People of the Black Sun(148)

Thousands fill the meadow below, commemorating the last great battle in a war that almost destroyed our Peoples. Far to my right, just at the crest of the hills, Shago-niyoh stands with one hand braced upon a boulder. He hasn’t spoken to me, and I fear that he thinks, as of today, I no longer need him.

A shout goes up from below.

As the clans parade across the lush wildflower-strewn meadow toward the deep hole we’ve dug beneath the old pine tree, Hiyawento says, “I can’t believe that all five nations joined the Peace Alliance. I swear it’s the greatest miracle in the history of our Peoples.”

My eyes tighten. I do not answer, because I can’t find any words that have meaning. For thirteen summers, he has stood behind me like a stone wall in the bitter campaign for survival—always there, always fighting for me with blind loyalty. But … after today, there will be no more fighting. I suspect part of my emptiness comes from the fact that I don’t know how to face a world without war. I have never seen one. Nor has anyone in the meadow below.

I squint at the gathering.

The last representatives come forward. They wear their best clothing, heavily painted with bright clan symbols. When it is his or her turn, the chosen one reverently places weapons in the hole, submerging them in the river of Great Grandmother Earth’s blood that rushes beneath the ground, cleansing them of the taint of death.

I heave a sigh, and unconsciously reach down to pat Gitchi’s head. The old wolf stands beside me with his ears pricked, listening attentively.

Mother is the final representative. She stands at the head of the Bear Clan, beside her new husband, Cord, wearing a white ritual cape painted with black bear tracks. When she walks forward and places CorpseEye on top of the cache of weapons, I wonder what she must be thinking. CorpseEye has saved her life many times … he is an old and dear friend. The war club has been a part of her family, handed down from warrior to warrior, for generations. But she understands the symbolism.

No more war …

As he straightens, Shago-niyoh’s black cape catches my attention. I turn in time to see him stride away into the trees where he melts with the shadows.

Have I done something? Has he forsaken me? Perhaps it’s just that others need him more now. I pray that someday he will show me where his bones lie so that I can collect them and Sing his soul to the next world. He deserves to be released from this earth. His loved ones in the Land of the Dead have been waiting for him too long.

When the ceremony below is over, Gitchi rises to his feet and silently trots away up the trail that leads westward, and I realize it’s time. Elder Brother Sun sits just above the western horizon.

“Where’s Gitchi going?” Hiyawento asks.

“To his special place. I usually run with him. Do you want to come along?”

“I do.”

We trot side by side, following Gitchi, who lopes in front with his tongue hanging out. The forest scents strike me like blows today, moss and deadfall warmed in the dappled sunlight, dogwood and wildflower blossoms. Ferns sway as Gaha silently creeps beneath the trees.

“Today is a day of great joy, yet you look sad, my friend.”

I smile faintly and study the ground passing beneath my feet. When I turn to look at him, he’s frowning at me in concern. His shoulder-length black hair jerks with the beat of his feet, and sweat shines on his eagle face. I have not seen Hiyawento without a weapons belt, bow or quiver, since we were eleven summers. It must feel odd not to have the weight around his waist. My gaze drops to his hands, and lingers on the missing tip of his finger—sawn off by Gannajero long ago.

“Not sad, Wrass. I think it’s just … loneliness.”

We wind through the growing shadows, our moccasins quiet on the trail. Ahead, Gitchi enters a grove of ancient oaks that cast gigantic wavering shadows. The old wolf slows to a walk, as though the cool air feels good on his gray coat, and he wants to absorb it before he enters the small clearing where sunlight sheathes every blade of grass and nodding wildflower.

“He comes here every day,” I explain.

Hiyawento frowns. “Why?”

We follow Gitchi out into the center of the meadow where he lies down and braces his white muzzle on his forepaws, watching. Just watching the meadow.

“I first noticed he was doing this right after my head wound began to heal. Every afternoon, he was gone. Finally, I followed him. He came here, stretched out, and watched the meadow until darkness fell. Then he came home.”

“What’s he doing?”

“I’m not sure. I think … I think this is the last place he saw her. I think he’s waiting for her to come back to him.”