maker came howling across the hills and scrub oaks, she wondered if she could really survive a winter. She looked at the sleeping girl, and tucked the robe more tightly around her.
Sleep well little Mouse
, she thought.

She drew her own robe around her shoulders more closely. It was not quite dark, but she had seen the storm front and prepared for the worst. There had been a few cold nights, a few mornings with crusted ice around the edges of the stream. Frost had replaced many of the fall colors with its intricate patterns of white, lasting only a short time each morning until the day began to warm.

But this was different. The chilling cold seemed to strike clear through her body, even through the woolly robe around her shoulders. She had felt this coming in her aging bones, a half day ago. As a child she had wondered at the older ones of the People. How did they know of a coming storm? “I feel it in my bones,” her old grandmother had told her. “They tell me the storm is coming.” Deer had thought that remark odd and funny then. She did not understand how her grandmother’s bones could tell her anything.

But now she knew all too well. The bone-deep ache, made worse by remaining too long in one position, was a constant reminder. She shifted a little, trying to draw her left foot into a more comfortable position. No …
that would not do … Maybe she could extend it toward the fire for a little while and warm the ache out of her knees. Both legs … Yes, better …

The fire would soon need more fuel, to reflect into the inside of her little lodge. She would wait a little for now, until her legs needed to be repositioned again. Then she would get up and move around, bring a little more wood within reach.

Gray Mouse stirred in her sleep, and Yellow Dog, curled next to her for mutual warmth, tapped the ground with his tail two or three times. He did not even lift his head. It was good to have the dog, Running Deer thought. Initially, she had thought of the creature as a potential food supply if they were not wintering well. It seemed unlikely that Yellow Dog would serve that purpose now.