People of the Lakes(7)

“Because I’m dying. For the first time since I looked through the Mask, he’s let go, freed my soul. I can see now, see what I’ve done. Terrible things. Only now, as I die, do I see the mistakes.” Grandfather sighed wearily. “But you don’t care, do you? Nothing I say will make any difference. That’s why the Mask allows me to speak so freely. It knows you’ve already made your decision. You don’t hear my words.”

Mica Bird glanced at the dried corpse again, struggling to keep from shivering. “You just want to keep the Mask, that’s all. A prize you can’t give up.”

Grandfather grunted and looked up, pity in his eyes. “The Mask has already taken your measure, boy … like an engineer laying out an earthwork. It knows what it will gain from you.” “Grandfather,” he said, suddenly uncertain, “why didn’t the High Heads ever ask for the Mask back?”

The old man could barely shrug. “Why would they? They know that it carries its own curse. Having the Mask was punishment enough for what I did. If a man hides a rattlesnake in a pot and a thief steals it, do you warn him? Or do you let justice follow its own course?”

Squaring his shoulders, Mica Bird forced confidence into his voice. “I am taking the Mask with me.”

“So you can build your monuments? Be a great leader?”

“That is the way it will be.”

A bitter smile curled the old man’s lips. “Is it? Hear me, boy.

If you take the Mask, it will destroy you. Any monument you build will be as fleeting as a swallow’s song on the wind. Where you walk in your false pride, one day the trees will grow tall and thick. Those whom you would love will flee in terror. What the Mask gives, it takes back threefold.”

Mica Bird wet dry lips. Did the corpse have to stare so? It seemed to mock him, exposing the few brown teeth left in the curled wreckage of mouth.

Mica Bird forced his attention to Grandfather. “You … you tell me this to keep me from taking the Mask, to keep me from becoming greater than you. That’s it, isn’t it?”

“Believe what you like. But leave. Now! And never come back. Promise me!”

The passion in the old man’s voice almost persuaded him— but not quite. “Die in peace, Grandfather. Die knowing that I will lead our people to a greatness that you can only imagine.”

“No! Get out of here! Run, boy. Run … “

“You can’t stop me.” Mica Bird stepped closer.

Lackluster eyes stared up at him. The old man’s chest rose and fell, the bones visible through the thin fabric of his beautifully woven shirt. “You … you must believe me. You’re not as strong as I was. Many Colored Crow knows this. Leave the Mask, Mica Bird. Leave it here with my ghost, or it will devour you before you know what’s happened. You’re weak … too weak. I saw that from the moment you were born.”

Mica Bird cocked his head. “If I’m so weak, why would the Mask choose me the way you say it has?”

“It only needs you for a little while, boy. It only needs you to take it back to the people … yes,” . said, and his eyes widened as if with realization. “That’s it. A strong man will come along, someone ambitious. Then the Mask will break you. Throw you away the same as a man discards a dull flake when it has fulfilled its need.”

Mica Bird reached down, closing his fingers around the heavy fabric of the bag. “Farewell, Grandfather. I will Sing your praises at the Feast of the Dead. And bring your body back with me for proper burial.”

“No!” the frail voice shrieked. “Leave me here! Don’t make me watch!”

“Watch?”

“My ghost will torment you, hound you to … to … ” When Mica Bird tore the sacred sack away, Grandfather’s body stiffened.

A croaking sounded from that ancient throat. Then the body went limp, like so many sticks broken loose inside.

“Yes,” Mica Bird whispered to himself. “I’ll take you back, Grandfather. Lay you out in uie charnel house … have your body oiled and smoked. I’ll build a tomb for you. A magnificent tomb. You’ll be there. With each Feast of the Dead, you’ll watch my greatness grow. I’ll lay offerings on your tomb. You’ll be proud of me.”

In death, the old man’s face had taken on an expression of horror.

Mica Bird stared into those dead eyes, memorizing the expression.

Then he straightened and studied the finely woven fabric that covered the Mask. The sack had been beautiful once.

He would have another made, even more beautiful.

With anxious fingers, he opened the bag, reverently raising the magnificent Mask to his face so that he could stare out at the world through those eye holes. The Mask’s cool surface seemed to conform to his face. He could sense the Power welling, growing around him as he gazed through the green wall of cedar trees.