People of the Mist(159)

Nine Killer thought that perhaps-there was something to be said for dying young. “About that blanket, Mockingbird. Do you still have it?”

“Eh? Yes, yes. Someone would come asking about it. Being cold that morning, I put it over my shoulders and brought it home. Better to have it in the house, nice and dry, than leave it out for the dogs to mess on.”

“Would you mind if I took a look at it?”

“Think it’s yours, do you?”

“No, but—”

“You shouldn’t leave a nice blanket like that lying around where an old man might pee on it. That, or the dogs might mess on it. Or, if you leave it lying around, put’ it someplace where an old man like me won’t trip over it.”

Nine Killer winced. “I—I will, Elder. Forgive me.”

The old man bent down, his body crackling, and ducked into the doorway to the long house Nine Killer could hear his knees grating: bone rubbing on bone.

As Nine Killer waited, he looked across the plaza to the tall House of the Dead, and the far wall that lay in shadow when the bonfire cast its light. A great deal had happened back there during Red Knot’s last night.

When Mockingbird finally shuffled out of the doorway, he carried a fine deerskin blanket cradled in his hands. The workmanship was exquisite, peak sewn onto the leather in intricate design. When Nine Killer took it, and unfolded it, the image of a buck deer glistened in the firelight. A small piece of copper had been sewn to each corner.

“That is yours?” Mockingbird asked.

Nine Killer took a deep breath. “No, Elder.” His heart skipped a beat, and he carefully refolded the soft leather. “But I know who it belongs to. I promise you, I will see that it is returned to its rightful owner.”

“Eh? Well, good. And, War Chief, you be sure to tell him not to leave things where an old man like me might fall over them. Get to be my age, well, you fall down, you might not get up!” And he chuckled gleefully.

“Yes, thank you, Elder. You’ve been a great help.”

“Good, good. See you at solstice celebration. Wouldn’t want First Man to think we’ve forgotten him.”

“Never that.” Nine Killer tucked the folded blanket under Jiis arm and turned toward Rosebud’s, but the spring had vanished from his step.

To Panther’s surprise, Rosebud was walking toward him, a pack on her back. He stopped short, watching her approach. “I thought you were cooking. Preparing for the solstice doings.”

She sighed and came to a stop. “Step back, Panther. Unless, that is, you want your precious male soul endangered by woman’s blood.”

“Ah, I see. The moon has placed its blessing upon you.”

Rosebud studied him. “That’s a curious way for a man to phrase it.”

Panther grinned. “I have to tell you, once, long ago, I was trapped in a canoe with a woman throughout her moon blessing. I was half-dead, weak, and suffering. Through it all, she nursed me, changed her absorbent and wrung the blood out of it, then used that same cloth to wash my fevered head. If ever a man’s soul was endangered, it was mine. My weapons were lying in the bottom of the canoe, and she fed me, often with the stain upon her hands. I was on the mend during the last days of her bleeding, and, upon making land, I met a challenger, and killed him, weakened though I’d been.”

“Maybe your soul is possessed and you really are a witch.”

“And maybe there’s not much to this silly superstition of locking our women away.” He crossed his arms.

“And maybe there is.” Rosebud glanced around, then smiled and winked conspiratorially. “You don’t think it’s all that terrible, do you, to have three or four days a month to sit and relax, talk with friends, and catch up on little things like beading? Since you’re such a knowing sort, so experienced with life, I’ll let you know that at times I sincerely look forward to my moon. In fact, not so long from now, I’ll make the change—and I’m not looking forward to that at all. Where will I escape to then?”

Panther laughed. “Rosebud, I promise, your secret will be safe with me. I’ll see you in a couple of days.”

“Maybe four,” she called after him. “Sometimes these things take time, and I’m worn out from feeding that belly of yours.”

He looked back. “But the squash was cooked, wasn’t it?”

“White Otter is finishing it.” Rosebud waved, and walked toward the menstrual house. Panther muttered to himself. White Otter’s cooking! For the next four days! He’d seen women stand up halfway through a meal and quietly excuse themselves—so rapid could be the onset of their cramps and menstruation. More than once, he’d suspected that women just used the excuse to get away. After all this time, it was nice to have Rosebud confirm it.