Balsam let out a sudden cry and held out the doll he had made. “Horseweed? Please. Could you put this under the hide with her?” He shinnied halfway up the aspen trunk to hand the doll to Horseweed. “I don’t know if there are toys in the Land of the Dead. She might need this.”
Horseweed took the little figure from Balsam’s hand and gently placed it in the middle of Mountain Lake’s chest. “There. She’s sure to see it when she wakes up.”
Then Horseweed climbed down. They had to wait for another hand of time while the rest of the villagers secured their dead relatives in the trees before the Death Ceremonial could begin. Oxbalm rose from his position in the fir trees at the fringe of the gathering and hobbled over to stand beside Sumac. Agony lined his face. His bushy gray brows pinched together over his bulbous nose. He’d left his shoulder-length gray hair loose. He gripped Sumac’s hand tightly and let his gaze roam the trees. Painted hides gleamed through the weave of branches. The prayer feathers that hung from the litters twirled and fluttered in the wind.
“The burials are beautiful, aren’t they? So many colors.”
Sumac wiped the tears from her cheeks and nodded. “Yes. Our relatives in the Land of the Dead will be proud.”
Oxbalm reached over and patted Horseweed, then Balsam, on the shoulders. “Thank you both for carrying Mountain Lake to her resting place. I should have helped you. I just haven’t… haven’t been myself.”
“We loved our sister,” Horseweed replied. “We wanted to do it, Grandfather.”
Sumac squeezed Oxbalm’s hand tenderly. “The weight of the past few weeks would crush any man. You just need more rest, my husband.”
“Well, I can’t look forward to that for a long time. Tomorrow we will pack our hides and few belongings and leave this place.” “To look for a new village site?”
“Yes. There’s no point in staying here any longer…” Oxbalm answered “… now that the burying is almost done.”
Horseweed exchanged a glance with Balsam and they both sighed. They had been born here. Part of their souls lived in these firs, these rocks, this surf. Leaving would be like a little death for them.
People began to gather around the central bonfire, waiting for the ritual to begin. Finally Catchstraw strode out in front of the gathering and lifted his skinny arms high. He wore a fine, heavily fringed elk hide shirt and gaudy pants painted with huge purple and yellow triangles. He lifted his old voice in Song: “Ya ahe yaa ee ya eye na! Come closer, come closer! See where our sacred Father Sun is walking?” He pointed to the western sky. “In the blue robe of day, he is walking. Let us Sing praises! Let us beg him to take our loved ones with him when he travels to the Land of the Dead across the sea. Ya ahe yaa ee ya eye na! Come closer! Come closer!”
Horseweed put his arm around Balsam’s shoulders and hugged him while they Sang their little sister’s soul to the Land of the Dead.
Oxbalm stood beside Sumac, his old lips barely moving, his eyes riveted on Mountain Lake’s burial. With each flutter of the prayer feathers, his hollow expression deepened, as if his soul journeyed back in time to the days of her playing stick-and-hoop, or listening to his first stories. Against the background of the green sea, his stooped form reminded Horseweed of Grandfather Short-faced Bear walking the tidal pools on his hind legs, searching for black abalone. Catchstraw clapped and called, “Join hands!” He took the hands of the people closest to him, who in turn joined hands with the people around them.
Horseweed touched Balsam’s arm and murmured, “Stand on Grandfather’s left. He’ll never admit it, but he’s going to need help to stay standing. I’ll stand on Grandmother’s right and help her.”
Balsam nodded, impressed by the responsibility given to him. “I understand.”
When one big circle had formed around the bonfire, Catchstraw led them in the Death Dance. Horseweed supported his grandmother while he kicked his legs and bobbed up and down in the turning of the circle. Sumac, as he had suspected, seemed on the verge of collapsing. She wept as though she would never run out of tears.
“Grandmother?” Horseweed bent low to whisper. “Let me take you to sit down. Mountain Lake’s soul has already risen and is waiting for the Thunderbeings to come. I can feel it.”
Sumac nodded, “Yes. So can I. All right,” and stumbled out of the circle. Horseweed gently led her to the rock outcrop on the beach and helped her to sit down on one of the wind-smoothed stones. Then he sat beside her. A cool morning breeze flapped his long braids against his buckskin shirt. Catchstraw glowered at them from the circle, as if their leaving might have offended the Spirits. The old fool. No one else seemed disturbed. They all knew that grief drained a person’s strength and that the Spirits would understand.