Just loud enough for them to hear, I call, “Hello, I’m a friend. May I continue on the trail?”
The man leaps to his feet and squints at the darkness where Gitchi and I stand. “I can tell by your accent that you are Standing Stone, as we are. Yes, join us, friend!”
I walk forward with my arms spread, showing them I have no weapons. The man searches me with his gaze. He’s seen around twenty-five summers and wears his long hair in a single braid down his back. His pug nose and small black-bead eyes give him a mean look, but his smile eases first impressions. He waves for me to come closer.
“Are you hungry, friend? We don’t have much, but we do have good venison jerky.”
“I would be grateful to join you. Thank you.” I count skulls as I walk. Eight.
The woman, perhaps twenty summers, takes another bite of her jerky and chews. She appears exhausted, or disheartened. The cheeks of her narrow face sink in over her bones, making her eyes seem larger and more deeply set. As she watches me, her pointed nose casts a shadow upon her cheek.
I lower my arms as I approach, and the man digs around in his belt pouch until he draws out a strip of jerky, respectfully steps around the boneyard, and extends it to me.
I take it with a grateful nod. “You are very kind to share with me. I know these are starving times.”
Neither of them mentions the human bones, partially covered with newly fallen leaves.
The man says, “We share with everyone we see. If you can’t share with others, you have no right to expect others to share with you. Sit down, friend. There’s plenty of room on this old log.” He drops onto the log beside the woman and continues smiling at me.
The difference in their expressions makes me uneasy. The man seems happy and careless, while the woman is carrying the weight of the world on her narrow shoulders. Even in the cool air before dawn, I can smell her fear sweat.
The man says, “I am Kanadesego, and this is my wife, Pandurata. We are the Snipe Clan, Watha’s lineage, from Cornstalk Village.”
“Were,” the woman corrects him.
I note the man’s suddenly downcast eyes and say, “I’ve been traveling for a time and seen nothing but empty villages. Do you know what happened?”
“Are you deaf or stupid?” Pandurata asks sharply.
I look at their clothing, at the holes in their moccasins, the worn spots in their capes, their lack of jewelry. They probably Traded everything they had for food.
“Diatdagwut,” Pandurata whispers, as though frightened to say his name out loud.
Diatdagwut is the transformed son of a great witch, a white beaver who lives in magic waters. He rarely appears to humans, but when he does, it means disaster.
“He’s been appearing everywhere, in every Standing Stone village.” Kanadesego smiles brightly. “Yes. The world is coming to an end.” My gaze flicks from one to the other. “Was your village attacked?” “No, I just told you,” Pandurata says. “It’s Diatdagwut.”
When I say nothing, the two villagers return to eating their jerky. The bones at their feet shine. In a matter of moments, the color of the air changes, bleeding pink with sunrise, and the forest slowly goes from gray velvet to a soft reddish hue. Wind Mother rustles the brittle autumn leaves.
I tear off a chunk of jerky with my teeth and hand it to Gitchi, who swallows it in one bite and wags his tail.
As I rip off a bite for myself, I examine the bones. Surely the clan matrons would not have ordered the abandonment of their villages based upon a few sightings of Diatdagwut. Something else must have happened.
I chew and swallow before I say, “I don’t understand.”
The woman jerks around to stare at me suspiciously. “Why? Have you been witched? Is your afterlife soul loose?”
I am stunned by the charge. If a person is fortunate, one of his souls travels to the afterlife at death, while the other remains with the body forever. Sometimes, however, a person’s afterlife soul gets shaken loose, often by a blow to the head, and wanders aimlessly into the forest until it becomes irretrievably lost. That’s what causes insanity.
“My souls are fine,” I insist.
Kanadesego examines me carefully before he whispers to her, “What do you think?”
“I don’t know. It doesn’t always show right away.” She leans toward me to stare into my eyes, then pulls back. “Sorcerers fill the skies. Ohsinoh has been spotted in many places at once.”
Ohsinoh is the most powerful witch in our country, an evil man who wears a beautiful cloak of bluebird feathers. He is also known as the Bluebird Witch.
“If you haven’t been witched, what are you doing out here?” Pandurata asks abruptly. “The Standing Stone People long ago left these hills. Where are you from?”