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People of the Thunder(30)

By:W. Michael Gear


Trader looked back at the low hut they had constructed for the Contrary.

“You two men are different,” she had told them. “You have no need to fear a woman’s moon. But I do.”

That had been uttered no more than a moment after the last of the Yuchi had waved and vanished on the path leading back over the divide to the place where they had stashed their canoes.

The parting had almost been sad, the Yuchi lingering, offering advice, fingering the pieces of shell, bits of copper, and Oneota figurines they had been given for their service. Each would have been more than happy to have labored for days without compensation, just to have the honor of saying they had helped the Seeker, the Contrary, and Trader make the journey up to the winding headwater. Then they had worked like slaves to portage the heavy packs and canoes the hard day’s travel over the divide trail.

After making sure the canoes would float, Trader had led the way here, to this streamside camp. Once sure it would fit their needs, they had lashed the fallen walls of a hut together, and covered it for the Contrary’s privacy.

“So,” Trader asked Old White, “do you fear a woman’s moon?”

He shrugged. “Must be something to it. A great many people have ways to avoid it.” He paused. “On the other hand, I’ve been amongst folk who could care less. They never seem to sicken or be tainted by it. I have heard women say that they enjoy it. It’s their free time when they don’t need to fuss over babies, cook for the men, or do hard work. Instead they can sit inside, catch up on the news with friends, and do whatever makes them happy.”

Trader placed his pipe stem between his lips. “That may be. I think I’d worry though. Even if I didn’t believe it, I’d still be suspicious.”

“You were raised with the notion. It becomes part of the souls the way a log is part of a wall. No matter what, you will always believe that a woman’s Power is separate, distinct, and in opposition to a man’s. It always goes back to the white and the red. A man’s semen is white, the color of order and harmony. The woman’s blood is red, the color of chaos and creation. The two major Powers of life, always sawing back and forth in an attempt to find balance.”

“And you, Seeker? You were raised believing that, too?”

Old White smiled faintly. “Yes, even when among the peoples who don’t pay any attention to a woman’s monthly cycle, I still get the soul shakes.”

“How many peoples have you known? Did you keep track?”

“Too many to count,” he said. “And you get out along the western ocean, there’s a different people in every bend of the creek. Good country, too. Food everywhere, just for the picking up. Climate’s nice. No winter until you get up north. The mountains run right down and drown themselves in the sea. Beautiful land. People there live in towns like we do, but they fish, go out on the ocean and hunt whales, seals, walrus.”

“Whales I’ve heard of. What are the others?”

Trader sat rapt as Old White tried to explain, then drew the beasts in the dirt with a stick.

“They could be like our Spirit monsters.” Trader gestured with his pipe. “Perhaps that’s where some of our legends come from.”

“Perhaps,” Old White agreed. “But unlike your Horned Serpent, they don’t crave copper.” A pause. “Yes, I’ve seen some amazing things. Way up in the Western Mountains, I’ve crossed ridges with oyster shells cropping out of the rocks. Way up there, higher than any mountain you’ve ever seen, and a half year’s walk from the ocean. Oyster shell. The peoples who live there were as baffled by an oyster as you are by a seal.”

“You’ve led a wonderful life, Seeker.”

The old man shrugged it off. “A lonely one at times.” He glanced down at his feet, wiggling them in his moccasins. “These have carried me farther than any living man. Some of it was glorious, some downright miserable.” He tapped his carved wooden pack box. “I keep my memories in here.”

“Do you do that with some incantation?”

Old White smiled wistfully. “No. And if anything ever happens to me, I entrust the box, and the memories, to you.”

Memories in a box? Trader sucked on his pipe. He didn’t think so. All those marvelous things were locked away in Old White’s head. And if he was right about going home to die, who would ever know the stories, sights, and places locked in the old man’s souls? No one, at least not until a person died and found Seeker’s ghost in the Land of the Dead. Even then there would be such a collection of souls around Seeker that it wouldn’t be worth the effort to fight the crowd in order to hear the stories.