Child of the Dead (11 page)

Now came the confusing part. The stories were different. Bobcat …
Do you know how he lost his tail?
the grandmother had asked. Yes, Mouse knew and loved that story. Bobcat had had a long tail at Creation. He had lost it when he stood motionless, watching Rabbit, with the long tail hanging down in a pool of water. A sudden shift in the weather had frozen the pool, and when Bobcat pulled away, his tail, frozen in the ice, broke off short. This is why even now, the bobcat’s tail is short and he does not like water.

It was with great surprise, then, that Gray Mouse heard a quite different story. The new grandmother had said that Bobcat had slipped into a hollow tree to hide from a hunter. But his long tail
(that
was the same) … his tail stuck out through a knothole, and the hunter had chopped it off to decorate his bow case.

This was quite puzzling.
Which story is right?
thought the girl. She was sure that her own version, that of her parents, must be the correct one. She was almost indignant that anyone who did not even know how it
really
happened would try to tell the stories. But she had been too sick to care, really. The important part had been that she had been held, rocked, and comforted. So she decided to say nothing.

Now confusion and worry had fallen on her again. The new grandmother was sick. There was a feeling of panic …
What if she leaves me, too?

Gray Mouse had decided to be as helpful as she could, so that maybe the grandmother would not leave as everyone else had done. The reassurance that she had tried to give, that “I will take care of you,” had been a desperate attempt to hold the sick woman, to induce her to stay.

For the next few days, Gray Mouse tried to do all she could. She brought food and water, though sometimes the grandmother was too weak and feverish to eat. At those times Gray Mouse would bathe the hot face and hands, and would sing to the sick woman. That had been a comfort to the girl when she was the sick one, so maybe it would help. Even so, the grandmother spent much time in crying.

Gray Mouse herself ate, slept, and played with Yellow Dog sometimes when Grandmother slept. Day followed day …

For Running Deer, it was a terrible time. She was feverish, weak, and probably dying. Over and over, she relived her life, and every event that she wished she had handled differently. It was a sort of desperate sadness, a regret for a life that had gone nowhere, and was now to end in even further tragedy. She told herself that at least she should try to teach the little girl some things that might help her to survive a little longer. But she could not seem to summon enough energy to do so.

She was repelled by the sores that erupted on her body, as well as by the pain and itching that never seemed to subside. Finally, she was burning with fever, hallucinating, talking with people who were not there.

Much later, she realized that she had been confusing her own child, dead these many seasons, with the pitiful child who had been abandoned. One became the other as she drifted in and out of consciousness, and they became inseparable.

“Thank you, Little Bird,” she said, as she sipped cool water from the gourd that the child had brought.

“What, Grandmother? What did you say?” the girl asked in hand signs.

Why does she sign, instead of talking?
Running Deer wondered. “Bird, what is it?” she snapped irritably. “Talk, do not sign! I am too tired to play games!”

Bewildered, Gray Mouse retreated. She had not been able to understand a word of the outburst. What had she done to anger the grandmother? She crept away, tears welling up.

Out of sight, she buried her face in the thick fur of Yellow Dog’s neck and cried softly to herself.

Several more days passed. They were unpleasant days for both of them, the frightened, confused child and the sick, demented old woman.

Afterward, Running Deer remembered very little of it. At the time, her illness was so severe that she saw things and people who were not there. They were so real that she talked to them, and sometimes they answered. Well, the dog never answered. At least she thought not. It did lick her hand sometimes, and her face.

And there was the child.
Her
lost child, Little Bird. Bird was there much of the time. She brought water, and food which Running Deer was unable to eat. And she talked, that one. Yet that was even more frustrating. When Little Bird spoke aloud, she spoke in words that were completely without meaning. Running Deer was puzzled at this. In her more lucid moments when her tormented mind tried to reason, it seemed to her that it must be the language of the dead. Little Bird had crossed over long ago, and must be here to welcome her mother to the Other Side. And, since this tongue that the girl was speaking was unknown to Deer, it must be that which is spoken there, by those who had crossed over.

Strange … she had never thought of it … What language
is
spoken on the Other Side? Will it be all one, used by all humans and animals, as it once was long ago?

It angered Deer, though. Little Bird, though she appeared to be trying to comfort her mother, persisted in speaking that tongue.

“Have I not taught you better?” Deer flared at her once. “Why do you speak in words that I cannot understand?”

The girl shrank away, frightened at the tirade, and
Running Deer was almost sorry for her outburst. Almost, but not quite. She drifted away in confusion again, and roused to find the girl using hand signs.
Has she forgotten her own tongue?
Deer thought irritably.

One thing really bothered her about the hand signs, too. Granted, the signs vary a little from one tribe to another, but they, above all, must be understood by all. Would hand signs, then, be different on the Other Side? There would seem to be no purpose if they were all different. And it would seem that there should be no need for hand signs there, if everyone spoke the same tongue …
Aiee!
It was too much for her fevered brain.

The hand signs, though, used by Little Bird …
What was I thinking? Oh, yes
… Why did her daughter persist in using the sign for
grandmother?
Several times Deer tried to correct the child.
Mother, not Grandmother!
she signed. But the child’s eyes would fill with tears, and she would shake her head, and Running Deer was too weak to argue. It was no matter anyway. Soon she would cross over.
Or finish crossing
… She thought she was probably partway over already. Was her daughter not here? When she finished crossing, she would understand the language of those who had already crossed. Then she could
demand
an explanation for this insulting treatment.

She wondered if she would understand the new language instantly, or would she be required to learn it? Surely, she would not be submitted to that indignity.
But who knows?

She slept again, and wild and frightening dreams raced through her head. Nothing was clear … there were fragmented pictures of abandoned lodges and empty landscape and then she would come upon piles of rotting corpses and flies everywhere, and the smell of death …

Running Deer woke, and it was early morning, not yet full daylight. She looked around, trying to remember. Yes, her little camp … this lean-to … but why …
oh, yes, the girl. And I was sick, so sick!

Almost at the same instant she realized that her fever was gone. She started to rise, and fell back.
Aiee!
She could hardly hold up her head.
Ah! I have crossed
over
, she thought, and immediately knew that it was not true. On the Other Side, there would not be the pain and stiffness that she felt in every part of her body.
Would there?
She thought not. But the girl …
What girl?

She realized that she was having trouble sorting out what had been real and what was part of her fever-dream. She had seen the Other Side … or had she?
Wait, now
…
My daughter
…
Yes, Bird was there! She brought water!

There was a movement beyond the fire, and a large yellow dog raised his head.
Yes, the dog!
But had it been here, or on the Other Side? The dog wagged his tail, and in the poor light Deer saw that curled next to him was Little Bird, who was slowly awakening.

But what is she doing here? I have come back, but she had to stay, surely!

Then the truth struck her.
This is not Bird! It never was
… Yes, the dying child … not dying now … the
poch
…

She cared for me
, Deer realized.
All the time I was so sick. I did not know. I thought it was Little Bird!

As her memory came rushing back, she realized that she had spoken harshly. She had argued and sometimes yelled at the child in her fevered delirium.
Aiee, the poor thing
…

Running Deer managed to sit up, and the little girl, rubbing her eyes sleepily, came toward her. Deer spread her arms and then spoke, with both words and signs.

“Come to me, little one!”

Gray Mouse smiled and rushed into the embrace, tears of joy now flowing.

“You have come back to me,” she signed. “It is good.”

And now both were laughing and crying, all at the same time.

I
t was a long time before Running Deer completely regained her strength. There were times when she thought that she would never completely recover. She would waken in the morning and look at the dawning day and marvel at everything that had happened since the Sun Dance.

And I am still alive!
she would say to herself.
And so is the child!

She took no credit for it, though perhaps she should have. Sometimes there is nothing left but sheer will and determination. These qualities she had never lacked, although her family would probably have called them stubbornness.

But now the crisis was past. The black scabbed places on her face and body were drying rapidly. Already some of the smaller scabs had dried and fallen away. The others were itching, and it required much attention not to rub or scratch them, especially as she slept.

The lesions on the skin of Gray Mouse had already finished their cycle and the scabs were gone. Left behind were the scars, bright pink against the pale golden brown of the girl’s delicate skin. Running Deer supposed that the bright scars would fade, in time, to the color of the normal skin. At least, it would be so with any other scar.

It was too bad, the scars on the pretty young face.
Yet as she studied the girl’s appearance, Deer decided that it would not be too bad. One large
poch
in the center of the forehead, just above the eyebrows. A smaller one in front of the left ear, and two or three around the neck and shoulders. Some of those, even, would not be visible under normal circumstances.

Young Gray Mouse was completely unaware of her own appearance. She did seem to enjoy having the older woman comb and plait her hair after they would bathe at the stream and cleanse their hair with yucca suds. Occasionally the girl would seem troubled that the plait was “not good.” It took a little while for Running Deer to realize that her meaning was “not right, not correct.”

Of course … The way one’s hair is worn is important. It denotes
belonging
. Running Deer had taken little note of how Mouse’s people might have dressed their hair. The contact had been much too intense. With a start, Deer realized that she had never seen any of the girl’s nation
alive
, except for Mouse herself.

Anyway
, she told herself fiercely,
she is mine now, one of the People. She will do her hair as a woman of the People
.

That led to other thoughts of the People, and what was to be done now. It was still something of a surprise that they had
survived
, both of them. She had made no plans that included that possibility. Now what? It was apparent that they must rejoin the People, but summer was passing quickly. It must now be the Red Moon, with its withering heat. Not a bad season, though … There had been occasional showers which washed the prairie clean and cooled the air. Nights were always cool.

Running Deer studied the scattered flowers among the tall grasses. Yes, the right flower-heads of the yellow sun-seekers were blooming, and there were purple spikes of feathery appearance. Very nearly the Moon of Hunting. Or of Gathering, she had heard some of the Grower people call it. Yes, now she realized that the real-grass was already pushing up its bluish seed stalks. In a matter of days, they would be as tall as a man, with the three-toed seed head, like the foot of a turkey. Their allies the Head Splitters used that name for it … “turkey-foot grass.”

Deer had always loved this time of the year. The several other grasses, each with its own character … The sights and sounds and smells of the coming autumn … The excitement of migrating geese in long lines across the sky … Migrating buffalo … She wondered if the fall hunt would be good for the People.

She was thinking of these things for good reason. Would it be possible for the two of them to rejoin the band in winter camp? And where was it to be? She should have listened to her son Beaver. He had tried to tell her, but she had been angry, and cut him short.