Child of the Dead (2 page)

It had seemed to her that every attempt to comfort her made her feel worse. Her friends told her how proud she should be. Her sons and their wives had always seen that she lacked for nothing. Even now, they were folding and rolling the cover of her modest lodge, preparing to travel. That made her feel old and helpless, too. Both of her sons’ wives had asked her to live in their lodges, but she had refused. Partly, she hated to give up her independence. Partly, she was afraid that her occasional nighttime crying would be discovered. So, they helped her constantly, and the situation did not improve.

One thing had infuriated her, a short while after her husband’s death. Someone had come to her lodge, knowing that her husband was dead, but seeking the power of his medicine.

“But did he not leave you his gift?” the man asked.

True, that sometimes happened. The gift of the healing spirits might be bestowed on the wife of a dying holy man. It could be accepted, and even gained strength sometimes through the use by a capable woman. Many wives, including Deer, were assistants to their husbands, and could easily repeat the rituals and chants. She could also refuse it, of course, and it would disappear.

To Running Deer, there had been no choice. To her, the thought of taking over his gift would have been to dishonor his memory. True, the widow of an owl prophet of the Northern band had done it quite successfully, but Deer could not. She had chased the erstwhile client from her lodge with a stick. He had retreated in astonishment, to tell everyone he knew about the strange behavior of the widow of Walks in the Sun.

Soon people began to avoid her. Her friends disappeared. Now, she knew, she was regarded as an unpleasant, crotchety old woman. She did not care, or at least pretended not to care. She knew that even her own grandchildren feared her a little. That was just as well. She was left in the solitude of her memories, little realizing
that those memories which she called up were the
wrong
ones. She wallowed in pity for her loss, and in bitterness for the injustice of it all. She aged rapidly, and her former friends whispered of it.

It had been several years now, and her moods were no better. Worse, usually. She had gotten a mild lift from the Sun Dance, but the corresponding depression today, the day after, was worse than ever. If she could only cross over, be with her husband again … How could she accomplish it? She had thought many times of taking her life. Probably the only thing that had prevented it was the thought of her husband. It must be done in a way that would bring honor to his memory.

She had heard a story at this Sun Dance that would bear some consideration. An aging warrior of the Northern band had done it. During a late storm in the Moon of Hunger, food had become scarce. There was a very real danger that some would starve. This old fighter had tottered out into the teeth of the blizzard, stripped for battle and singing the challenge of the Death Song, as one would when facing an enemy in battle:

He had been facing an enemy, the dreaded Cold Maker, spirit of all the dreadful chill which the People always expected in the moons of winter. In doing so, he may have saved the lives of some of the children.

Now, that sort of thing she could do. It would solve her own problems and bring further honor to her husband. Yes … she would say nothing, but treasure this idea in her mind. There would come a time when she would do it. Probably not until winter, for there would be no chance. Maybe not even this winter, but the chance would come, sometime. Then she would carry it off with defiance, with
honor
. Her former friends would be sorry.

“Mother?”

“Yes … yes, Wolf. What is it?”

She had been lost in thought, and had not even heard her son speak.

“I said, will you ride the pole-drag, or …?”

“No!” She interrupted his question. “That is for the old and infirm, or tiny children. No, I will ride … Would you bring my gray mare?”

“Of course, Mother.”

He went toward the horse: herd, and encountered a family friend.

“What is the matter?” asked Bear’s Tooth.

“I do not know … Nothing, maybe. But my mother … Did you notice, this morning? She seems almost happy.”

“
Aiee!
That has been a long time coming!” said Bear’s Tooth.

“Yes. But it is good, no?”

“I hope so …”

Wolf went on to the herd, and caught the mare with little difficulty. He was still surprised that his mother would choose to ride. He swung to the back of the gray … The animal had not been ridden for some time, and it would be good to take off the first skittishness before his mother tried to mount.

He slid to the ground before the nearly abandoned lodge site, and handed the rein to Running Deer.

“Did you think an old woman could not ride a fresh horse?” she chided him gently. “I was riding long before you were born, Wolf.”

He was puzzled. It had been a long time since his mother had teased playfully like this. Not since his father’s death, maybe. Still, he was uneasy. There was something here that he could not quite grasp.

Well, he would think on that later. Maybe, even, talk to his mother at greater length. For now, he must help with the preparation of his own lodge for travel. He joined his wife and began to load the rawhide packs on the pole-drag.

“What is it?” asked Rain

“I am not sure,” he answered slowly. “My mother … She seems almost
happy
.”

“
Aiee!
And this is a thing for worry?” she teased. “It is long in coming, Wolf.”

“That is true,” he agreed. “Well, we will see.”

He could not shake the idea that something was being overlooked here. Something ominous.

T
he sway of the gray mare’s gait was pleasant, rocking her into a relaxed mood. Running Deer could close her eyes, and dreamily pretend that she was a girl again.

She had loved to ride, and had even participated in a few hunts with the young men. She was proud of that. Still, having accomplished it—she had once even made a clean kill, unassisted—she had proved her worth. It had been pleasant to settle down with Walks in the Sun in their own lodge, to raise their family.

Just now, her daydreams carried her back to those times. She was young again, not the bitter old woman she had become. The mare was comfortable to ride. Deer could forget, or at least postpone the thought of how stiff she would be tomorrow. Well, so be it. If she did not feel like riding the mare, or even walking tomorrow, she would ride on the pole-drag behind one of the other horses. Her decision about what she would ultimately do with her life had given her a new outlook. She felt that for the first time in many seasons, she had taken control.

Yes, that was it! She now had few responsibilities. None, actually, because her grown children had seen to her every want. But today, she had the feeling that she had taken back her life. The decision that she would cross over in a grand suicide gesture pleased her. It must be at the proper time, of course, carefully staged. In her
mind’s eye she rehearsed what she would wear, how she would sing the Death Song. As bravely as any warrior ever did as he rode into a hopeless battle.

She must keep her intention secret, of course. Her family must not have the slightest hint that she had such a goal. They would probably try to prevent her from carrying out her plan. No, it would be her secret, hers alone.

In making her decision, she felt that she had now regained control of her life. It was a good feeling. She could now do as she wished, not as others thought she should.
I can do anything I want to
, she thought triumphantly. Hers was the privilege of age, to do as she chose.

Running Deer came very close to smiling as she rode, but was able to stifle the: urge. To let the others see any hint of pleasure in her face would surely give them the idea that something was wrong. No, she must continue to be the bitter old woman that she had become, so that they would not suspect. That should not be difficult.

Dreamily, she drifted into the past. The rocking motion of the horse took her back to her childhood, her earliest memories. Like the other infants of the People, she had been entrusted to the care of a dependable old mare. Deer’s mother, along with the other women, had often been occupied with the tasks of butchering and tanning skins, drying the meat of the buffalo hunts. The older children could help. Tiny infants could ride in the pack boards on their mothers’ backs. The toddlers, however, would only be in the way.

She dimly remembered the strong hands of her father lifting her to the back of one of the horses and tying her in place. It was high, far above the ground, and Deer was proud, as he turned the mare out to graze. The People were horsemen, known for their skills. This too was a matter for pride, but was it any wonder? Most children of the People had learned to ride as she had, almost before they could walk.

“Are you all right, Mother?”

The voice of Singing Wolf brought her back to reality.

“What? Oh, yes, Wolf. I have been on a horse before … Before you were born!” she added tersely.

She could tell that her unused muscles were beginning to tighten, but she would never complain. She did hope that the leaders would not feel it necessary to cover too much distance today. It was apparent that her body would be stiff and sore, though she would not admit it, except to herself.

Actually, she was rather proud of the way in which she was able to ride today. The gray was an old family horse, steady and dependable. Her own grandchildren had been tied to the back of this mare as toddlers, just as she herself had been, on one of the mare’s ancestors.
There is nothing new
, she thought.

An odd idea struck her. She would be stiff and uncomfortable, and could do a considerable amount of complaining about it. This would help her cling firmly to the image that she knew her family expected. In a way, she would have preferred to be considered a kind and gentle old woman, but it was probably too late for that. Everyone now expected her to be sour and bitter. Well, let them. She would see that they were not disappointed. But when the time came, they would be sorry …

Shadows were beginning to lengthen when the word was passed down the column that the scouts had selected a place for night camp. Deer remembered the spot. She had lived in these tallgrass hills, traveling and camping with her people, for some fifty summers. There would now be few camp sites that were not familiar to her.

This one was good. All were good, actually, after a day or a week of travel. But some, better than others, and this was one of the best. Clear, deep pools of cool water were strung along the sparkling creek like beads on a thong. White gravel bars, and plenty of grass for the horse herd.

The “wolf,” the scout who had come back to the columns to report, now wheeled his horse and sprinted away. Bits of dirt and sod flew high in the air behind him.
Showing off
, Deer thought.
He knows that some girl is watching
. A few girls, of course, might be attracted
by such antics. Most would be disgusted at the young man’s pointless demands on the abilities of a good horse. Such useless expenditure of the animal’s strength might someday be regretted. What if he did so and then encountered a life-threatening situation with an exhausted horse? The appreciative giggles of a couple of silly girls would mean little then. Deer consoled herself with the thought that any girl attracted by such stupidity would be no better than that young man deserved. She clucked her tongue in disapproval.

She, Running Deer, would certainly have taught any daughter of hers better than to be impressed by such antics. She and Sun had had a daughter, as she had always wished for one. It had been her firstborn, a beautiful child. Little Bird had been just a toddler when her father went on the disastrous trip south. It was after he returned that illness struck down young Bird, taking her life in the Moon of Long Nights.

Deer had felt that somehow this was a trade. She had prayed so long and hard for her husband’s safe return … That was granted, but in exchange … She wiped a tear away.

It had not been long before she realized that she was pregnant again. She gave birth to Singing Wolf, and then, much later, to Beaver Track. It was not that she was displeased with her sons, for she was very proud of them. Both were well thought of in the band. Well, in the whole nation, actually. Everyone knew the name of Singing Wolf, respected young holy man of the People.

Her other son, Beaver Track, though not quite so visible as Wolf, was known as a skilled tracker and hunter. She was equally proud of him.

Still, a daughter would have been a great comfort to her in these past few years … Another woman to talk to … Her sons’ wives honored her, but it was not the same. By now, Bird would be grown, with her own lodge …

She wiped away another tear, hoping that no one noticed. Maybe if anyone had, they would only think that the wind had blown a bit of dust …

There was a shout from the head of the column, and she raised her eyes. A dark line of green snaked its way across the lighter green of the prairie grasses’ lush
growth. Deer followed the tree line with her eyes, tracing the course of the creek. Now the horses began to quicken their steps, scenting water ahead. She found it necessary to hold the gray mare to a walk. She did not care to subject her aging bones to a trot today. It was probably not the water that made the animals push forward, she realized. They were far from suffering with thirst. Probably the horses merely sensed the end of a day’s travel by the attitude of the people. There were trees ahead, which probably meant a camping place, which meant that the animals would be relieved of their burdens. Naturally, they tried to push on, to achieve that.