Men and women packed the room. Tall Man sat to Star Shell’s right, preoccupied with his own thoughts. Frown lines had deepened his wizened face. To her left, Silver Water clutched Star Shell’s arm, her eyes wide with a terror she was just beginning to understand. Her young face mirrored the tragedy and fear that hid in her small body. Silver Water’s grip tightened, as if she could draw strength from her mother’s flesh.
Gray Deer, Mica Bird’s mother, sat on the other side of Silver Water. She had draped a mourning blanket over her head to cover her expression of misery and horror.
“We are all here,” Old Slate, of the Branch Water lineage and the keeper of the Potters’ house, declared uneasily. “Let us attend to the rituals.”
Star Shell joined the invocation, uttering the prayers to First Man without thinking the words. When they called for the Blessing of Many Colored Crow, her voice caught in her throat.
Glancing to the side, she noticed that Tall Man called for the blessing as reverently as the rest. Then they Sang to the ancestors, calling on the ghosts to help them, to whisper advice in people’s Dreams that they might make proper decisions regarding this sudden calamity.
Old Slate lit her silt-stone pipe and sucked. She blew smoke to the sacred directions, then called upon the gathered people.
“Hear me, my clanspeople. terrible thing has happened.
My cousin’s son, for reasons known only to Power and the ancestors, was possessed by something evil. We’ve seen it coming—and did nothing. Perhaps now we will pay for that disregard. Then again, perhaps we can think of a way to deal with this and get on about our lives. Do I hear any thoughts?”
Bad Tooth stood and looked around the assembly. Her four tens of years showed in the lines that time had eaten into her face. She fumbled at the edge of the blanket she’d wrapped around her stooped shoulders, worry in her eyes. “For the moment, my cousin’s ghost is contained. So is that of his grandfather.
We have locked them up together. But this is only a temporary measure. We must act to ensure that these ghosts remain safely contained.”
Mutters of assent came in response.
Skinny Porcupine sighed as he stood. He wore a black blanket over one shoulder and sucked at his toothless mouth.’ ‘ clan house must be burned. Many Colored Crow taught people that lesson when he gathered the angry ghosts on the Sacred Mountain and burned it. We must do the same.”
Reaches Far, also of the Branch Water lineage, stood then, his hands clasped before him. “I agree that we must burn the clan house. But before we do, we must hold a Dance and a feast. We must ask the ancestors to help us keep my cousins’ ghosts contained. With their help, we can set better guard posts, and then build a mound on top of the ashes.”
Reaches Far lifted his head and looked around. “After that, we must cleanse the clan grounds—and all of the people who work to build the mound must spend four days in the sweat lodge. When this is done, they must fast for ten days and nights.
After they fast, they must sweat again and be rubbed clean with fresh cedar.”
Whispers of assent signified agreement.
Gray Deer remained slumped as she said, “That will purify the clan grounds. But we have another problem—the Mask.
What shall be done with it?”
“Burn it!” Old Slate cried.
People turned to stare at her in horror.
Old Slate spread her hands. “The change came over my cousin after he retrieved the Mask from wherever his grandfather had taken it. Why do I not hear agreement that it should be burned?”
Fat Lips, an overweight man of the High Pole lineage, tugged at the blanket he wore as he looked around with sullen eyes.
“The Mask belongs to Many Colored Crow. It is not ours. It is a thing of Power. We have no right to destroy it. If we do, Many Colored Crow might be offended.”
Around the room, a few heads nodded.
“How do we know it belongs to Many Colored Crow?” Reaches Far asked. “Perhaps the evil within it made someone say that. To protect it. Maybe it lies as well as kills.”
Grunts sounded.
Fat Lips said, “We know that it causes trouble. In the past moon, people have disappeared from the Holy Road. Or, when you do see them, they hurry past. How often have people stopped in to ask the news? They are avoiding us.”
Star Shell hesitated, then forced herself to speak. “Many of the clans are thinking of calling up their warriors. Some with whom I’ve spoken want the Mask for themselves.”
A startled silence greeted her words. The ring of somber faces glanced back and forth. The smell of too many people mixed with the earth-musty scents of clay.
“Who?” Old Slate asked.