People of the Lakes(116)
“No, I suppose it didn’t. Try to understand. The Mask is not a thing. Power lives within it. Power, this Power, is acting alone.
It is seeking to accomplish its own ends, whatever they might be.”
“You mean it’s alive?”
“Of course it’s alive. Though in a way you do not yet understand.
It has no feet or hands. It can’t move or create on its own. It needs a human to serve those purposes. Without a wearer, the Mask is lost, struggling to reach out to anyone who can act as a bridge between it and the world, so that its Power may soar free again.” Tall Man threw wood on the fire, and the flames shed light on the grubby insides of Clamshell’s house.
Star Shell forced herself to think. “The wolfhide. Why does it smother the Mask’s Power?‘s
“Wolf—the Spirit Helper of First Man—has a special kind of Power. This hide did not come from an ordinary wolf, but from a Spirit Animal. A black wolf with gleaming amber eyes.
I had to seek him out. I hunted him for four moons. And finally, when I had proven myself worthy, he came to me, allowed me to kill him for his pelt.”
“You’ve known that this … this journey … was coming for a long time, haven’t you?”
Tall Man nodded uncomfortably. “We all make our gambles, Star Shell. Power has to position itself. As among men, plans must come to fruition. The right people must be chosen.”
Chosen. The words chilled her. Why did it have to choose me and my little daughter?
“Come,” Tall Man said gently. “Help me prepare Evening Star’s body. She needs someone to care for her ghost. To wash her and make her ready.”
Star Shell managed to nod an unsure assent. She looked down at Silver Water. The events of the last couple of days would have taken a toll on any adult, but something had changed in Silver Water’s expression. She didn’t look as young anymore.
Silver Water crouches behind a clump of bushes and peers out at the world through the winter-bare tangle of stems. She is so frightened that she can’t catch her breath. It comes in quick, shallow gasps, like the breathing of a rabbit in a snare. Who are all these people? They began arriving at dawn, and now there are dozens of them. All men. She hasn’t seen them, not really, but she senses them here. When the wind creaks the tree limbs, she hears voices, and every so often she glimpses a face in the wavering, windblown shadows. Have they come for Clamshell’s funeral?
Ten body-lengths away, her mother and Tall Man are laboring over Clamshell’s body. They have laid the naked old woman on a beautiful red-and-blue blanket and are gently rubbing hickory oil into the withered flesh of her arms while they speak softly to each other. Tears streak, the dwarf’s cheeks, but his voice is strong, as if only his eyes are sad. He doesn’t see the men, though they have crowded around him—disguised as flitters of shadow. Silver Water tilts her head to listen better, but catches only a few words:
“… loved her so much,” Tall Man says.
Her mother nods. “Well, she won’t have to dream of her old lovers anymore. Soon she’ll … “
“Yes,” Tall Man answers. “She must be looking forward to that.”
Clamshell’s gray hair has been combed and twisted into a bun on top of her head. A copper pin secures the bun. It glints in the cold white sunshine filtering through the leafless filigree of branches. Triangles of light decorate the forest floor. They shudder and shimmer, as if the wind is playing, shattering them into tens of tens of pieces, then delightedly fitting them back together again.
Silver Water glances around, wondering if that’s who all the men are. Clamshell’s old lovers?
A gust of wind sweeps the forest, and a low, pulsing groan meanders through the trees. It must be the men talking to each other. At the root of that groan is hurt and longing. When Silver Water” tries to imitate the sound, it tastes like green pawpaw fruit in her mouth, sour now, but with a promise of sweetness to come. This comforts Silver Water, though she isn’t sure why.
Maybe the men are telling Clamshell how sorry they are that she’s dead, and describing the wonders of the afterlife, hoping to make her feel better.
She wishes they would go over and tell the same thing to the old dog who lies faithfully by Clamshell’s side. Though he is perfectly still and quiet, his white muzzle propped on his paws, he’s been whining inside his head, whining and whimpering, and begging Clamshell not to leave him here alone. Not once all day has he taken his huge, forlorn eyes from Clamshell’s face.
When Silver Water concentrates, she can feel the dog’s ache in her heart. It is like looking up from the bottom of a cold, cold lake, knowing your lungs are full of water and that you’ll never be able to swim to the sunshine.