People of the Owl: A Novel of Prehistoric North America (North America's Forgotten Past) (43 page)

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Authors: Kathleen O'Neal Gear,W. Michael Gear

BOOK: People of the Owl: A Novel of Prehistoric North America (North America's Forgotten Past)
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With great care, he slipped out from under the heavy robe. Chill washed his sweat-clammy skin as he tied his breechcloth on and found a feather cloak to wrap around him. Moving the palmettomat door to one side, he stepped out into the gale.
Wind whipped his hair, half blinding him. Bits of sand and debris shot pinpricks into his skin. Turning, he pulled the cloak tight and walked straight into the teeth of the storm until he reached the third ridge. Counting houses, he hunched his way to the Serpent’s.
He huddled against the south wall, in the lee of the blast, and called, “Elder? It is Salamander. Are you awake?”
“I am now,” the reedy voice called. “Come.”
Salamander ducked into the wind, wrestled the wicker door aside, and replaced it behind him as he stepped into the cold darkness of the Serpent’s house. Here, at least, the gale was moderated to a gentler movement of air.
Wood clattered as the old man threw it atop the gleaming redeyed coals in the central fire pit. Helped by the cool breeze, flames immediately leaped up. Their flickering yellow light showed the Serpent,
sitting naked on his bed, his flesh hanging in wrinkled folds, his flat face puffy with sleep. Gray hair stuck out like winter grass in all directions.
“What is it? Salamander? What brings you here? You are not ill are you?”
“No, Serpent. It was a Dream,” he explained as the old man seated himself and pulled his elkhide blanket around his shoulders. The fire shot yellow light, and Salamander glanced about the interior. The clay walls had been engraved with designs of interlocking owls, sitting foxes, panthers, and snakes. Above the old man’s bed a great bird had been carved into the daub, its wings and feet outspread, the beaked head turned sideways.
Bags of herbs hung from every rafter, their sides sooty from countless fires. A line of wooden and leather masks were propped along one bench, ritual faces that the Serpent adopted for healings and ceremonials. A pouch that Salamander knew contained stone sucking tubes, feather wands, and diamondback rattles rested by the old man’s swollen feet.
Other ceramic jars and small soapstone bowls held bits of mushrooms, dried nightshade, jimsonweed, gumweed, snakemaster root, dried hemp leaves, and other medicine plants. One big bowl was filled with bear fat as a base to mix his potions.
The old man listened to Salamander’s recounting of the Dream, nodding. As he spoke, Salamander realized that the old Serpent’s flesh seemed to be even thinner on his bones than it had been.
“Many Colored Crow is gaining in Power,” the Serpent said after Salamander finished. He ran a hand over his flat face, the action rearranging his wrinkles.
“What does it mean? Falling like that?” Salamander extended his hands to the fire and shivered at the warmth.
“It is a sign.” The Serpent pulled his elkhide close as another gust of wind shivered his house. “You are supposed to be frightened. Many Colored Crow is telling you that if you give up, go away, you will not have to be destroyed.”
Salamander studied his hands, black silhouettes against the flame. “I have started to relax, Elder. As fall came to the land and the leaves changed, my world began to take form.”
“And Anhinga?”
“She carries my child, but leaves with every full moon to pretend to pass her woman’s bleeding in seclusion. She uses that time to plot with Jaguar Hide.”
“That is very dangerous.”
He bowed his head. “I know.”
“Why do you not throw her out? You know she bears you no goodwill.”
“Masked Owl whispers that I will need her.”
“To achieve your death?”
Salamander shrugged. “I am not certain, but maybe. If I must die, Elder, to serve Masked Owl, and if Anhinga is to be the manner of it, then I accept that.”
“I, too, am dying.”
Salamander looked up, startled. “What?”
The old man pointed to his gaunt stomach. “I have a pain inside that only gets worse with the passing of the moon. Something evil is growing in my gut. When I squat to defecate, what comes out is half blood. It gets worse with the passing of days.”
A sinking sensation left Salamander shaken. “No, not you, my old friend. I need you! Without you, I am alone. You must take something! Do something. Surely some licorice root, or …”
The old man was shaking his head. “I’m afraid the something to which you refer has already been done. It is some spirit, some evil that is eating me. When I press, I can feel it. A hardness so painful it brings tears to my eyes. Probably something I picked up from someone I cleansed. Maybe I wasn’t careful enough with their vomit.”
“How long has this bothered you?”
“A moon. Maybe more.”
For what seemed an eternity, they sat in silence.
The Serpent asked, “What of your other wives?”
“Pine Drop missed her moon. She seems satisfied.”
“Indeed. I noticed that you haven’t come for more dogbane. Nor have I heard that she has been carrying on like a camp bitch anymore.”
“It was Mud Stalker and Sweet Root who put her up to it.”
“Umm. And Night Rain?”
“I would feed her plenty of dogbane if I could. The problem is that I can’t just put a pinch into the communal food bowl without harming Pine Drop as well.”
“There is talk. Deep Hunter has recalled Saw Back from Yellow Mud Camp. It is said that he did it to favor your youngest wife. Have you heard?”
“That Night Rain is coupling with him? Yes.” Salamander rubbed his hands together. “Pine Drop disapproves, but says nothing. That tells me that Night Rain has Mud Stalker’s approval to lock hips with Deep Hunter and his kin.” His lips tightened. “My young Night Rain has been learning new tricks. When she does
share her bed with me, she isn’t the same limp bundle of cloth I first married.”
“Deep Hunter and Mud Stalker make a strong alliance.” The Serpent bowed his head. “Moccasin Leaf seems to relish her new position as Clan Elder. I am sorry I could not bring your mother’s souls back. I fear they are too tied to the souls of the Dead.”
“Sometimes, Elder, we cannot win every battle. I do not understand why Power has left her demented. Perhaps it is part of the balance, part of the price I must pay.” Salamander sat back, some of the warmth returning to his body. “My enemies will not act yet. They are waiting, slowly turning their attention to each other.”
“Why do you not act against them?”
“Masked Owl once told me that my salvation lay in the things I knew, in being who I was. I watch, Elder. I study. It is for a reason that you named me Salamander.”
“But if the fox or eagle should catch you …”
“The ways of Power are not without risk, Elder.” Salamander smiled. “Since we last talked, I have watched the leaves turn and fall. The clans have returned from most of the distant camps, their bags full of acorns, walnuts, beechnuts, hazelnuts, goosefoot seeds, squash, knotweed seeds, and chinquapins. Canoe loads of fish have been dried and smoked, and the hunters have taken ducks, geese, pigeons, herons, and cranes. Deer are plentiful, and Trade has been good from the prairies, so buffalo and elk meat are plentiful. For the moment, bellies are full, and the clans are eyeing each other, trying to determine who has incurred the greatest obligation.”
“The winter solstice ceremonies are barely a moon away.” The Serpent rubbed his callused hands, a dullness to his eyes. “Have you given any more thought to following me?”
“Yes. My answer is the same. Bobcat must follow you—and for many reasons. I do not know the Songs, Elder. I barely know enough of the plants and rituals. I couldn’t follow you if I wanted to. I must serve Power in another way.”
“As your Spirit Helper deems.”
Salamander nodded, smiling. “You once asked me a question, Elder. You asked why the Great Mystery ripped the Earth from the Sky.”
“Ah, yes. I remember. Have you found the answer?”
“I think so. It was because before the Creation, everything was One. Everything was the same.”
“Ah!” The old man’s face lit with joy, the wrinkles on his face stretching. “What was wrong with that?”
“Being One is being nothing, Elder. The world wasn’t really Created until Sky and Earth were separated.”
“Why is that, Salamander?”
“If you are One, you cannot see. Cannot hear. The only sensation is of yourself. There is no ‘Other.’ The world had to be divided in order to see itself, in order to become itself. In the One, there is no beginning or end, no me or you. Only when we are separate can we inspect each other and learn the complexity and beauty of the universe. That was the lesson you were trying to teach me that night atop the Bird’s Head. That is why Sun Town is so important. It is here that all things come back together. North and South. East and West. Sky and Earth.”
Smiling gently, the old man nodded.
The fire popped and crackled, sending sparks toward the roof. Then the old man reached into a rabbit-hide sack and withdrew a small figurine. “Do you know what this is?” He handed it to Salamander.
The piece was smaller than his knotted fist, formed into the shape of a corpulent woman’s seated torso, breasts and buttocks pronounced, arms and legs but nubbins. The head depicted the centerparted hair of a married woman, her eyes and happy mouth mere slits. The nose had been pinched out of the face, almost beaklike.
“No.” Salamander turned it in the light. “I’ve never seen a charm like this before.”
The Serpent reached into his bag, retrieving yet another one, similar to the first, and handing it over. “Men usually don’t see these. Women ask for them. Take them. Bury one under Anhinga’s bed when she is not present. Bury the other under Pine Drop’s.”
“What do they do?” Salamander studied the two figurines in his hands.
“Any evil or illness that comes to sneak up your wife’s sheath to infect the infant will be fooled and will invade the clay charm instead.” He pointed his finger. “Now listen. This part is important. When your children are born, the charms must be dug up. This must be done immediately. When the afterbirth is passed, it must be rubbed over the charm to cleanse it. Then, and only then, you must bring the charm back here, to this house, and snap the head off.”
“Why?”
“The afterbirth feeds the evil, tricks it into thinking it is living in the baby. When you snap off the neck, you trap it inside the charm. It must be buried here because it came from here,” the old man
said. “From this earth, here, outside of this house. The Power must be returned to the place from which it came. Bury the pieces of the charm, Salamander, put them back where they came from. If you do not, the Earth Mother will become angry. The evil will fly back, angry at being deceived, and kill your child. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Elder.”
The Serpent closed his eyes, and breath caught in his frail chest. His expression twisted, neck bending as he tenderly placed his hands against his left side.
“Elder?”
A moment later, he blinked, and tears appeared at the corners of his eyes. “I need to lie down now, Salamander. Forgive me. I cannot think when it hurts like this.”
“Can I do anything for you?”
The old man nodded. “There, in the bowl with the fox on the side. That paste, it is made with ground jimsonweed seeds. Take that stick, there. That’s it. Dab just a little on the end. Thank you.”
The old man leaned back, taking the stick in trembling hands as he touched it to the tip of his tongue. “Things will be better now. Yes, better.”
Salamander placed the pale elkhide robe over the old man’s bony body, ensuring it was tucked tightly. “Sleep, Elder. I’m sorry I bothered you.”
“No. It’s fine.” He smiled wearily. “You will be the greatest of them, Salamander. If they don’t kill you first. Many Colored Crow is a Powerful enemy, but he will not take you himself.”
“Like he took my brother?”
The old man’s eyes flashed open, brown, penetrating, as if the pain had vanished in an instant. “What makes you think that? Your brother wasn’t killed by Many Colored Crow.”
“Then who? Who else could control the lightning?”
“Any of the Sky Beings,” the Serpent told him, voice low, as if he were sorry he’d said anything. “Now, go away. Let me sleep. Nothing else eases the pain.”
A
Dreamer’s first ascent into the Spirit World on the wings of a Spirit Helper is like a return to the womb, to a safe place filled with an awareness of the beginnings of who we are. It is a miracle of silence and beauty. A miracle that is swiftly gobbled up when we plant our feet on dirt again.
That is the heart of the Dreamer’s struggle—not learning to soar, but learning to walk after you’ve soared.
Walking on solid ground, as though you’ve never sailed through blinding sunlight, is the most difficult thing any Dreamer ever does.
It is the fork in the trail.
The decision.
It may be the instant of rebirth, the moment when a man or woman is born into the Spirit World and sprouts his own glistening wings.
Or it may be the instant of accepting less, and the beginning of lifelong regret. Dreamers call this the “little death.”
I cannot hope to convey to you how terrible it is. The “little death” is like a serpent forever coiling and uncoiling inside you, forever striking, biting, and filling you with poison.
I had heard of the “little death.” Somewhere along the way, every Dreamer does, but no one told me that it was everlasting. Perhaps they didn’t have the courage.
I’m not sure I do either.
How can I tell this haunted boy that from the moment I decided my earthly duties to the People were more important than wings, I’ve never stopped dying?
Should I tell him? Would he even listen?
I wouldn’t have. The People were everything to me.
But he is stronger than I was.
He sees more clearly.
I pray with all my soul that he is brave enough to “abandon” his duties and fly away … .

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