“You could, you know. Follow in my footsteps, I mean.”
“I have other responsibilities.”
“You are no longer the child I once knew. You have aged in the last three moons since you were made a man and married.”
“I have too much to worry about.”
“Yes, I haven’t heard a word from your Clan Elder at Council since you were accepted there.” Then he resumed his chanting.
Salamander pinched his lips, frowning, his thoughts locked on Wing Heart’s perplexing silence. She might have lost part of her souls, given the way she walked about, a listlessness in her eyes.
He picked up the Serpent’s words and Sang in gentle accompaniment as he thought of his mother. He couldn’t help but compare her to Graywood Snake. Unlike his mother, he had always liked Graywood Snake. Even after his near-unanimous nomination to the Council, she had treated him like a fellow rather than a jest, as the others had.
Salamander ran his blade down the inside of the leg, separating the thin skin. With careful strokes he severed the ligament and tendons in the round, peeling the muscle back from the bone. That done, he had placed the cool flesh in the basket; reverently, he severed the tendons at the kneecap and folded the leg bones double. He laid them with the arm and leg bones that already rested on the rick of wood. Dry and seasoned, the pyre would burn hot and completely, in defiance of the moisture that hung in the summer air outside.
“I will miss you, Elder,” Salamander said as he cleaned the last bits of tissue from his knife and ritually passed it over the smoking coals in the fire pit. Not that the house needed a fire, given the melting heat of the day, but the smoke was required, not only for purification of the tools, but to keep evil spirits out and away, and to assist Graywood Snake’s souls in their passage from this life to the next.
Sweat beaded on Salamander’s forehead as he Sang the final verses of the Death Song. Then he and the Serpent carefully placed the naked bones of her torso atop the pyre, propping them in the cradle of her limbs so that they wouldn’t roll off.
“Rest well, old friend.” The Serpent patted the rounded globe of her skull with blood-encrusted hands. “You have always been a light in my life. Your fond wit and smile brought happiness to many of my days. I will see you someday soon.”
Salamander watched the old man’s gentle motions as he caressed the bones. “Does it bother you?”
“Hmm?” The Serpent turned, gaze absent. The skin seemed to hang like a wet rag from the flat planes of his charcoal-smeared face.
“She was your friend.” Salamander gestured toward the bones. “We have just cut her into pieces. It seems like a violation.”
Salamander hated it when the old man gave him that look of irritated consideration. “Her souls have left the body, Salamander. I am overjoyed to be the one to help her during her passing. Put yourself in her place. If your souls were hanging here in the air”—he pointed at the smoke-filled ceiling—“would you want some rude stranger, or an old and dear friend, seeing to the care of your body?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Ah, that’s because you have not considered death, my young friend. The living lose themselves in the pain of the moment. They are completely absorbed by their own sense of loss. They never think about how fragile the souls of the freshly dead are. Imagine yourself as having just died: You are lost, grieving, your body refuses to respond to your orders as it did when you were alive. Your loved ones are all around you, crying, pulling their hair. You try to help them, to calm them, but they are deaf to your entreaties. You can only watch their pain, unable to soothe it. Meanwhile, all around you, spirits are gathering, calling to you, trying to get your attention. Old friends, long dead, are crowding around and demand to speak with you. Other spirits are circling, knowing you are vulnerable, easily attacked. You must guard against them, but you are so confused, worried, and scared like you have never been before.” He shook his head. “I think dying is much more frightening than being born.”
“You think they are linked?”
“Yes,” the old man replied. He looked at the basket made of split cane. “Can you carry that?”
“If you can Sing. I’m still learning the words.” Salamander stepped over, crouched, and shifted the basket onto his back. Graywood Snake had been old and frail; she weighed almost nothing. He took the load and ducked out into the hot sunshine. Eyes slitted against the glare, he could see Clay Fat, his portly body streaked with perspiration, his round face stricken. Turtle Mist’s features were drawn, her eyes sad.