Child of the Dead (15 page)

But it is not so. After the attack and the loss of one or two, the birds scatter and wait. When the fox is gone, they begin to call to each other, and gradually the survivors reassemble.

That was what he intended for the People. What he hoped for, anyway. There had been some effort to set up a plan to keep in touch, but: it did not seem advisable until the threat had passed.

And how long would that take? They had no idea.

He wondered how the others were doing. His own lodge and that of Beaver Track, visible in the distance, were the only ones of which he was sure. The band had left the family of No Tail Squirrel behind, and surely some of those were dead. The next family that had been invaded by the
poch
… There was no way to know. And beyond that, he knew nothing. Were other families involved also? He was certain only of his own and that of his brother. None of either lodge had yet sickened. Might they do so, even yet? It was nearly four moons. Surely it would have happened already.

When the band divided, there had been a loose agreement. Those lodges that had no
poch
would assemble for winter camp on Sycamore River as they had previously decided. Those whose lodges had sickness would stay away.

Now they were soon to be forced into a decision. Should they go to Sycamore River, or try to winter alone, here? When it came down to it, which would be
least
dangerous?

T
here would be some, Singing Wolf was certain, who would feel that all the misfortunes of the People were deserved. Punishment, maybe, for some infraction of that which is expected of humans by the higher powers of the spirit world. It had always been so. Probably the older members of the band would shake their heads and cluck their tongues in disapproval over some action by the younger generation. He was made to feel that one of the objects of their disapproval would be the thunder-stick. It was only in his own generation that the French trade guns had come into use. He himself had possessed one of the first, captured from a young Shaved Head of the woodlands to the east.

He could understand the dread of such a weapon by those unfamiliar with its use. It carried much power, and a great deal of mystery. The mystical black granules which burned with such destructive force were in themselves dark and dirty, and left a stain on the hands and garments of the user. It was inevitable that some disapproved its use.

It would be pointed out that the People had never encountered the
poch
until they began to use the thunderstick. Singing Wolf was not impressed by this logic. If it were valid, nothing new would ever happen. True, there were some of the old women who even now preferred a good flint knife to the modern implement of
metal. Rubbing-sticks to kindle a fire were still used by some, rather than the steel striker which was now common.

Wolf himself was something of an anachronism. He used the striker and flint as a matter of convenience, but also the fire-sticks. For reasons that he could not have explained, he felt better about a ceremonial fire that was kindled with the traditional fire-bow and yucca spindle. His son, if he proved to inherit the gifts and the duties of the holy man, might feel no such pressure. Times change. He was certain that there had been those who opposed any progress. Glass trade beads to replace the traditional ornamentation by quills must have been scandalous to some. The use of the horse, even, must have met opposition. His father had once told him that maybe the warrior societies had been formed over such a disagreement. It was true that the paintings on the Story Skins showed the Bowstring Society always on foot.

Singing Wolf did not believe, however, that the
poch
was a punishment. He was not certain what it was, but doubted that theory. He intended to continue the use of the thunderstick. He could find no real taboo that had been broken by the People. That would be understandable.

The
poch
was more like an evil spirit that the People had encountered accidentally. It was apparent that it jumped from one to another. And, as the trader had told him, separating the healthy from the sick seemed to be the only way to stop its spread. But for how long, he was unsure. How careful must they be? He felt that he must talk to his brother. They had spoken a few words from a distance, but had had no closer contact. Now there were decisions to be made.

Wolf walked toward the distant lodge of Beaver Track, and stopped about a bow shot away.

Ah-koh!”
he shouted. “Beaver, I would talk with you!”

In a moment his brother emerged from the lodge and came a few steps toward him. Beaver Track held a spear.

“There is trouble?” he called.

“No, no. Come here. We must talk.”

Beaver Track approached cautiously. “Is it safe?” he asked.

“I am made to think so. Let us talk of that. Sit.”

The two men sat down, a few paces apart. It was hard to overcome the fear that had been instilled by this summer of death.

“What is it?” asked Beaver Track. He was inclined to follow the advice of his brother in matters of this sort. A holy man must have an understanding of such things.

“I am made to think,” Wolf began, “that sometime we must rejoin the band. The problem is, when?”

“How will we know?” asked Beaver.

“That I cannot tell. But see if what I say sounds like truth.”

Beaver nodded.

“You have no sickness in your lodge?” Wolf asked.

“No. None at any time. And yours?”

“That is true. Now, Beaver, think on this: the
poch
jumps from one to another. If two people, or six, or ten get close to each other, it jumps more easily, no?”

“Yes, maybe …”

“Now, if nobody has it, as in our two lodges, it cannot jump.”

Beaver Track was cautious. “Maybe. But what about No Tail Squirrel? He was not even close to anyone with the
poch
.”

“True. But the horse blanket …
It
had been used by someone who did. Squirrel sickened only a little while after he found the horse.”

“That is true. How long can the
poch
-spirit lie in wait?”

“Ah, that we do not know. But there must be a time when it has to leave, or it would kill everyone.”

“It
did
, in that Camp of Death, Wolf!”

“No, not everyone. Some left, remember?”

“Yes, that is so. Did the traders tell you anything of this … How long, I mean?”

“No. I should have asked, but I did not know, Beaver. I am made to feel, though, that the
poch
passes through and is gone. Of this, I remember: the trader said that one who has it and
lives
is then safe.”

“Forever?”

“Yes, I am made to think so.”

“So, what are we talking of, Wolf?”

“Well, we must be planning for winter. Shall we go to Sycamore River?”

“Is it safe?” his brother asked again.

“It is as I said, Beaver. We do not know. But if both our lodges are healthy, we should be no danger to each other.”

Beaver Track nodded, unsure.

“Then, if that goes well, we could rejoin the others,” Singing Wolf went on.

“How soon would we know?” asked Beaver.

Wolf shrugged. “Who knows? Say, half a moon? We could hunt together a little, meanwhile, prepare a little meat for winter, then decide.”

“It is good,” stated Beaver Track, rising. “Will your family come to my lodge this evening?”

Wolf smiled and clasped his brother’s hand. “It is good!” he said huskily.

There was no new outbreak of
poch
when the two lodges joined company. The theory of Wolf seemed to hold true. It was good to see the children at play, and the wives happily visiting again. And there was optimism. If this proved successful, they would seek out other families.

It was decided that when the moon was full, they would begin to travel toward the selected winter camp. Meanwhile, there was no point in moving the big lodges. That was a major undertaking, and not worth the effort for half a moon’s time.

Each day brought more optimism. There were no signs of the return of the
poch
. The brothers, working together, downed a fat yearling buffalo cow, and the meat and the hide were quickly processed into pemmican, dried strips, and rawhide.

Finally, the moon signaled the selected departure. The lodges of both families came down, belongings were packed, and the horses rounded up. It was hard to travel with so few to do the work. Normally there were eager young men to drive the horse herd and to chase after strays. In this case, though there were no more than thirty animals, there were also no young men. Someone
must lead the way, and this fell to Beaver Track, as the most experienced scout. Singing Wolf would bring up the rear and keep the horses together, while the two wives managed the pack horses and assorted youngsters. Dark Antelope, the oldest of the children, assisted his father with the horses at the rear. It was the most important task assigned to him in all of his eight years, and he reacted with pride and dignity. His mount, of course, was a great help, a veteran at this sort of work.

“
Aiee!”
exclaimed Wolf when they paused for a noon halt. “I had forgotten. Riding rear guard is not easy!”

“True,” laughed his brother. “Especially when you herd horses too. Is it dusty?”

“Not too bad. The rain yesterday helped, maybe. What I really miss are the wolves.”

“I, too! I have worried all morning.”

Both men laughed. Under normal circumstances there would have been a scout or two ahead and behind, and another well out on each flank. There was actually little danger now. Enemies were few, and the task of serving as wolves was mostly that of an honor guard, and to gain experience for young warriors in case of trouble later. There was always a chance of newcomers into the area, whose motives might be questionable.

There were also those who might be opportunists. Horn People on the north, Shaved Heads to the east, even Snakes to the south, all wasted no love for the People. It had been one of the concerns when the band had split up, and it must still be so. Wolf hoped devoutly that the word of this troubled summer experienced by the People would not become widespread. Then another thought came to him.
Word of the
poch,
the spotted death, might keep others, potential enemies, away!
That was almost amusing. But not quite.

The noon halt over, the little column moved on. It was a good day to travel. A good day to be alive, really. The ripe freshness after the recent rain had intensified the colors and scents of the prairie. There was a profusion of color. The bright golden yellow of the sunflowers and other autumn plants mingled with several kinds of brilliant purple. Flocks of blackbirds, assembling for the migration to the south, wheeled and maneuvered in
preparation. Quail and their summer’s broods were beginning to join together in coveys of thirty or forty birds, their defense in sheer numbers.

Deer, too, were beginning to group together. It was not quite rutting season yet, so the does and their young were grouping together, while the males kept apart, also in small bands. Their new antlers, still fur-covered, were too fragile to be of much use.

A coyote watched the little band of travelers from a distant ridge as they passed. Singing Wolf wondered if the coyote was trying to decide whether this was a hunting party, worth following for his share of the kills.

Not today, Uncle
, he thought with amusement.
But good hunting to you!

When they stopped for the night, Beaver Track rode out in a wide circle around the camp. It would be good to avoid any surprises. He returned to report nothing of a threatening nature.

‘There is a village of Growers over there. Shall we ride over after we settle in?”

‘“Go ahead,” called his wife. “We will start the fire. We have food, water, and wood,”

It seemed a good plan. It was wise to let the Growers know they were in the area, and they had talked to no one for some time. There might be useful news.

“Here,” said Rain, handing her husband a packet of pemmican. “A gift, or maybe you can trade. We could use some beans.”

Wolf reached down for the packet, and they cantered away. Both men were silent for a little while, and then Beaver Track spoke.

“What if they have the
poch?”

Singing Wolf had been thinking the same thing. This season there was a different kind of danger on the prairie. It might be as hazardous to meet a friend as an enemy. All rules of etiquette had changed.

“If they have,” said Wolf grimly, “we touch nothing, drop our gift, and leave quickly, no?”