People of the Weeping Eye(150)

“Where is your other dress?” Heron Wing had asked. “The one you wore.”

“Ruined,” she had managed. “He … he tore it.”

Heron Wing had inspected the gray dress. Droplets of blood and urine stains speckled the front. “He gave you that one?”

“No. The … the high minko.”

“Looks like the one Flying Hawk’s wife used to wear,” Wide Leaf noted, her usual gruffness tempered after Morning Dew’s frantic ablutions.

“Wide Leaf,” Heron Wing had asked, “would you take this and wash it?” The tone in her voice was firmly controlled.

The slave had taken the fabric, then vanished into the fog.

Heron Wing had rummaged through a box, procuring one of her own dresses. “It will be a bit large, but it will do until yours is clean.” In the firelight, she had turned knowing eyes on Morning Dew. “We all heal, Morning Dew. Even you.”

An image of Screaming Falcon’s face had flashed down deep between her souls. She had closed her eyes, unashamed at the continuation of her tears. The woman had no idea. Some things would never heal. She had glanced down at her hands, staring at them in disbelief, as if they belonged to another.

The days had passed, and while the horror of what she had done lingered, some semblance of life returned. She found it in cooking, carrying, mending, sewing, and cleaning. Every task she attacked with total and intense concentration. Anything to keep the memories from creeping out. I have buried the memories, she told herself. They are in a box, deep down inside, covered over with a rock. They are forgotten.

But they weren’t. She couldn’t control her Dreams, and more than once, in the night, Heron Wing would wake her, a reassuring hand on her shoulder, and say, “You were having a nightmare. All is fine. Go back to sleep.”

Now as she sat with her back to the wall, she wondered, Who have I become? What have I become? And once again found herself staring at her hands.

“Greetings!” a male voice called from the snowy night.

In that instant, Morning Dew’s heart skipped, fear shooting down her limbs. Please, Breath Giver, tell me they’re not coming for me!

“Pale Cat!” Heron Wing called with delight. “Come warm yourself. It’s not a fit night for beavers to be out in, let alone you.”

The Hopaye ducked past the door hanging, smiling, and grabbed Stone up as the boy shot across the room and into his uncle’s arms. “How’s my boy?” Pale Cat asked.

“Fine, Uncle. Look! Morning Dew made me a clay gorget! See? She carved a circle with a cross inside. You know what that is?”

“I do. It’s the sacred fire at the center of our world.” Pale Cat glanced at her. If he saw her fading panic, he didn’t remark on it, saying only, “Thank you. It was a kind gift.”

She nodded politely, averting her eyes.

“What brings you?” Heron Wing asked. “That wife of yours not feeding you well? We have a bit of stew left. Buffalo tongue. It seems that some of the hunters found a little herd of yearlings along the divide to the east.”

“I’ve heard of several buffalo that have been killed this season. Old Broken Thumb killed a couple of cows. They’ve been packing the meat and hides in. Made it just before the storm.” He settled himself before the fire. “Smells wonderful, and while yes, I’m well fed, Sister, I could stand a taste of delicacy. That’s why I came. Solstice preparations begin. I’ll be fasting and sweating, preparing for the ceremonies.”

Morning Dew drew her legs to her chest, trying to be as small as she could. She ached to ask after her brother’s wives, but couldn’t muster the courage.

Imagine that? After what you’ve done, you can’t find the courage to ask about some slave women? The notion surprised her.

“What is the news?” Heron Wing asked.

“People are preparing for the solstice, cooking, planning, getting ready. A few relatives from the outlying towns have already arrived. If the cold doesn’t break, we may not have as many people as originally anticipated, but these snows don’t last long. Cousin White Fish is bringing his entire family. I don’t know where we’ll put them all, but it’s the first time in four years they’ve come down from Bowl Town.”

“I heard you went to look at old man Bittern,” Heron Wing said, a careful eye on Stone, who concentrated on ladling out buffalo tongue stew with a wooden spoon.

“There is nothing to be done. Some malignant Spirit has fastened itself in the bowels. He’s burning up with fever, passing blood and pus. I’ve seen this before. I think his souls will leave within the next couple of days.” Pale Cat took the bowl, thanking Stone, then cast some into the fire, asking the buffalo Spirits for forgiveness.