People of the Owl(95)
They will be all right, won’t they? Not like Mother. The aftereffects of death now scared him. His mother hadn’t been the same since White Bird’s death. Instead, she had turned into a walking husk, the seed that should have been within gone black and shriveled. He wondered if perhaps White Bird had been so frightened that he had clawed away part of Mother’s souls as his own had been drawn into the realm of the Dead.
The basket leaked, and as he walked, Salamander felt wet drops of fluid spattering his legs. Their route took them southwest, proceeding through the gap that separated Rattlesnake Clan from Eagle Clan. One by one they passed the remaining ridges. From the rows of houses, people from Graywood Snake’s clan watched with somber eyes, many singing and calling final wishes to their departed Elder.
“So, where are the souls?” Salamander asked.
“Hovering close to the bones, you know that.” The Serpent paused in his Singing. “Why do you ask?”
“Because of the people,” Salamander replied quietly, keeping his head down as was respectful toward the dead. “They call out to Graywood Snake, but what is left of her in the basket is soulless meat, correct?”
The Serpent grinned humorlessly. “That is the way of people, Salamander. The living see the Dead everywhere. It hurts nothing and makes the living feel better. Perhaps the Dead hear all of the calls. I don’t know, and worse, I can’t find out until I, myself, am dead.”
They passed the last of the ridges with their mourners, and walked out onto the beaten grass beyond. To their right, the Bird’s Head rose high and resolute into the yellow-hot air. The ramada at the top looked fuzzy and wavered in the humidity. Bright fabrics that had been tied to the sun poles hung limp and heavy.
As they walked toward the distant forest, insects chirred and whizzed around them, transparent wings glittering in the white light. Looking to the south, across undulating dimples of old pits, Salamander could see Dying Sun Mound, flat-topped and green at the end of the causeway. On this day a group of children and dogs chased across the low-walled expanse of the mound, flinging a leather-wrapped ball back and forth with sticks. Their shouts and barks barely carried in the heat.
Sweat broke free to stream down Salamander’s body and mix with the juices that streaked his buttocks and legs. He batted at the growing number of big black flies that buzzed around, drawn by the odor of fresh wet flesh.
Their route took them past the southern end of the huge borrow pit. As they rounded the rim of the deep pit, Salamander could look down into the dark waters. Insects broke the surface, and a flight of ducks exploded from the green weeds that lined the shore, their wings whistling as they battered the air.
Salamander was wishing for a drink by the time they made the forest margin. Entering the shadows provided the slightest relief from the searing sun, but the hot wet air seemed to press in close.
The Serpent led the way along a narrow trail beaten into the leaf mat by the passing of tens of tens of tens of bare feet over the ages. They walked under the arching span of hickory and beech trees before stepping into a small clearing thick with old brush.
“Clay Fat needs to send someone to burn this brush next winter,” the Serpent muttered.
Each of the clans had a spot like this, removed from the Sun Town by a short walk. Here, in a small clearing, the cuttings were disposed of.
Salamander glanced around, seeing the thick brush. Old branches, worn gray by weather, poked out of the clusters of palmetto, privet, and honeysuckle. Raspberries were forming, the fruits green and lush. They would produce a harvest that no one would come to collect. A thousand spiderwebs laced patches of white in the branches.
“They catch the flies and beetles,” the Serpent said, noting his interest. “For some creatures, there is good hunting around the leftovers of the Dead.”
A crow cawed above. Since the night of his initiation, he had grown more than a little leery of crows. Salamander looked up, seeing the black bird alight on the waving tip of a branch to watch with one beady eye. Only then did the white droppings that marred the leaves and branches catch his attention. No wonder the place looked so lush. Death fed life here, be it the carrion eaters or the plants. He swung the basket down, reaching in to help the Serpent remove slimy strips of muscle, skin, and viscera. These they draped around on the brush, easy at hand to the scavengers. More crows called in the treetops, eager for the coming feast.
Salamander batted at the flies as he laid the last of Graywood Snake’s body onto the sagging branch of a privet bush. He realized the crunchy stuff under his feet was maggot casings.
“Evil spirits!” the Serpent cried to the open sky. “Stay here, and away from the souls of our departed friend. This is your place! Take what you will of what we leave here, and be content. Come no closer to Sun Town, or I shall have to do battle and destroy you.”