Now the three were among those surrounding Catchstraw, hanging on to his every word, waiting for instructions from the “great” Dreamer. He’d been giving orders as if he were a chief. And he seemed to enjoy his newfound influence. From dawn until dusk, his shrill voice had echoed through the decimated village. He’d kept people scurrying to fulfill his demands.
The very thought irritated Horseweed. People ought to be seeking advice from his grandfather, not from Catchstraw-though right now, Oxbalm wasn’t in a condition to give it.
Horseweed watched Sumac paint a wavy yellow line across Mountain Lake’s chin. Tears marred the artistry as they fell from his grandmother’s cheeks.
“I miss her,” Balsam choked out. He grabbed Horseweed’s sleeve and buried his face in it to weep. From his shirt pocket, the head of an ivory doll peeked out. The piece had been carved from a section of tusk. Oxbalm had traded for the ivory and given it to Balsam. The doll’s hair had been made from a mammoth’s tail, and a necklace of tiny dove snail shell beads draped its neck. Beautiful. Balsam must have carved it for his sister to carry with her to the Land of the Dead.
Horseweed stroked his brother’s hair. “It’s all right, Balsam. Soon she’ll be with Mother and Father. They’ll take care of her. You know how badly she missed them after they died.”
“Yes, but I wish she didn’t have to go.”
“So do I.”
Horseweed wondered about his own emotions. He felt the way he had two springs ago when he’d gone hunting and almost frozen to death in a freak snowstorm. He remembered how his mind had refused to work. Simple things, like how to start a fire, or how to kill an animal, had vanished from his mind. The effect had been as though his soul had separated from his body and hovered above to observe rather than to participate in life. But when herd come back to himself, the pain in his body had been overwhelming. He wondered if it would be the same way with his numb soul this time.
Sumac tottered weakly to her feet and squinted at the gutted remains of the camp. Her white llama hide dress bore tiny spots of blood on the sleeves from having bathed Mountain Lake. The carcasses of the dead mammoths lay forgotten, and they’d begun to stink. People had eaten as many fresh mammoth steaks as they could hold before the flies had started to gather in great black swarms. Now no one would touch the meat. It crawled with maggots.
“Horseweed,” Sumac said tiredly, “your grandfather is too old for this. Help me lift Mountain Lake’s litter. We’ll carry it to that big aspen tree straight behind camp. Oxbalm picked the location last night.”
“Balsam and I can carry our sister, Grandmother. Why don’t you just lead the way and we’ll follow you.” Horseweed gestured for Balsam to lift the foot of the litter, and Balsam wiped his nose and scrambled to obey.
They walked slowly in Sumac’s footsteps, carrying Mountain Lake between them. Balsam couldn’t stop crying. Sumac stopped occasionally to comfort a pale-faced woman or to pat the arm of a grieving husband. Partly because of the stops and partly because her ancient legs wobbled so badly, Sumac’s path through the village slithered like a snake’s.
The tree that Oxbalm had selected was beautiful. It stood on a low rise overlooking Mother Ocean and the forested humps of Pygmy Island. From here, Mountain Lake’s soul would be able to watch the whales mating in the summer. She would see people paddle their bull boats out amongst the whales to collect the ambergris that floated on the surface. Sperm whales ate large numbers of squid, and the horny beaks accumulated in the whales’ stomachs until the whales regurgitated them. Ambergris held fragrance and color and was mixed with many of the paints the people used in their ceremonials. The hues of the water changed as the eye drifted farther from shore; they were a grayish-green near the beaches and a rich blue out beyond the island.
“Put her in the fork of the tree,” Sumac said.
Balsam had to raise the litter above his head and stand on his tiptoes so that Horseweed could lift and wedge it between the heavy branches. Bright-green leaves quaked around him, rustled in the breeze. Gulls wheeled through the sky in huge flocks. Mountain Lake’s body would feed them, as well as the ravens, magpies and giant croaking buzzards.
Sumac watched with tears streaming down her face. “Now pull that top hide up over her face.”
Horseweed tenderly tugged the hide up and tucked it around his sister’s head. “Don’t worry, little sister,” he whispered. “Mother and Father will come and get you. They’ll fly with you and the Thunderbeings to the Land of the Dead.”