The Broken Land(2)
“Blessed gods, stop it,” I murmur with hushed violence.
When the war ends, perhaps … But, no, that will never happen. Not after tonight. And the war isn’t going to end. Great Grandmother Earth has been growing progressively colder and drier for longer than I have been alive, at least twenty-three summers, which means our corn, beans, and squash crops rarely mature. As a result we are forced to hunt and fish harder. After many summers of desperation, most of the deer are gone, the lakes fished out. The only solution is to take what we need from our enemies.
Or so the matrons tell us.
When I refused to obey the order to accompany this war party, High Matron Kittle called a special council meeting of the allied villages. What the council decided was law. “Alliances are quicksand, always shifting. You know that, Sky Messenger. We must all do our duties, including you. Don’t you care about your people?”
“ … You’re the only man I’ve ever trusted. From this time forward, you are one of my people. Her sudden embrace like wind ransacking the forest … ears roar. Later, pawpaws baked in hot ashes … happier than at any other time in my life …”
Two men rise from their cook fire and stretch their tired muscles. Deerbone stilettos, war axes, and clubs bristle on their belts. Every man carries in his bosom the idea of the knife and axe. How can he even think of peace when the thrill of victory beckons?
Someone makes a joke. Laughter erupts, but it is uneasy, filled with nerves and exhaustion.
When a low growl rumbles in Gitchi’s throat, I reach down and pat the old wolf’s grey head. He is staring out at the battlefield, his yellow eyes bright, fixed on something I do not see. “It’s all right, Gitchi. Everything is—”
The words die in my throat. There, at the edge of the burning village, wreathed in blowing smoke, stands a dark wraith, his black buckskin cape flapping around his tall body. The ancient, tarnished copper beads that ring his collar flash blue in the firelight. He turns to gaze directly at me, and the hair at the nape of my neck prickles. His hood is pulled up. Inside, where his face should be, it is blacker than black, like a bottomless chasm.
Gitchi whimpers.
The figure looks one last time at the destroyed village, then turns away so gracefully I swear it is not tethered to the ground. It glides northward, toward the worst part of the battlefield.
My gaze tracks it.
The figure stops at the edge of the clearing where the cries of the wounded are unbearable. Soon, after my warriors have had suppers and drunk their fill of water, they will return here to dispatch those still alive and strip their corpses of valuables. For now, the field appears to be alive with gigantic beetles. Humped shapes crawl, topple, struggle up again. Probably trying to reach injured loved ones.
The figure turns to stare at me expectantly. What is it he wants me to … ?
Flashes catch my eye. Curious, I walk away from the fires to see better.
When I stand alone in the blackness, the blood seems to drain out of my body, leaving me ice cold and staring fixedly at the battlefield littered with dead. Lights rise from the corpses, hundreds of them. Some shoot away into the heavens and blend with the Path of Souls, the star road that the Flint People call the Road of Light. That shining path leads to the Land of the Dead. Others bounce around as though not sure where they are or what has happened.
For a timeless moment, I cannot move.
Exhausted men who’ve been living horror for moons often see things that are not there. I back away and shake myself. It’s the exhaustion, war fatigue.
Four bucks appear at the far edge of the clearing. As though they’ve absorbed the firelight, their thick coats flicker and their antler tips shine like points of flame.
When the bucks trot out onto the battlefield and begin tossing their heads as they chase the lights, everything in me longs to cry out.
The People of the Standing Stone believe that the souls of the dead must travel the sky road to reach the afterlife, but sometimes, especially after a long illness, souls become lost. The Spirit lights roam about in confusion, weeping. When the deer hear them, they run at them, catch them in their antlers, and throw them up into the heavens where the Spirits can see the Path of Souls and begin their journey to the Land of the Dead.
A child sobs, jerking my attention back to the captives. I glance from them to the wandering souls of the dead and back. My veins are on fire.
My Spirit Helper once told me that before a man crosses the bridge to the afterlife, he must discover what he’s running from and why. My gaze rivets on a boy of perhaps eleven summers. His face is terror. It might as well be my own face—twelve summers ago. I know that’s what I’m running from, and have been for more than half my life. I’ve never truly been able to come to terms with what happened to me. The only one who ever understood was Baji. She stood guard over my pain like Hadui, Wind Woman’s angry son who controls the violent winds. Any man who dared to criticize me had to face her wrath, and few were brave enough.