Smiling gently, the old man nodded.
The fire popped and crackled, sending sparks toward the roof. Then the old man reached into a rabbit-hide sack and withdrew a small figurine. “Do you know what this is?” He handed it to Salamander.
The piece was smaller than his knotted fist, formed into the shape of a corpulent woman’s seated torso, breasts and buttocks pronounced, arms and legs but nubbins. The head depicted the centerparted hair of a married woman, her eyes and happy mouth mere slits. The nose had been pinched out of the face, almost beaklike.
“No.” Salamander turned it in the light. “I’ve never seen a charm like this before.”
The Serpent reached into his bag, retrieving yet another one, similar to the first, and handing it over. “Men usually don’t see these. Women ask for them. Take them. Bury one under Anhinga’s bed when she is not present. Bury the other under Pine Drop’s.”
“What do they do?” Salamander studied the two figurines in his hands.
“Any evil or illness that comes to sneak up your wife’s sheath to infect the infant will be fooled and will invade the clay charm instead.” He pointed his finger. “Now listen. This part is important. When your children are born, the charms must be dug up. This must be done immediately. When the afterbirth is passed, it must be rubbed over the charm to cleanse it. Then, and only then, you must bring the charm back here, to this house, and snap the head off.”
“Why?”
“The afterbirth feeds the evil, tricks it into thinking it is living in the baby. When you snap off the neck, you trap it inside the charm. It must be buried here because it came from here,” the old man said. “From this earth, here, outside of this house. The Power must be returned to the place from which it came. Bury the pieces of the charm, Salamander, put them back where they came from. If you do not, the Earth Mother will become angry. The evil will fly back, angry at being deceived, and kill your child. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Elder.”
The Serpent closed his eyes, and breath caught in his frail chest. His expression twisted, neck bending as he tenderly placed his hands against his left side.
“Elder?”
A moment later, he blinked, and tears appeared at the corners of his eyes. “I need to lie down now, Salamander. Forgive me. I cannot think when it hurts like this.”
“Can I do anything for you?”
The old man nodded. “There, in the bowl with the fox on the side. That paste, it is made with ground jimsonweed seeds. Take that stick, there. That’s it. Dab just a little on the end. Thank you.”
The old man leaned back, taking the stick in trembling hands as he touched it to the tip of his tongue. “Things will be better now. Yes, better.”
Salamander placed the pale elkhide robe over the old man’s bony body, ensuring it was tucked tightly. “Sleep, Elder. I’m sorry I bothered you.”
“No. It’s fine.” He smiled wearily. “You will be the greatest of them, Salamander. If they don’t kill you first. Many Colored Crow is a Powerful enemy, but he will not take you himself.”
“Like he took my brother?”
The old man’s eyes flashed open, brown, penetrating, as if the pain had vanished in an instant. “What makes you think that? Your brother wasn’t killed by Many Colored Crow.”
“Then who? Who else could control the lightning?”
“Any of the Sky Beings,” the Serpent told him, voice low, as if he were sorry he’d said anything. “Now, go away. Let me sleep. Nothing else eases the pain.”
The Serpent
A Dreamer’s first ascent into the Spirit World on the wings of a Spirit Helper is like a return to the womb, to a safe place filled with an awareness of the beginnings of who we are. It is a miracle of silence and beauty. A miracle that is swiftly gobbled up when we plant our feet on dirt again.
That is the heart of the Dreamer’s struggle—not learning to soar, but learning to walk after you’ve soared.
Walking on solid ground, as though you’ve never sailed through blinding sunlight, is the most difficult thing any Dreamer ever does.
It is the fork in the trail.
The decision.
It may be the instant of rebirth, the moment when a man or woman is born into the Spirit World and sprouts his own glistening wings.
Or it may be the instant of accepting less, and the beginning of lifelong regret. Dreamers call this the “little death.”
I cannot hope to convey to you how terrible it is. The “little death” is like a serpent forever coiling and uncoiling inside you, forever striking, biting, and filling you with poison.
I had heard of the “little death.” Somewhere along the way, every Dreamer does, but no one told me that it was everlasting. Perhaps they didn’t have the courage.