Child of the Dead (9 page)

She hugged the child to her, rocking gently and murmuring the soft singsong words of comfort. Tears came easily, as one thought kept repeating over and over in her head:
She is going to live!

In the happiness of newly recovered life, there were a glorious few days. Gray Mouse, of course, did not understand the significance of what had happened. She only knew that she felt better, and that the grandmother who had come from nowhere to help her was now happier.

They played the games of childhood, by which one
learns to count, to reason, and to become a responsible adult. They enjoyed stories together. Gray Mouse was rapidly learning the language of the People, which made the stories easier and more interesting.

For Running Deer, it was a time of ecstasy, the return of the daughter she had lost. It was easy to forget all the problems that had confronted her, all the sadness and tragedy. This was here and now, and nothing else seemed to matter. The weather was warm, they had food in plenty and water to drink, and shelter. She had salvaged part of a lodge skin to cover a sort of lean-to that she built against the hillside. She did not have the physical strength to erect one of the big lodges. There was no need for one, anyway. At least, not for now.

Deer woke one morning, her throat just a bit sore and her eyes watering.
Aiee, the season!
The blooming of some of the late summer flowers had always bothered her. She rolled out of her robe, somewhat stiffly. More stiffly than usual … She glanced at the sky. A storm? That always made her bones ache. But the sky seemed open and clear … Just a cold, maybe.

She started to build up the fire, but found that she was quite dizzy. She sat down …
Maybe I rose too fast
, she thought.

The little girl crawled sleepily from her sleeping robe and stumbled over to sit in Grandmother’s lap. Running Deer did not particularly feel like holding a child right now. She was nauseated and weak and could not seem to think well. Gray Mouse took her hand.

“
Aiee
, Grandmother, you are hot!”

Only now did Running Deer begin to understand. She was ill. In the happiness of the past few days she had pushed it into the farthest reaches of her mind. Now it crept into her thoughts again, and a dreadful fear gripped her heart. She had not known, but she did now, how it would begin.
This is the evil thing. This is how it feels
.

The
poch
…

Something like terror gripped her. There was a passing temptation to run, and try to get away, yet she knew that was useless.

Then anger …
Why me?
she wanted to shout. The answer to that came quickly to her:
Because I chose
it!
That angered her even more.
This was not part of the bargain!
her mind protested.
The child was dying, I only wanted to comfort her in her last days. Then I would be ready to cross over, too
.

This was not right. She had only made things worse. The child had survived, but for what? Only to die alone, later, when her protector was gone. Running Deer tried to console herself with thoughts of their few days of happiness together, but it was no use. Without her help … The child’s senses were already dulled. Death would have come, gently and without notice, in a day or two. And she, Running Deer, had tried to intervene in what was meant to be. It had seemed successful, at first, but now she knew. It had been only a trade, her life for that of the girl.

The bitter part, the cruel result of the entire affair, was that it was not even a fair trade. Without her help, the child would now die alone on the prairie. It would take a little more time, that was all. Deer had thought herself so clever in this attempt to challenge the way of things, but not clever enough.

You cheated me
, she thought defiantly, directing her anger toward the dreaded spirit of the
poch. This was not the bargain!

“You are hot, Grandmother!” Gray Mouse was saying. “Here, I will cool your face!”

The little one was bathing her cheeks with fresh cool water, and it felt good … But now, there were more important things … She had only a few days to live, she did not know how many. In that short time, she must teach the child everything she could about survival. Even so, it would be a hopeless task. How could a girl of five summers survive? There would be food for a little while, and then … Deer could not guess which might come first. Starvation, or Cold Maker’s chill hand. Tears came freely.

“Do not cry, Grandmother,” signed Gray Mouse. “I will take care of you.”

That was perhaps worst of all.

“I
t is a miracle that was granted to me,” No Tail Squirrel was explaining. “It is good, no?”

The People were several sleeps away from the Camp of the Dead, still traveling toward the selected summer camp site. There was always a certain confusion during the days of travel. Travel left no time for socializing or the leisurely casual smokes and conversation. Only for a short time as daylight changed to twilight was there any time for such things. Even then, most of the People were too tired.

This evening, though, they had halted early. A good day’s travel … They had reached the intended camp site somewhat earlier than expected. The young men were taking advantage of the extra daylight for some gambling, boasting, horse trading, and casual visiting.

“No, I do not want to trade him,” No Tail Squirrel said indignantly just as Singing Wolf walked past. “I want to use him.”

Wolf paused. A group of young men about to aspire to one of the warrior societies were gathered around a magnificent horse. He did not think he had ever seen the animal before, and he paused to admire it. A strong, broad-chested stallion, heavily muscled through the hip and stifle … A buffalo runner, maybe. The foreparts were dark, black to bluish roan, and the hips were white as snow with scattered black spots. Some of these were
grouped like hand prints, the powerful ritual markings placed on a horse’s shoulder or rump to insure a successful hunt or battle.

“You have painted him?” asked Singing Wolf. It was customary to do so only as the party prepared to leave.

The young men laughed. “We asked him that too, Uncle,” one said respectfully. “Squirrel says no.”

Wolf stepped to the horse’s side, touching the black spots. It was true. This was not paint. He could feel the texture of the hair … A trifle thicker and softer, maybe, in the dark spots.

“When did you get him, Squirrel?” asked the holy man.

“It is as I was telling them, Uncle. It is a miracle. He came to me as I was riding behind the column. As wolf, you know. I was tired of the dust and sweat … maybe I closed my eyes for a heartbeat or two. But then I heard the horse call out. And there he stood before me. It is a good sign, no?” he asked eagerly.

“Of course. He is well trained?”

It was obvious that this was no wild horse. It stood calmly, allowing itself to be handled.

“Yes, Uncle. I think so. I have ridden him a little, and his gaits are good.
Aiee
, he can run. I think he runs to the right.”

“And you use the bow?” Singing Wolf inquired.

“Of course. If I did not, it would be worthwhile to change, no?”

There was a ripple of laughter. Usually, one would learn the use of bow and lance, and decide on the basis of preference. Then, choose a horse that would fit the hunter’s style … one that pursues a running buffalo from the right for a bowman, a left approach for use with the lance. Yet, as No Tail Squirrel said, for a horse as good as this, one would be tempted to change. But looks and gaits are not everything.

“Well, see how he works at the hunt,” Singing Wolf advised as he moved on.

It was nice to have a pleasant diversion, and his heart was good for the young man. His heart had been unbearably heavy for some time … through the prescribed three days of mourning for his mother, but still to this day. He could hardly force himself to go about
daily tasks, knowing what Running Deer might be experiencing. It was hard, to know that although mourning was over, she was probably still alive. It was only her stubborn demand that prevented him even now from returning to see about her welfare. That and common sense. If he did go back, there was nothing he could do, whether she was alive or dead.

Maybe this puzzle of No Tail Squirrel and his wonderful horse was good. It would distract him. There were some strange things about the event. He was certain that Squirrel was telling the truth. There was no reason
not
to do so. But someone had trained and used such a horse. It had not simply materialized. At least, he did not think so. True, there are always strange events where the spirits are involved, but this? No, in all his experience as a holy man, and even the experience of his father, nothing like this. There was something here that did not ring true, but he could not quite identify what it was.

Several other things, insignificant things of routine nature, distracted him for a few days before his mind turned again to Squirrel’s mystery horse. One of the children had blundered into a lodge of bumblebees and suffered many stings. A lame pack horse … that had required repacking and the use of a different animal. It was that event that finally called his attention to horses again. What about the horse that Squirrel had found? He had heard nothing more of it.

Singing Wolf went out to where the horses of the People were herded to graze for the night. It was nearly dark. The animals were greedily cropping the lush grass of the meadow. They must spend half their time eating to build strength for the other half, such as travel.

He saw the stallion of No Tail Squirrel. It was unmistakable, even in the fading light.

One of the young herders approached him.

“
Ah-koh
, Uncle. How is it with you?”

“It is good.”

“Did you want one of your horses?”

“No. I was looking for No Tail Squirrel. He is not herding?”

“No, Uncle. Squirrel does not herd much any more. He rides as wolf now.”

“Of course. I should have known. Well, you too will ride as wolf someday, no?”

“Yes. Soon, I hope.”

“May it be so! Does Squirrel ride the big horse?” Wolf gestured toward the stallion.

“Sometimes. Not today, I think. His brother, there, says he is sick.” The herder gestured toward the other young man on night-herd duty.

“Ah! His brother?”

“Yes, Uncle. Over there by that tree.”

“Good. I will talk to him.”

He made his way around the herd, trying to remember … what was the name of Squirrel’s younger brother …? No matter.

“
Ah-koh
,” he called, and the youth rose from the rocky outcrop where he had been seated.

“Yes, Uncle?”

Wolf walked over to sit beside him.

“Your brother is No Tail Squirrel, who found the horse?” he asked.

“Yes. Is it not a wonderful thing for him? You saw the horse, no?”

“Yes. A fine animal.”

“Good fortune for my brother!
Aiee
, what a horse! And a good saddle and blanket, too.”

Instantly, a chill gripped the heart of Singing Wolf. His stomach tightened.

“There was a saddle?” he asked casually. “I had not heard.”

“Oh, yes, Uncle. A good saddle, a forked wooden tree. Not a pack saddle. An almost new blanket, too. A bright-striped blanket, from the traders.”

Wolf’s heart sank. This was the missing part …

“When did he find this horse?”

“Ah, I do not remember, Uncle. Several days ago. No, more than that, maybe. I know … two or three sleeps after we saw the Camp of the Dead.”

“Someone said your brother is sick?”

“Yes, too bad. He took sick yesterday, but he will soon be better.”

“Yes, I hope so. Maybe I will go and see him.”
“It is good. Squirrel would like that.”

The young man lay near the campfire of his parents, his face flushed and sweating. His mother was bathing his face, neck, and chest, and there was concern in her eyes. She rose and the two stepped aside.

“He is very sick,” she said, her voice trembling. “He rode the
travois
today.”

It was apparent that the young man must be very sick if he would ride a pole-drag, usually reserved for tiny children, the elderly, or the incapacitated. It would have been beneath his dignity if he had the strength to protest.

“Yes, I see, Mother,” Wolf said.

“He has not been the same since the coming of that horse,” she lamented. “It seemed to take over his life. He is almost crazy over it. I wish he had never found it!”

“I, too, Mother,” he said sadly. How strange, that the woman should have identified the threat, but did not understand it.

“It was said that the horse had a blanket?” he asked.

“Yes. He is proud of that, too,” the woman said with disgust. “It is new, but stained and dirty. But he insists on sleeping in it.
Aiee
, look at him there.”

Wolf looked, and his heart was heavy. He must find Broken Lance and discuss this. This threat was very real, not only to the family of No Tail Squirrel, but to this entire band of the People.