Raven Mocker (18 page)

S
nakewater awoke sometime in the night, unsure what had roused her. She could hear the soft breathing of the lodge’s other inhabitants, who seemed undisturbed. Maybe she should go and empty her bladder, though it did not feel urgently full.

She lay there in the darkness a little while, enjoying the warmth of her blankets, thinking of recent events. She could hardly believe that over the past couple of seasons her life had changed so much. Here she lay, in a tent made of skins and poles, surprisingly comfortable. She was accepted, respected, and most of all, she felt that she was
loved.
In all her life there had probably been no one except her old namesake mentor who had actually loved her. Some had helped her, looked with favor upon her, but this was an entirely new feeling. She was part of a
family.

Yes, that was it. There was something about being in a family group that imparted a feeling of warmth and security that she had never had before. She had often looked with scorn on people who put much importance on such things.
Who needs it?
she sometimes thought. But there was a fullness and completeness in her own heart that told her:
Everyone
needs it, and it was a warmth that she had never found until now. She smiled to herself in the darkness.

Of course, she realized, there had been a reason that
she had never found such a relationship. She had not been a lovable person. It had been easier to follow the example of the old conjure woman with whom she lived—bitter, withdrawn, apparently hating everybody, and, over all, teaching her young companion to do the same. It was no wonder that the little girl had never had a friend. A tear formed in her eye and trickled down her cheek. Old Snakewater had formed in her own image, probably unconsciously, and it had not been an attractive image.

Now, this person,
Grandmother
Snakewater, had broken out of that image. She felt a mixture of resentment and pity for her long-departed mentor. Had the old conjuror
ever
had a friend? What had been in
her
early life to have made her so? Some tragedy, a disappointed love? She was only now realizing that she had known very little about her teacher. And now, never could.

Her thoughts drifted back to her own situation. She had never felt self-pity. She had been taught not to do so, to reject and deny such feelings as being unloved. And she had to admit, it had been successful. She had been unloved because she was not very lovable. She smiled a wry smile in the dark lodge. Which came first? No matter …. Now she had found her way, late in her lifetime. She was loved because she had
learned
to love, and was now a different person. She rolled that thought around in her mind, playing with it, enjoying the comfort in it for a little while. She was, truly, a different person, one who could love and be loved, who could respect and admire and relate to others, to have fun and face each day with pleasure, to enjoy. It was a new experience.

Suddenly the implication of those thoughts descended on her like a thrown blanket, plunging her into a despair that was mixed with something much like terror.
Where had this different person come from?

All the stories and whispered rumors and accusations came crowding back, bringing dark thoughts that had been forgotten for a long time.
Thoughts of the Raven Mocker ….

She knew that she had never intentionally tried to
acquire such status, and that she was totally innocent of the charges laid against her back at Old Town. But there
had
been a time when she wondered,
Does the Raven Mocker’s ability to steal fragments of other lives
have
to be intentional?
If not, maybe she
had
been using the life-years of others for a long time. She had been present at many deaths, and of many different kinds of people. Some had been infants, some older. Did she now have a pleasant attitude because she was feeding on the life-years of some lovable young person? Her entire attitude, her approach to life, was so different …. It
must
be true.

“Ah, Lumpy!” she muttered into the darkness. “What have I done?”

“A
re you ill, Grandmother?” asked one of the children.

“What?
Oh, no, child. Just thinking.”

But the change was obvious. She could not conceal her worry.

“Is there something I can do?” asked Swan, concerned.

“No, no. It is nothing. Maybe I just need to get away and think a little while.”

“A vision quest?” asked Swan, half joking.

“No, no, nothing like that, Swan. I don’t know…. I lived alone for many seasons, back with my own people. This is different, among so many. It is good, but… ”

“Ah, yes,” laughed the other woman. “I feel that way sometimes. It is good to be alone for a little while. Go on, take a walk. Let your medicine work, no?”

It seemed like a good idea. Snakewater ate nothing, but brewed herself a bowl of tea with selected herbs and berries and sipped it slowly.

She took her blowgun and a pouch of darts. She did not really expect to use it, but it would give the impression of purpose, which she really lacked.

“May I go with you, Grandmother? asked Fawn brightly.

She smiled and patted the girl’s head. “Not today, child. I… well, there are things I must do.”

“It is a medicine journey,” suggested Swan. “One must do such things alone.”

“Yes—yes, that is it,” agreed Snakewater. “I must go alone. I will be back tonight.”

She wished that she had some clearer goal. She was nearly as confused as little Fawn. She put a few strips of dried meat into her pouch and started somewhat aimlessly out of the camp. People nodded or waved to her and she returned their greetings. It was a good feeling to be so accepted, but she had the sense that it was undeserved, that she was living a falsehood. Her heart was very heavy.

S
he headed south, for no better reason than that the geese were flying that direction. Their wild and free course across the bright autumn sky seemed a marked contrast to her mood. At the top of a wooded ridge some distance from the camp, she found a bald, rocky summit, where she could sit and see in all directions.

Back to the north was the winter camp of Far Thunder, its lodges scattered among the thickets of scrub oak. It was a peaceful scene. Lazy spires of smoke rose from the apex of each lodge—straight up for some distance, then layering out horizontally in the still autumn air. From her vantage point Snakewater found that she was looking
down
on this layer of smoke. She recalled, as a child in the mountains, that she had seen fog below her in a similar way. But that had been misty white among the treetops, and this smoke effect was gray, and much higher above the ground. It was a pleasant distraction, which in the end led her nowhere. It gave her time to be alone, to think, to worry more as she tried to solve the mystery that now seemed to hang over her life.

She wondered if it would help to fast for a day or two, and decided not. She chewed some jerky and gazed at the land, while enjoying the warmth of the sun on her shoulders. She watched a couple of bull elks in the far distance as they met in combat over a trio of cows.

The Moon of Madness.
Maybe that was part of her problem. Or all of it. Was she going mad, with this worry hanging over her? Maybe it was that. Still, she was unable to escape the nagging doubt that in some way she
was
living someone else’s life. Maybe more than one. If she were really a Raven Mocker, she might be living on parts of many lives. Would it work that way? Mixed fragments of life-years, so stirred together that they were indistinguishable from one another? That could explain some of her confusion. Also some of the mixed feelings she occasionally had about people and events.

But how did it happen? She still had doubts that one could become a Raven Mocker without knowing it. She certainly could not recall any one incident that would indicate a change in her status. Her life had been a continuous line. Well, except for the past two years… Was
that
when it had happened? No, that was when she had been
accused.
But … Her head whirled in confusion. Had she been accused
because
others had seen the change when she had
become
a Raven Mocker?

Assuming that there was such an entity, and that the possibility might exist that she had become one, how could she tell? When the transfer to the lifetime of another occurred, how would it
feel?
Would the Raven Mocker simply wake one morning to find that he/she was someone else? Would there be any memory of a previous lifetime, a different person in the same body? She surely had no such memories, and that was encouraging.

What could be expected to happen, though, if a Raven Mocker died suddenly, or was killed? Would some of the life-years available to the Raven Mocker transfer spontaneously, or must they be invoked? And again, would there be a memory?

What if she threw herself from this red boulder where she sat, down the face of the hill, to land on the jumble of rocks below? If she were the Raven Mocker, would her life as Snakewater be replaced by another? Would she be aware of it? That would certainly answer her questions ….

“What?” she spoke aloud. “Why, no, of course not! I could never do that.” Her voice became softer. “But thank you, Lumpy, for your concern …. Yes, I’d better be getting back.”

The sun was setting as she made her way back to the lodge of Far Thunder. She wondered if she had actually accomplished anything. She had had an opportunity to think and had not arrived at much understanding. She wished that she could talk about her questions with someone who could understand. Someone like her old namesake mentor, Snakewater the elder. But among these, the Elk-Dog People, there was no one who could help her. Even talking to one of the holy men they had mentioned would probably be futile. They had never heard of the Raven Mocker. No one here, as kind and generous as they had been to her, could possibly understand.

No one except Lumpy, who would usually, or at least she suspected so, rather tease than help her.

But who knows what the Little People think?

T
he first of winter’s storms swept down on them during the Moon of Madness. At that time all creatures go a little bit crazy. Days are growing shorter, and there is an uneasiness that falls over everything. The beauty of autumn is behind, fallen away during the Moon of Falling Leaves, like the bright leaves themselves.

It is the rutting season for the deer. They are ranging far, searching for satisfaction of the basic urge to reproduce the next generation of their kind. The bucks rub the fuzzy covering from their antlers by attacking young trees. Their newly acquired weapons are polished and ready for combat. They go forth to fight for the favors of the most attractive females, who watch, trying to appear unimpressed. In the distraction of the primal urge safety is forgotten. It is a time of madness. The battle-ready males sometimes attack not only trees and each other, but predators, including Man. It is a dangerous situation.

The bugling call of the bull elk echoes across the land as he, too, searches for mates, only slightly less irrational than the deer.

Smaller creatures are ranging far, now separated from their mothers and searching on their own for places to winter. Larger predators are actively hunting, many of them for the first time on their own. Bears prepare to hibernate, and gorge themselves on nature’s bounty, both
plant and animal, to provide fat for insulation and for nutrition during the long sleep.

The last of the ducks and geese are winging southward in their migration, also somewhat erratic in their behavior ….
Hurry, hurry, winter comes.

Among birds madness is not restricted to the species that migrate. Maybe the bareness of the trees in heavy timber is alarming by changed appearance. For whatever reason, quail, grouse, and smaller birds fly aimlessly, often colliding with branches and other obstacles in their flight.

In the Moon of Madness even Man is affected. Approaching the Moon of Long Nights, when the sun seems about to go out, Man, too, feels a desolation, a depression that seems hopeless. Even modern man is stricken with madness, and mental illness peaks at this time.

“S
un Boy’s torch grows dim,” observed Swan, as they stuffed dried grasses into the space behind the lodge lining.

It was a sunny day, but nights were crisp. Going to water, in the tradition of the Real People, was still practiced by Snakewater, but at this time of year it became a much shorter ceremony. Still, she considered it important.

“Sun Boy?” she asked Swan curiously.

“Yes… Sun Boy carries his torch across the sky to give us light and warmth. His torch goes dim, and this gives Cold Maker a chance to attack him. The battle goes on through the Moon of Long Nights and the Moon of Snows, into the Moon of Hunger, when our food sometimes runs low. Is it not the same among your people?”

Snakewater handed her armful of hay to Walks Alone, and stepped back out of the way to let the children hand over their contribution.

“Not quite.” Snakewater laughed. “For us Sun is a woman. She crawls under the edge of the Sky Dome and travels up the side and across. She stops at her daughter’s lodge for a little while, eats a meal, maybe drinks a little
kanohena
—straight overhead there, and down the other side. But tell me of Cold Maker. He is a monster, no?”

Swan laughed. “Sometimes! Cold Maker lives in icy mountains far to the north. He roars out, bringing snow and ice. That’s why we move south. They battle all winter, as I said. Sometimes it seems Sun Boy’s torch almost goes out. But then he always gets a new one, and Cold Maker retreats, back to the north. At least it has always been so. But maybe this time… ”

“Ah! I see. And the new torch of Sun Boy starts your Moon of Awakening?”

“Yes. We celebrate the return of the sun, the grass, and the buffalo later, in the Sun Dance.”

“Yes, I have learned of that,” said Snakewater. “Is your winter hard here?”

“Sometimes. Not so bad as farther north, of course.”

S
ome of the Elk-dog People built brush barriers around the north and west sides of their lodges. This would provide more shelter from the wind, it was said. Not only that, but it was not uncommon to encircle the whole lodge with such a barrier. Many of the men kept a favorite horse, their best buffalo runner, close to the lodge, within this barrier. This would protect the animal from predators or theft by neighboring tribes. That was a pastime to prove manhood.

Keeping a horse up by the lodge did require more work, of course. It must be taken to water each day and supplied with food. In severe weather this might be cut branches of cottonwood, whose bark and small twigs would help to supply the animal’s needs. For some men the extra work was worthwhile, expressing their pride in ownership of a fine horse.

W
hen Cold Maker did sweep down, perhaps a bit earlier than usual, the camp was fairly well prepared. There were some malingerers, as among any people, who will never be ready for anything. They will protest the unfairness of any situation, even one of their own making.

“I needed only another day!”

Yet, if that other day had been given, it would still be a day short for some.

It was a calm and sunny morning, a gentle breeze stirring from the south. There may have been a few signs, noted mostly by the old ones with more life experience: a few aches and pains in the limbs with rheumatism or old injuries; even a feel to the air, maybe, a sensation that something was about to happen.

One of the first visible signs was the approach of scattered blue clouds from the north. Not a heavy line of storm clouds, but an occasional wandering patch of shade. And it was noticeable that while the shadow of such clouds fell over the camp, the air seemed much cooler. The heat from Sun Boy’s torch could not be felt. Along with the cold came a restless stirring of the air. The south breeze changed, not all at once, but in unpredictable directions. Now a shift to the southwest for a moment, then southeast, maybe even due east, and in a few moments, due north or south again.

There was a heavy, clammy feel to the air. The lodge skins were damp to the touch, and before long it was apparent that tiny droplets of moisture were collecting on everything—tepees, trees, shrubs and grasses, even on the furry winter coats of the horses, and the hair of people who remained outside.

The cloud cover was nearly solid now, only an occasional patch of sunlight passed swiftly by.

It would have been impossible to state the exact moment when the wind changed, but now it was apparent that it had. The icy breath of Cold Maker blew harder and harder, whipping gusts through the camp and chilling to the bone.

People scurried to bring in a last armful of fuel, and none too soon. The clammy moisture of the earlier part of the day was now slippery underfoot. It was hard to realize that it was now freezing, a thin veneer of ice on everything as darkness fell.

M
orning dawned with the entire world covered with fuzzy crystals of frost. Each tree branch and twig, every
leaf of grass, had sprouted white fur. It was a beautiful sight, had the cold not made it quite so uncomfortable. But soon after daylight it began to snow. The wind had died, making the chill more bearable. Great fluffy flakes of white came drifting down softly, like the breath feathers of Kookooskoos, the owl, falling on the silent world.

By noon there was an accumulation of a hand’s span in depth. When darkness fell, it was still snowing, somewhat colder, and beginning to drift as the wind rose again. People left the lodges only briefly, only for absolute necessity, and hurried back inside as quickly as possible.

T
he next morning the snow had stopped and the sun shone brightly. It was almost blinding, even with Sun Boy’s fading torch, as it reflected from the snow-covered world. Each tree and twig and each blade of grass was flocked with sparkling and shimmering white, reflecting glitters of light.

By noon the sparkle was gone, and in the warming air the melt had begun. It required several days for all the snow to melt in the shaded places where the rays of Sun Boy’s torch could not reach. The days were comfortable, the nights chilling.

It was nearly half a moon before Cold Maker mounted his next sortie. It was now early in the Moon of Long Nights, and it was becoming clear how this moon had earned its name. Darkness fell appreciably sooner in the evening, and Sun Boy thrust his torch above the horizon a bit later to greet each day. His path, too, was weaker. Instead of thrusting boldly in a path straight upward from earth’s rim, he seemed to seek an easier path slanting upward in a southerly direction. Never did his torch even approach the overhead position now. He reached his highest point scarcely halfway up in the southern sky, before weakly falling back toward the western horizon for a bleak, early sunset.

“Cold Maker pushes him hard,” observed Swan. “The torch grows weaker. See how his light is yellow and watery?”

“How does he renew it?” asked Snakewater.

Swan shrugged. “Who knows? I suppose Sun Boy lights a new torch from the dying flame of this one. But he must use the last of it, it seems. I sometimes wish he would be not quite so frugal, no? I am ready for the new one.”

The women chuckled. It was not yet time for the days to become longer, and would not be for some time.

Snakewater could see how, in this land of far horizons, it would be quite easy to become preoccupied with this struggle. It
was
depressing to see the days grow shorter and colder. Maybe this time the Cold Maker of the Elk-dog People
would
succeed, and Sun Boy’s torch
would
go out. These thoughts, falling on the heels of the Moon of Madness, were quite depressing. Yet, she recalled, it had always been so, the dark days of winter. This was no different. Only more apparent, maybe, in this land of wide skies.

B
y the time the next storms pushed out of the north, the village was nearly ready. Even the most slovenly and the laziest had managed to prepare their lodges in some manner. They were ready for Cold Maker.

The coats of the fur bearers as well as the horses were thick and soft, and some of the men began to hunt and trap. Pelts of beaver, otter, and mink could be sold or traded to white men very profitably. Some of the men even had a few steel traps obtained from traders, and now established traplines along the streams.

Above all it appeared that to these people, winter would be a time of socializing. As the snows deepened, there were trodden paths from one lodge to another. On most evenings friends gathered to smoke, gamble with the plum stones or with the stick game, or to tell stories around the lodge fires.

These were good times for Snakewater. She was familiar with some of the games, but gambling with plum stones was new to her. An odd number of plum stones was used—five, seven, or nine. One side of each stone was painted red, the other remained the natural yellow. One
player would choose, red or yellow, cup the seeds in his hands, and toss them out on a blanket, where the result could be counted. Sometimes the stones would be shaken in a cup made of a buffalo horn before the toss. Large bets would sometimes be placed on this game of chance. It was fascinating to watch the emotion that some of the gamblers invested in such games.

For her part Snakewater preferred the stories.