It Dreams in Me (8 page)

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Authors: Kathleen O'Neal Gear

BOOK: It Dreams in Me
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IN THE DREAM, I WEEP … .
I wrap the cleaned bones of my stillborn child in a blanket and carry them up the steep trail to the top of the Red Hill, where a ladder leans against the ramada. It’s awkward, carrying the baby while climbing the ladder to the roof, but I make it, and step out onto the thatch. A scatter of bones already covers the roof. No one allows the bones of animals to touch the ground. Instead, they place them on their roofs where the souls of the animals can keep watch for their new bodies. If animals are killed correctly, with reverence, death is only a temporary thing. Within a few days, Skyholder, the Creator, will send a new body and the soul will rise up from the bones and resume its life.
Humans are born with animal souls. A human soul does not come into the body until a child has seen four or five winters.
I hug the bundle and rock back and forth, begging Skyholder to give me the strength to let this baby go. I know he must be able to watch for his new body, but …
Bones clack together as I clutch the baby hard against my breast.
When I start to unfold the blanket, a strange numbing palsy possesses my hands. My fingers won’t grasp the fabric.
“Flint?” I call, but no one answers.
He ran away right after the birth, leaving me alone, but I know he’s coming back to help me care for the bones. Where is he?
I kneel and place each bone on the roof amid the others. He was so small. His bones resemble tiny white twigs.
I try to rise, to go, but my legs won’t work. I can’t straighten up. Gasping and struggling, I sob … .
Nearby, dry evergreen needles crunch underfoot and a familiar voice soothes, “Can you hear my voice, Sora? Follow it. It will lead you back to Sassafras Lake. I’m here waiting for you. Come back. Everything is all right. Dawn Girl’s blue hem is trailing across the forests. Flint is cooking a goose for breakfast.”
A hand strokes my hair, and I feel my shadow-soul seep back into my heavy body. The delicious scent of roasted meat taunts my nostrils … .
 
 
 
SHE OPENED HER EYES AND FOUND STRONGHEART KNEELING at her bedside. The yellow starbursts on his buckskin cape looked tan in the light.
“Where was your shadow-soul walking, Chieftess?”
She searched the lodge’s dark interior. Streaks of dawn light fell through the gaps in the roof and slanted across her blankets. “On the Red Hill.”
“Again?”
She nodded. “I was placing the bones on the roof of the ramada.”
Strongheart sank down beside her, and through the door, she could see Flint’s distinct silhouette crouched before a goose that had been skewered on a stick and propped near the
flames. As he turned it so the other side would cook, hot fat dripped onto the fire and filled the air with a wonderful aroma.
“Was Flint there this time?” Strongheart asked.
“No. But he wasn’t there in reality either; why do you think he’d suddenly appear in my dreams?”
Strongheart just smiled and studied the movements of her hands on her blanket. She looked down. She hadn’t realized that her thumbs were tapping out an irregular staccato. “What happened after you placed the bones on the roof?”
“I walked home.”
“Was Flint there when you arrived?”
“No. He stayed gone for several days.”
She had never been the same. For moons afterward, she’d heard that little boy calling to her. She had prayed constantly that a pregnant woman would walk past the Red Hill and her little boy’s soul would slip into the woman’s womb and find a new body waiting for him. To this day, not a single night went by that she didn’t feel her son searching for her in her dreams.
Wink’s voice penetrated her memories:
Oh, Sora, all women worry about the souls of children they’ve lost. Don’t think you’re going to get over it. You won’t. Not ever.
“Did you forgive Flint for leaving you alone?” Strongheart asked.
“Of course I did. I was always the stronger of the two of us. He just couldn’t stand it.”
She looked past Strongheart to Flint, and found him staring straight into her eyes. Her souls ached for him. He had never had the strength to face anything truly difficult. She had always been his shield against the world.
Strongheart touched her hand where it lay on the blanket. “Sora, do you know the story of the three brothers and the pitying wives?”
She blinked and looked back at him. “No. I don’t think so.”
“It’s a very popular story among my people.” He pulled his hand away, as though to withdraw the comfort he’d been giving. “Three brothers all married within a moon of each other. Both their father and their grandfather had been adulterers, so the brothers saw nothing wrong with it. The first time the eldest brother came home smelling of another woman, his wife told him if it ever happened again, she would divorce him. She was the only one to save her husband from his destructive family. The other wives blamed themselves and so pitied their husbands that they coddled them like overprotective mothers, and pleaded with them to stay home. One brother was run over by a herd of buffalo on the way to a married woman’s house. The last brother died when he was lanced through the heart by the enraged father of a little girl.”
Sora stared at him. “Are you saying that I am like the two pitying wives?”
“I’m saying that it is the duty of every adult woman to rid herself of the sort of pity that contributes to the destruction of the man she loves.”
For an instant, she did not know what to say. His voice had no anger in it, no reproach; it was just a realistic statement about life.
When, after several heartbeats, she hadn’t answered, he added, “The wrong kind of pity frees the evil Spirits that lurk inside human beings, Sora. It can be very dangerous.”
He rose and ducked out of the old lodge.
Flint called, “Is she all right?”
“Yes,” Strongheart answered. “She’s awake. How’s the goose coming?”
“Almost ready.”
Sora sat up and reached for her sky blue dress. When the wind blew, the scents of moldering wood and damp vines seeped from the old lodge like a pall. Every time she inhaled,
she had the urge to cough. She slipped her dress over her head, laced on her sandals, and combed her hair before ducking outside into the cool morning.
Birds crowded the trees around the lake, hopping from branch to branch, uttering a cacophony of chirps and caws. The pearlescent glow of sunrise reflecting off the water flickered in the veils of hanging moss near the shore.
She walked out into the deep forest shadows to empty her night water.
As she walked back, she felt unusually tired. She always did after the Red Hill dream. It was as though, even now, trying to care for her baby’s bones alone took all of her strength.
Flint and Strongheart stood around the fire, talking quietly. Against the predawn gleam of the lake, their bodies resembled tall dark pillars.
“Would you like a cup of tea?” Strongheart asked. “It’s made from dried pitch apples.”
“Where did you find dried pitch apples?”
“In a sealed pot in Juggler’s old house.” He dipped up a cupful and handed it to her.
The sweet tangy fragrance of apples rose with the steam.
Flint reached out to pet her hair. “What was your bad dream about?”
“I—I don’t recall,” she answered with a shrug. “I rarely recall the dreams that wake me.”
She had never told him about her recurring Red Hill dream. He would take it as an accusation, and she couldn’t bear to see that hateful expression on his handsome face.
Flint said, “Did you tell Strongheart about it?” and threw a quick, resentful glance at the priest.
“Flint, if I don’t remember it how could I tell Strongheart or anyone else?”
Flint’s icy stare riveted on Strongheart, but Strongheart just sipped his cup of tea, meeting Flint’s gaze with equanimity.
As though to demonstrate he’d heard part of the conversation, Flint said, “What was that lecture you were giving on pity, Strongheart?”
Strongheart knelt before the tea pot to refill his cup. “I was telling the chieftess that shielding another’s weaknesses is good, except when it encourages them to destroy themselves.”
“Shielding another’s weaknesses,” Flint said with mock thoughtfulness. “Like I did for you, Sora?”
He was trying to pick a fight. Perhaps he’d heard her say that she’d always been the stronger of the two of them. How much more had he heard? Her Red Hill dream? A shiver ran across her shoulders.
“Yes,” she answered straightforwardly. And to change the subject, she asked, “That goose smells delicious. Who shot it?”
Flint’s mouth pressed into a tight line. He knew what she was doing. He gestured to Strongheart. “The priest netted it.”
Sora’s brows lifted in admiration. “Netting a goose is a feat of magic.”
“Not really,” he said. “I used to live here. I know every place on the lake where they sleep. It’s a simple matter to drop a net over one or two if you’re a fair hunter.”
As Mother Sun neared waking, a pink bubble of light swelled on the eastern horizon and turned the bellies of the drifting Cloud People a rose color.
Sullenly, Flint said, “If Strongheart is right that the wrong kind of pity looses the evil Spirits that live inside a person, perhaps that’s where the Midnight Fox came from.” When Sora visibly lost color, Flint continued, “My pity for you.”
“Did you pity her?” Strongheart inquired.
“Of course I did. She was a lonely little girl, a goddess descended
directly from our legendary hero Black Falcon. The entire nation expected glorious things from her. No one could have lived up to those expectations.”
“Is that why you married her? You felt sorry for her?”
Flint folded his arms across his chest. “No, Priest. I loved her. I still love her.”
Sora longed to run to him, to comfort him, as she had always done when he told her he loved her, but this time, she didn’t move. The story of the pitying wives made her wonder
why
she longed to do that.
The realization was like a club swung into her belly.
Blessed gods, I pity him for loving me
.
Flint, clearly upset that she hadn’t responded as he’d expected her to, tossed the dregs of his tea into the fire and stalked away.
Strongheart said, “We should eat before the goose overcooks and dries out.”
Faintly, she heard herself say, “Yes.”
While Strongheart cut up the goose and placed the meat into bowls, her eyes followed Flint up the trail and out into the forest. “He seems to walk away in anger a good deal of late.”
Strongheart handed her a bowl of steaming goose, and extended a hand. “Let’s go over to that fallen log and sit down while we eat.”
They carried their bowls and tea cups to the log. When they were sitting with their bowls in their laps looking out over the water, he asked, “Are you all right?”
“I just … I realized something for the first time.”
Strongheart took a bite of his goose, chewed, and swallowed before softly saying, “Do you want to tell me about it?”
She shook her head, as if to deny her own revelation. “I have always pitied Flint for loving me. That’s why every time
he’s ever told me he loves me I’ve felt the urge to run into his arms to pet and comfort him.”
Strongheart looked at her from the corner of his eye. “That’s not unusual. Most women do that.”
She jerked around to stare at him. “Why?”
“It’s complicated to explain.”
As she tore off a piece of meat with her teeth, she said, “Try.”
He wiped his greasy mouth on his sleeve. “It happens because women have male shadow-souls.”

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