Harvest Moon (2 page)

A wise woman, resembling an older version of Crow appeared. A multi-coloured tree was beaded into the front of her dress. “I am your ancestor, Small Tree.”

Dancing Cat froze in place. “Small Tree, who beaded this?” She nodded to the item still in her hands.

The petite woman offered a curt nod. “You are not entrusted with the sacred bundle. Why have you disturbed it?”

She had never met an ancestor or spirit before. Lying crossed her mind but the truth was always best. “I was desperate.”

“That much is obvious.” The old woman did not smile, but nor did she frown. She circled Dancing Cat. “It bothers me that you want to be a man.”

Dancing Cat’s eyes widened. “No! It isn’t that at all. I simply…”

Small Tree raised a hand to silence her. “Want to ride horses, wear trousers, and avoid the duties of the women.”

Dancing Cat hung her head, ashamed that she brought dishonour to her ancestors. “I just wanted to do something important. When I was a messenger, I was important. I did nothing to deserve being renamed Cursed One. It was not my fault.”

The spirit shrugged. “Pounding berries is important. It keeps everyone from starving when the snow is up to your waist.”

Dancing Cat frowned. Even her ancestors spoke to her like a child. Perhaps she really was one, fantasizing about a world that no longer existed for her.

“Perhaps you haven’t learned your lesson yet, little one.”

The fog began to clear. She blinked her eyes and found herself bareback on a horse, sprinting across an open prairie she did not recognize. The surprise and speed of the animal nearly toppled her over. She flexed her thighs and gripped the horse’s mane, the bundle still in her left hand. After two years of not riding, she struggled to match the horse’s rhythm at full gallop. Something odd shifted around in a place that normally didn’t have parts that shifted.

The horse charged ahead, the tall grass slapping her ankles. Settling into the cadence, she noticed her hands.

Her large hands.

Ignoring the horse and its fevered pace for a moment, she stared at the thick wrist and hands that jutted from her muscular arms. Her jaw clenched as she reached up to touch her chest, pouch still in hand.

No breasts.

She gasped with horror. The horse jumped a stream. Dancing Cat slammed into the ground with a thud. Rocks crushed her and she heard the snap of bones even before the stabbing burn took over. A short-lived scream escaped her before the pain silenced her.

Her vision blurred and consciousness faded. With as much courage as she could muster, she accepted the judgment of her ancestor. She would die after all, alone and unwanted.

Hunter’s Moon

Strong hands gently shook Dancing Cat’s shoulders. She eased open her eyes, expecting to see the spirit world around her. Instead she saw trees and grass, and heard the chirp of sparrows.

“Am I dead?” she whispered to the smooth-faced man that smiled down on her with a full set of white teeth.

He chuckled. “You are amongst the living. But if I had not crossed your path two days ago, you’d be hunting deer in the spirit world right about now.”

She struggled to sit up. Breathing hurt.

“Easy,” he said, standing back up. “You broke at least one rib. And you smacked your head on a big rock. I’m not a healer,” he shrugged his bare, wide shoulders, “but I did the best I could.”

“Can you help me roll on my side?” She whimpered.

He smiled again and bent down to help. His forearm pressed against her chest, and she pulled back instinctually. Now on her side, she looked down and gasped. Shirtless and bandaged.

Her natural instinct was to cover her breasts from the stranger, until she remembered she lacked breasts to cover.

Dancing Cat struggled for breath. It had not been a vicious dream. Small Tree had changed her into a man. The world spun around her. She could not cry. She would not cry.

The stranger’s eyebrows furrowed. “Warrior, did I hurt you?”

Warrior. The word echoed in her mind. It was bad enough that she saw herself as a man. Clearly this stranger did, too. Dancing Cat trembled, which only made her ribs hurt more. Another whimper of pain escaped her lips.

He thrust a pipe to her lips and lit it, filling the area with the smoking, sweet burning herbs.

“Here. It’ll help with the pain.”

She inhaled the smoke deeply, too deeply, sending herself into a coughing fit. Grasping her bandaged torso, she cried out as searing heat coursed through her body. Her vision faded. She could hear his voice in the distance but he was too far away.

“Please let me die,” she whispered before darkness enveloped her.

* * * *

A wet nose and roasting grouse roused Dancing Cat from her nightmare-laden sleep. It seemed as if an eternity had passed her by, filled with images of Small Tree and her family. Even now, she could hear Crow mocking her and Hawk Sight admonishing her. And, through it all, she kept seeing the black-eyed stranger who had saved her life, smiling down on her.

She opened her eyes and noticed for the first time that she was in the midst of a small, shady thicket. Birch trees loomed above her head, the branches shielding her from the oppressive mid-day sun. Magpies and crows argued nearby, filling the air with their squawks. The ground beneath her partially-naked body seemed softer, fuzzier. She raised her head enough to see a clean, mixed-fur blanket tucked neatly underneath her…and a white and brown horse staring at her.

“Hello there, friend,” she said to the animal, that nibbled at her hair. “That isn’t food.”

Twigs crackled.

Dancing Cat froze. “Who’s there?”

The smiling stranger with the broad shoulders stepped over her and collapsed to the ground. “Good, you’re awake.” He picked up the wood pipe again and lit it. Before handing it to her, he said, “Small breaths until you’re used to the smoke. I don’t need you choking to death like earlier.”

There was a time that she would have laughed at herself. Not now, however. All she wanted was to be numb. She took shallow puffs of the sweet smoke. “I haven’t smoked a medicine pipe since I was a child.”

“I noticed. You hit your head in your coughing fit and knocked yourself out again.”

She stopped smoking. “How long?”

“Over a day. Your ancestors want you to live,” the stranger said, staring straight into her eyes.

Dancing Cat snorted and handed him back the pipe, struggling not to cough. Self-consciously, she hugged her chest. “Where is my tunic?”

He pointed at her torso. “The same place as mine. Holding your ribs together.”

Dancing Cat felt her face burn. “You can have it back.”

He waved her off. “I wasn’t supposed to leave camp with it. I smuggled it out,” he said with a sheepish smile. “The Creator sent you so I’d be forced to give up the tunic.”

Something in the way he said
tunic
clicked in her mind. She recognized his accent.

“You’re from Red Valley!”

His smile faded. “And you’re a long way from Battle Cliff.”

This was not the lush woods of home. Her ancestor had dropped her in the midst of the open prairie of their southern rival. Wedged between the frozen north and the mighty Cree lands, Red Valley and Battle Cliff fought for generations over land. This stranger, for all his kindness, was an enemy.

She tried to scramble away from him but was immobilized by white-hot pain that threatened to bring up the contents of her stomach, even if it was only bile. Unable to move, she gripped her fur blanket until her knuckles turned white. Her eyes widened when she saw her sacred bundle next to her. Relief washed over her, realizing that she had not lost it.

He watched her for a moment with his dark eyes before shaking his head. “I have no plans to kill you.”

She wondered if he would have treated her differently if still in her female flesh. Perhaps being a man, in this one instance, was a good thing. “What about scalp me?”

He laughed. “I put that in the same category as killing so, no, I won’t scalp you either.”

Dancing Cat narrowed her eyes at him, trying to make herself as manly and threatening as possible though she knew she had no idea what she was doing. “Aren’t you going to ask for the same promise from me?”

“I’m confident enough in my hunting skills to avoid an enemy that can’t even sit up.” This time, an easy laugh escaped his lips. His eyes shined of honesty, and for whatever reason, she let her muscles relax. Despite the rivalry between their peoples, she would trust his word.

Laughter bubbled out of her, and she groaned from the pain. She covered her mouth with her hand, partially to control her laughter and partially out of habit; her mother often said she laughed too much like a man. She could feel her cheeks flush.

He cocked an eyebrow. “Did I embarrass you? A warrior blushing! I think I’ll keep this pipe away from you. It seems you are too tiny to handle it.”

Dancing Cat realized that she must have been an odd sight, a small warrior covering his laughter. She giggled at herself, deciding that the effect of the grass was a good enough reason to get away with not behaving like a man. She did not know why she was still alive, but she was.

And laughing for the first time in years.

She cleared her throat. “What should I call you?”

“Healing Stranger?” He beamed a smile at her, and she felt the strings of her heart tug.

She swallowed back the lump in her throat, worried that Small Tree’s plan would be to give her a perfect warrior, only to snatch him away from her. Melancholy fell on her.

“I am called Bearclaw. What is your name?”

“Dancing Cat,” she said proudly. It was the first time in two years that she had said her name aloud.

“A woman’s name!” Bearclaw roared with laughter. Her eyes must have betrayed her hurt feelings. “I don’t mean to laugh, but that is the silliest name for a warrior that I’ve ever heard.”

“Ah, my older brother named me. He said I looked like a dancing cougar when I came from the womb.” At least she did not need to lie about her name. “It is considered a name of honour.” Dancing Cat left out the part where they stripped her of it after her disgrace.

Bearclaw shook his head. “Your people have strange ways.”

Pressing her hand against her ribs, she pushed herself up enough to sit. Lying around had made her body ache. She needed to stretch, even if the stabbing pain nearly blinded her.

Bearclaw offered her a deer bladder of water, from which she drank heavily.

“I’ve never been hurt this bad before,” she confessed between undignified gulps. Her grandmother would have slapped the back of her head for the behaviour, for certain. Dancing Cat gulped harder out of spite.

“Then either you are very lucky or a very cautious hunter.” Bearclaw handed her a small pouch. “Raspberries. Eat. I’m tired of dripping broth down your throat.”

She accepted the bag and blurted, “Oh, I’m not a hunter.” From the confused look on his face, she realized the blunder and added, “I am a messenger for my tribe.”

He nodded his approval. “Your family must be proud.”

His words cut her deep, and she looked away, clearing her throat. Bearclaw narrowed his eyes. “Why are you on Red Valley land?”

It took a moment for Dancing Cat to spin a lie. She wondered why Small Tree had allowed her to live. Perhaps it was to add additional torment. “I must have gotten lost.”

“Then you are a poor messenger,” he said with a grin. His eyebrows rose at her growling stomach. “Are you well enough to eat grouse?”

She nodded emphatically, stuffing a handful of the tart berries in her mouth. Since she had been renamed Cursed One, the band had only given her scraps and leftover bones. Dancing Cat had forgotten what it was like to eat freshly-cooked meat.

Now that she had propped herself up against a narrow tree trunk, Dancing Cat could see the small fire and trivet where the bird roasted. Bearclaw expertly pulled the grouse from the wooden spit. Fat splattered, sending sizzling, flickering flames higher than the main fire. She licked her lips. Her mouth watered thinking about the greasy, charred meat.

The wind blew Bearclaw’s breechcloth to one side and she blushed, seeing his private parts. Something hard pressed against her own trousers. She reached down and gasped in horror.

“You all right?” he said over his shoulder.

Dancing Cat froze, her hand wedged firmly inside her trousers. “Ah, itchy.”

Bearclaw laughed. “I’m sure you are. You lost control of your bladder a number of times while unconscious. There’s a stream nearby. After we eat, I’ll help you there.”

She grimaced and whimpered at that thought. “Ah, so why are you out here alone?”

Bearclaw shrugged, turning back to the hot bird. He carefully placed it on a piece of buckskin. “It’s complicated. Lucky that you aren’t a woman or I’d claim you as my prize.”

She shuddered. Her brothers brought home women as their war prizes. Other times, women offered themselves as peace property. Either way, Dancing Cat never wanted to be something stolen or bartered only to be ignored in a new tribe. Even if it was to a fine and handsome figure of a man. “I wouldn’t have let you,” she said.

He pounded a fist against the tautness of his chest. “You’re a scrawny thing. I’d win.”

She laughed at his display. Men never acted like that when women were around. Even though she missed her own body, she did enjoy this moment.

Bearclaw put the grouse on the ground next to her before he sat down. “May I bless the food for both of us?”

“I would be honoured.” In truth, she had no interest in praying to the Creator or the spirits, and certainly not to her ancestors. They had turned their back on her. She would turn her back on them.

“Eat,” he urged, having already torn off a piece of the roasted flesh.

Dancing Cat hesitated for a moment longer before overcoming the oppression of her last two years. She ripped a piece of the greasy meat off the bone and stuffed it into her mouth. She moaned as the hot, salty meat touched her tongue. Two bites and she swallowed hard. She twisted off a well-cooked wing and gnawed at it, oil dripping down her chin.