Raven Mocker (9 page)

B
ack in Old Town a visitor inquired and was directed to the home of the Peace Chief. After the initial greeting he came quickly to the purpose of his visit.

“I am called No Tail Wolf,” he began. “From Keowee. I come to ask about the death of my brother, Whipper—Whips His Dog.”

“Yes,” mused Three Fingers. “An unfortunate thing.”

“I have heard only stories of stories,” the visitor said, his voice filled with emotion. “I was away on an extended hunt when the word came. I want to know what happened.”

“It is hard to say,” said Three Fingers cautiously. “I investigated, of course. The house was empty. No trace of anyone there. Your brother was killed by his own knife. His feet were tangled in the doorskin, which had fallen down. So it appeared that he had tripped over it and landed on his knife.”

“There must be more to this,” said No Tail Wolf irritably. “Whose house is this? Why was there no one there?”

“Oh… it had belonged to an old woman, but—”

“I have heard that,” the visitor interrupted. “I would learn more about this old woman. She had died?”

Three Fingers studied the other for a moment. Anger seethed in the man’s face. The Peace Chief saw that he was seeking not only information, but revenge for the loss
of his brother. This man clearly did not believe the story of an accidental fall.

“No, not dead,” said Three Fingers, instantly regretting that he had done so. But too late now ….“I do not know where she went,” he said truthfully. “Her house was empty, abandoned, when this happened.”

No Tail Wolf was skeptical.

“An old woman does not simply move out and leave,” he insisted. “Who is this woman?”

There was no point in withholding information that the visitor could obtain from anyone.

“Her name was Snakewater,” said Three Fingers. “A conjure woman. She had been here a long time.”

“Why did she leave?”

The Peace Chief spread his hands, palms up in question.

“Who knows?” he shrugged.

“Someone
does!” said No Tail Wolf angrily. “I will find out.”

“Do you want to see the house?” asked Three Fingers.

“Yes!”

“Good! I will show you myself.”

The two men walked through the town, out through the entry passage, and approached the hut.

“Outside
the town?” asked the visitor. “I saw this place, but… ”

“Yes, she preferred to be alone,” said Three Fingers.

They peered inside, and the visitor entered, kicking aside the doorskin.

“There is nothing here!” he said.

“It is as I said,” Three Fingers reminded him. “Snakewater had moved out.”

The visitor was thoughtful for a moment.

“Who discovered my brother?” he asked suddenly.

“I did myself. My son and I. We heard someone cry out and ran here …. We lighted a torch, and found your brother there.”

“A torch?”

“Yes… there was a fire outside, over here. It had died to coals.”

“Wait, now…. The woman had moved out, but there was a
fire
in front of her door?” No Tail Wolf asked suspiciously.

“It seems so,” said Three Fingers cautiously. “A fire had been laid to burn slowly, and she had departed after dark. We did not know where she was.”

He was trying his best to be truthful yet give no more information than necessary.

“Then she disappeared the same night? The night my brother was killed.”

“It must be so. But you have said ‘disappeared.’ Not like that …. There was no magic about it. She
left.
Moved somewhere else.”

“How do you know this?”

The conversation was becoming uncomfortable now.

“She had told me that she intended to do so,” said Three Fingers.

“So… you
knew.
I am made to think you know more, too, old man.”

Such a rude accusation, especially directed to an elder, was completely inappropriate for one of the Real People. Three Fingers tried to maintain his composure, wondering how one family could have produced two such unpleasant people as Whips His Dog and No Tail Wolf. And there might even be more. What sort of a mother had whelped such sons? And had they no uncle to educate them?

“No Tail Wolf,” the Peace Chief said solemnly, “you are a guest in our town. I will not tolerate accusations such as this. The town met in Council over this, and the matter was settled.”

“Not to my satisfaction!” blurted the visitor.

“Would you prefer that I turn the matter over to our War Chief?” asked Three Fingers. “You are from
outside
the town. Maybe this falls under his authority.”

“No,” said No Tail Wolf, maybe a little too quickly. “There is no need. I will ask around.”

Three Fingers was not happy with this approach. There were many, of course, who would verify the meeting of the Council and its result. What he feared was that the vengeance-seeking brother would chance to ask one of those who had started or had spread the story of the Raven Mocker. But what could be done now?

“Go ahead,” invited Three Fingers. “It is good to do so. But before you leave Old Town, would you come back and tell me what you have learned? Maybe I can help you.”

The visitor appeared surprised, but that expression was quickly replaced with one of suspicion.

“We will see what I am able to learn,” said No Tail Wolf tightly.

H
e wandered around the town, pausing to question someone occasionally.

“Do you know where I can find a woman called Snakewater?”

This query brought forth the same answer each time. The conjure woman was gone. Most people spoke well of her, some said that she would be missed. Her departure had indeed occurred on the very night that the death of Whips His Dog was discovered.

He considered going to pay his respects to his widowed sister-in-law. Maybe he could console her for the loss of her husband. That was an intriguing idea …. For a moment he fantasized how she might dissolve into his arms, soft and warm and totally yielding. It was an attractive thought, but not very close to reality. In the real world his brother’s wife detested No Tail Wolf. Maybe he could bully her into cooperating, or even take her forcibly if need be. He abandoned the whole idea, realizing that she might have moved back into her mother’s house anyway. Even if not, this town was unfamiliar to him. He did not know where the power and influence lay. Besides, he doubted that his brother had enjoyed great popularity. Few would mourn the death of Whips His Dog, unless he had changed greatly since the brothers had last seen each other.

No, he would avoid contact with the young widow, ask a few more questions, and then return to Keowee. He had picked up a hint here and there that Snakewater had talked at length with a traveling trader. Maybe she had followed him or some other traveler ….
Wait! Had there not been a party traveling through Keowee at about that time?
Just before he returned from the hunt …

He would ask a few more people ….

Even then he was astonished at the response from the next woman he queried about Snakewater.

“Yes, I know her!” the woman hissed. “She killed my baby to steal her life-years.”

“What?”

“Yes! She is a Raven Mocker.”

“But what has this to do with—?”

He stopped short. He had not revealed much about his purpose in asking about the woman, to anyone except Three Fingers. Even in his blunt and bullying approach there was a certain clever caution.

“Raven Mocker?” he asked innocently. “I do not understand.”

“You remember the story of the Raven Mocker, don’t you?” demanded the woman. “Takes the unused years of a person who dies young? Even kills to obtain these life-years, to live forever.”

“But Snakewater,” he said innocently, “—where has she gone? Can the Raven Mocker disappear?”

“I don’t know. Don’t care, really. But this one ran from Old Town rather than face the town Council.”

“Ah, yes, I heard something of that.” No Tail Wolf was pleased with his own cleverness now. “Something was said of a death in her house too ….”

“Yes! She killed him. They said he fell on his own knife.
Huh!
She used her
powers
to kill him and take his years too.”

The woman was almost shrieking now. He hesitated to prolong the conversation lest he draw too much attention, but he wanted to ask one more question.

“Where do you suppose she might have gone?”

“West!
Isn’t everybody going west to avoid the white man? Now, leave me alone!”

The woman turned and stalked away.

No Tail Wolf paused to ponder his new information. Maybe he should inquire a bit more at Keowee. He recalled the party of travelers who had passed through the town shortly before his return.

He retrieved his horse and started back to Keowee as fast as the animal could lope. Soon, though, he realized that this was impractical. He would pace himself as well as his mount, to accomplish what he must.

At a more leisured pace he took a little time to think. There was really not much reason to inquire further at Keowee. He was convinced now that the old woman
had
joined that party. Two or three wagons, someone had said …. There was only one road westward out of Keowee. He would take that route and inquire at the next town. Yes, that would be better. He was not well liked in Keowee anyway. Probably strangers in another town would give him more information.

“Y
es, they came through here. Two wagons, another family with pack animals… ”

“Tell me,” said No Tail Wolf, “was there an old woman with them? I am trying to find my mother.”

The woman smiled sympathetically. A loving son, trying to find his mother …. “Why, yes, there was. A tall woman, old but spry. She was riding a gray mare.”

“Yes, that is the one.” He chuckled. “In her second childhood, no? I must catch up to them, to protect her from herself.”

He remounted and hurried on.

The woman with whom he had been talking looked after him, smiling.

“What a nice young man,” she said to her husband. “So concerned about his mother.”

K
ills Many and his party had decided to winter at West Landing, as the little settlement was being called. Some of the men would make short trips on westward as the weather permitted to look for a place to settle and plant next year’s crops.

Of first importance, however, was the construction of shelters for the winter. Time was short, and nights were cold. Twice there had been a light dusting of snow, and once a chilling rain that froze in icicles on trees and grasses and on the manes and tails of the horses. On days when the sun shone it was quite comfortable, but these days seemed to become fewer, and definitely shorter. Sun seemed to become weaker and slower to rise, crawling across the inside of the sky dome with difficulty. She was not able to take the road directly overhead, even, but a pitiful arc farther to the south than her summer path.

All of this was expected, of course, but in the permanency of Old Town there had been little preparation beyond the storing of a food supply. Here, dwellings for the winter were not only needed, but would be essential.

With the help and advice of Little Horse and his people of the settlement, it was accomplished: small dwellings, temporary in nature, one for each family. Snakewater was included by invitation in the winter shelter of the family of Kills Many. She had lived alone for many years, since the death of her namesake and mentor. She had long since
convinced herself that she liked it that way. Now she found that her attitude was changing somewhat. She had enjoyed the wisdom of young Kills Many, as well as his assistance and understanding. She liked his pretty young wife, Blossom, and especially their daughter, Pigeon. It was not often that Snakewater regretted her solitary life and the absence of a marriage and family. She had never felt that she was missing much, but now she could see clearly that she had been. The sheer joy and exuberance of the little girl, Pigeon, was contagious. It was hardly possible to be glum with this bright and enthusiastic child around.
Maybe
, thought Snakewater,
I have the best of both ways.

“G
randmother,” demanded Pigeon, “tell us a story.”

There were several other children of assorted ages around the evening fire. This ritual had not been planned. It had simply happened as they traveled. Pigeon was a curious child, always asking questions, and as a matter of convenience Snakewater answered as many as she could.

“Why is Possum’s tail bare, Grandmother?”

“Ah, child, that goes back a long way, to the time that all the people and animals spoke the same tongue.”

“Were you there, Grandmother?”

“No, no, child, of course not. Be still, Lumpy! It is not funny.”

“What?” asked Pigeon. “Who are you talking to?”

“No one, child. Just the Little People.”

“Tell us about them!”

“No, no. You asked about Possum’s tail. That goes back to when Man needed fire, for light and to warm him and to cook his food. The animals wanted to help Man too. Or maybe they just wanted fire for themselves. I don’t know. But several went to try to bring back fire to the island where they lived.”

“What is an island, Grandmother?”

“That is a piece of solid ground with water all around. That is how the world started, with mud from the bottom.”

“Who brought it up?”

“You ask too many questions, child. Let me finish about Possum. Now, the fire was on another island, in a pit in the ground. Several birds and animals tried to bring it. Mostly birds at first. Crow and Raven tried it, and were covered with black soot from the smoke. Then Buzzard, who got closer and blistered his head and neck. The same thing happened to Turkey. Some of the animals tried then. Possum was one of the first. He had a fine bushy tail, of soft fur. He thought to curl his tail around the fire and hurry back, with the flames shooting out behind instead of burning him. But it did not work out. He lost not only the fire, but his beautiful tail too. Now it is only dry and scaly and scorched.”

“Who did bring fire, then?”

“Oh! It was Spider. She made a little basket of clay and carried it on her head, to keep the fire from burning her. She could walk across the water to the fire island, and she spun a thread to find her way back.”

There was a gasp of surprise and appreciation from the little group of children.

“Tell us another!”

So it was that the conjure woman who had seldom talked, except to herself, became a teller of stories. Her skill improved with practice, and she began to remember stories from her own childhood. She had almost forgotten the times when she herself was a child, and would sit on her own mother’s lap for stories. Now, with the recalling of each story, she began to remember more.

It was, she thought, almost like a pleasant shower in a dry season. First a few fat drops, falling on dry foliage and grasses, bringing forth the delightful smell of a new rain… At first only a moistening of the ground, but then, as the big drops continue, there are little puddles. These begin to run together and to flow in the easiest paths the water can find, making rivulets toward the nearest ditch, gully, or stream. It seemed so with the stories. A few pleasurable evenings as they traveled led to more, which stirred the cobwebby recesses of her memory, awakening stories she had forgotten. They were new stories to the
children, and new, almost, to herself. It had been many years since she had found such enjoyment in anything.

A
mong the favorite stories to both herself and the children were stories of Rabbit. Sometimes wise, sometimes foolish, always amusing, Rabbit could bring a smile to childish faces. And a warming to the heart of Snakewater as she related the stories of Rabbit’s adventures.

“Tell us about Rabbit!” was a frequent request.

Sometimes she feared that she would run out of Rabbit stories, but then she would remember another. Maybe the memories were a bit vague, yet usually she could recall enough of the story line to add her own details.

Rabbit is the trickster to the Real People. He is a joker, a mischief maker, lovable although sometimes selfish. His adventures provide a learning experience for the young, and a chuckle for the adults who are able to look back on their own adventures. In the same telling of the Rabbit’s stories there is authenticity, because other creatures are portrayed with their distinct characteristics as well. Snakewater soon realized that she was appreciating the stories much more than she had as a child. And when a storyteller enjoys her own story, it is all to the good.

R
abbit was once caught by Wildcat, who was about to kill him to eat.

“Wait!” said Rabbit, thinking quickly. “Wouldn’t you rather have venison? Let’s go catch a deer and eat together.”

“You
eat deer?”
asked Wildcat.

“Of course. I catch deer all the time,” boasted Rabbit. “I know where they feed, along the river.”

Rabbit led the way to the river, where many deer ate the lush growth along its banks. Rabbit climbed a tree and dropped down on the back of a large buck, which fled across the stream. Rabbit fell off in the fastest part of the current and swam to the other side, away from Wildcat. So he got away again. Wildcat killed a small deer for his own dinner.

Another time Rabbit was approached by Wolf, who is a notoriously fast runner. Wolf suggested a race.

“But you are so fast,” protested Rabbit modestly. “You can probably beat me. Could I choose someone to represent me?”

Wolf was delighted and flattered, knowing that he and Rabbit were probably the fastest in the woods. He quickly consented. The course was agreed upon, a trail over the hills and through the forest. There would be seven markers along the course of the race.

But before the appointed day, Rabbit enlisted the assistance of his friend Turtle. One turtle looks pretty much like another, and Turtle selected six of his friends to help with a joke.

The race started, with a crowd of the other animals yelling and cheering them on. Turtle was left far behind. But as Wolf neared the first marker, there was a cheer, and he saw a turtle in the path ahead. By the time he reached that point, though, the turtle had concealed himself in the dry leaves. Thinking that he must have passed him, Wolf ran on.

At the next marker the same thing happened, and at the next and the next, Wolf was exhausted and sweating, and reached the finish line just in time to see Turtle crawling slowly across it. It is not good to feel too proud.

O
n the back trail of the travelers a man on an exhausted horse stopped for the night at a small town in Tennessee. He had many questions about travelers ahead. In particular, he told those at the trading post, he was concerned about his mother, who had run away with some travelers heading for Arkansas. There were two wagons and some pack horses ….

“Yes, I remember them,” said the trader. “They asked about how far to the river, and how does one get across. An old woman with them.”

“That would be the party,” said No Tail Wolf. “When were they here?”

“Oh, some time ago. Maybe ten days …. A little longer.”

“And about the river?”

“Two days. There’s a ferry—a Scotchman with a Cherokee wife. He could tell you. About those travelers, that is.”

“Good. Well, I’ll be on my way.”

The trader and his wife watched the man climb back on his horse and jab a spur into the animal’s flank to jolt it into motion.

“There’s an odd one,” said the trader.

“I wish you hadn’t told him so much, Zeb,” said the woman.

“What do you mean?”

“Oh …I don’t know, really. There’s just something about him. He’s not completely honest.”

“One o’ your feelings?” he asked, half amused, half serious.

“Maybe ….”

“Look, honey, I know you see and feel things that I don’t. Your Choctaw people say it’s a gift, don’t they?”

“More like a curse sometimes,” she mused. “Zeb, that man is dangerous.”

“You’re probably right. But what can I do? People ask directions, I tell ‘em. It goes with what we do here.”

“Yes … I know.”

“You want me to go after him? Tell him somethin’ different?”

“No, no. Of course not. It’s just… ”

“Damn, woman! Now, I wish you hadn’t told me. You think he means harm to somebody? That old woman?”

“Maybe… I don’t think she’s his mother. I remember her. I’d guess she’s a doctor woman. They were Cherokee, weren’t they?”

“Seems like it.”

“Well … I hope her power is strong ….”