Child of the Dead (25 page)

Deer approached her son, the holy man, with the question.

“I, too, have thought of this, Mother,” Wolf told her. “I am made to think in this way: Gray Mouse is an outsider.”

“No, no!” Deer’s temper flared. “She is not! She …”

“Wait, Mother! About this, maybe it is good for her to be. True, she has become one of the People, one of our family. But by blood, she is
not
the sister of our Dark Antelope. They are not brother and sister, and there would be no question.”

Deer nodded, only half convinced.

“Would the council have to decide?”

“Maybe. But Mother, they have said nothing, the two young people. Let
them
tell us what their desires might be. Maybe they are not interested except as brother and sister.”

“Yes …
Aiee
, Wolf, I thought that raising boys was hard.”

Her son laughed. “And so it was, Mother. But let us see what happens now. Maybe there is no problem.”

“What is it? What is the matter?” asked Dark Antelope.

The two were sitting on the hill behind the camp of the Southern band, watching the sunset. That should have been a serene moment of sharing, but there was the restlessness that came between them.

They
had
talked of marriage, but Mouse was not ready.

“I have waited this long,” Antelope told her. “I can wait a little longer.”

Somehow even that irritated her, but there was nothing to say that would not be misunderstood. She did not want to hurt him. Not really … And now this question.
What is the matter?
She wanted to yell at him, to tell him,
If I knew, there would be no problem!

She sighed, and Yellow Dog raised his head, thumped his tail, and sleepily returned to his rest. He was growing old. The dark yellow along his muzzle showed many gray hairs now. A glum feeling came over her. She knew that the dog was older than most of the dogs of the People already. Most had either been eaten by this age or had met with a misadventure with some wild creature. But she hated to see this happen to
her
dog, this creeping of age upon him. Yellow Dog seemed to be part of her problem, and she was not sure why.

She had been a secure and happy child, feeling safe and loved. At least, most of the time. She no longer had the night-visions, the dreams of death that had plagued her for a long time.

Maybe it was that she was unwilling to give up the safety of her childhood for these new feelings. It was exciting to be a woman, to feel the stirring in her blood, the need for a man … But to become a woman meant to leave behind the safety she had known since she had been with Grandmother.

And Dark Antelope … He was her protector, brother, teacher, friend. Could he also be her husband? Or would it be better to look for another?

She suspected that some of the young men more nearly her own age might be interested. She had even flirted a little. But they all considered, probably, that she belonged to Antelope.

Maybe I do
, she thought.
How do I know?
She resented
his attempts to bring up the matter, and had told him so. “I will tell you when I am ready,” she had snapped at him, and then regretted having hurt him. And she was no closer now to knowing how she felt.

An owl called in the growing shadows downriver.

“Good hunting,
Kookooskoos
,” Antelope murmured.

She had heard it all her life.
No, not all my life
, she thought. There was a time … an owl should be
feared!
Dimly remembered, her first winter with Grandmother, all alone … There were things that were different, and it had worried her that what she thought she knew was not the same as what Grandmother told her.
Which is right?

A wave of resentment rose in her. Her grandmother had stolen her identity, and left her confused.

“Sun Boy chooses his paints well tonight,” observed Antelope, interrupting her thoughts.

The traditional story of the People, where Sun Boy paints himself to prepare to spend the night on the other side of the earth …
Is it really Sun Boy?
her mind demanded. Maybe for
my
people it is someone else.

She looked at Dark Antelope as if she had never seen him before. Was this her problem, that she was trying to be something that she was not, something never intended?

“Antelope,” she said dully, “I do not even know who I am.”

T
here was a time that season when Gray Mouse and Dark Antelope drew apart. Mouse refused to accept it for a while, but finally was forced to the inescapable conclusion. There was a barrier between them.

“No, Antelope,” she tried to explain to her friend, “it is nothing you have done, or
not
done. It is not you, it is my own problem. I must do this alone.”

“Do
what
, Mouse?”

Anger rose in her. “How do I know?” she snapped irritably. “Let me alone. I must do this myself.”

The bewildered youth retreated. He still had no understanding of
what
the girl must do, but one thing was clear. He had no part in it.

The heart of Gray Mouse ached as she saw the hurt in his eyes. She wanted to try again to tell him, to try to explain, but she did not know how.

She also longed to confide to someone else. A woman … Her only woman confidante, though, was Grandmother, who was even
more
a part of the problem. Likewise, there were no girls of her own age to whom she could talk. She had made friends very slowly because of the Child of the Dead circumstances.
Aiee
, how angry that had made Grandmother! The few girls who had been close enough to call friends now had other interests. Largely romance, of course. Yellow Leaf had already married. Singing Doe was so preoccupied
with her young suitor of the Blood Society that she could not see beyond the tips of her fluttering eyelashes.
Aiee!

So there was no one to talk to, and this caused an even greater feeling of isolation.
I am alone
, thought Mouse, in a mixed mood of panic and resentment from which there seemed no escape.
Why do I feel this way? There are those who love me, but are no help. They do not understand
.

Tears began to flow. She had gone alone to the hilltop to think, and was finding that it did not help much. Again, she had the lost and lonely feeling that she did not even know who she was. Why did she feel so alone, so
different?

As she pondered that thought, another began to take shape. It was not exactly comforting, but it was something. A place to begin her understanding, maybe. Even then she had not yet begun to realize the importance of such a thought:
I feel different because I
am
different!

The idea began to take shape and grow.
I know nothing of my people
, she thought.

Each time she had asked the question when she was small, it had been brushed aside.

“That is all behind you, child,” her grandmother would croon as she took the little girl in her arms. “You do not need to worry. You are safe here, and you are one of the People now.”

Now Mouse’s resentment began to rise.
She had no right to take that from me!
Mouse thought. She pushed aside the twinge of guilt over all that Grandmother
had
done for her. But she must face this.

“Grandmother,” she began that evening as they returned to the sleeping robes, “I would talk with you.”

The lodge was dark, with only a glow from the coals of the dying fire. Nights were becoming cool, and the cooking had been moved inside for the season.

“Of course, child. What is it?”

Mouse shoved aside the ripple of resentment over “child” and resolved to maintain her calm.

“I would know of my people.”

“What would you know, Mouse?”

“Who I am … Where did my people come from, where did they go?”

There was a long silence.

“Grandmother?” Mouse wondered if the older woman had fallen asleep.

“Yes, yes, child, I heard you. You mean your parents, no? Those of the Camp of the Dead?”

Gray Mouse was astonished to hear Grandmother use the hated words, those which had so infuriated her long ago.

“Yes … I do not know who I am.”

“You are mine now, a child of the People, Mouse.”

The girl stifled her anger. This was the old answer. More properly, the old
refusal
to answer. She tried to keep her voice calm.

“Grandmother,” she began, her voice trembling a little, “I am made to think that I must know. You must tell me what you know.”

Again, the silence. Mouse was about to speak again when Running Deer gave a deep sigh of resignation.

“Ah, I knew that someday … Mouse, my heart is heavy, because I cannot tell you.”

“You
will
not!” accused the girl angrily.

“No, no, not that. Once it was true, maybe. But child, you must understand. We had no contact with them. They were already dead. Besides, there seemed no need to know. It was thought that you and I, both of us, were already dying. Then, it was that when we lived instead, there were more important things. Food, shelter for the winter … You needed
me. Aiee
, we needed each other, Mouse.”

“But you might have told me!”

“There was nothing to tell, child. We did not know.”

“Know
what?”

“Anything! We knew nothing at all about those who were the Dead.”

“But you must have known
something!”

“No … Remember, child, we were afraid. Afraid of the
poch
. They were strangers.”

“But
who?
Arapaho? Pawnee? Head Splitters? Cheyenne?”

“No, no. None of those. We would have known them. Someone from outside.”

“From where?”

“Again, child, we did not know.”

She tried to talk to Singing Wolf.

“Uncle, what can you tell me of my people, those who died from the
poch?”

The conversation was a little easier, but the information equally scant. The holy man shook his head.

“We knew very little, Mouse. There was danger, you know. You were the only one alive, and you were dying, or so it seemed. We only wanted to get away.”

The girl nodded. “This I can understand. But was it known … they were not Growers, so what nation …”

“Again, we did not know. They came from the north or northeast.”

Instantly, Mouse was alert to this new information.

“Ah! You knew that?”

“Not exactly, Mouse. But we knew who they were
not
To the south are mostly Comanche … Snake People. Some Caddoes who hunt, but their lodges are different. To the west, the finger-cutters, the Cheyennes. But mostly, I am made to think that the
poch
came from the French. They are only north or east of the People. Not Arapaho or Lakota … we just did not know.”

“I … I do not remember, Uncle. Were their lodges nearly like those of the People?”

“Yes. I did not study them closely, but I am made to think so. Some of the smoke flaps were blowing loose … Yes, they must have been much like ours. Why do you ask these things, Mouse?”

Gray Mouse shrugged. “I cannot explain, Uncle. It is a need to know. I do not even know who I am. My mother was a pretty woman who sang to me, but that is all I remember.”

Wolf nodded, understanding. “It is good.”

“
What
is good, Uncle?” the girl asked, frustrated.

“That you wish to know. You might want to take a vision quest, when you are a little older.
Aiee
, but you
are grown now! Well, talk to some of the Growers when we camp near them. They hear news from all.”

Mouse started to turn away, not completely satisfied, but the holy man stopped her.

“Wait! I am made to think that you were wearing a little ornament when we found you. A pendant … Ask your grandmother. I wonder what happened to it?”

“Yes … maybe …” Running Deer rummaged among the things in the storage space behind the lodge lining. “I think so. I had forgotten.”

She drew out a small ornament on a thong. It was round, about two fingers broad, and consisted of beaded geometric designs in yellow, red, and black. The beads were sewn to a soft piece of buckskin.