Kanadesego seems to be holding his breath, waiting for my answer. I see his hand slowly edging toward his belted stiletto.
“I’m from Yellowtail Village.”
“Yes, but how did you get out here?”
Their fears are growing, but I don’t know why. I glance at the bones again. Kanadesego’s hand now rests on his stiletto.
“I’ve spent the past twenty days on a vision hunt and am headed home.”
“A vision hunt? Way out here? You should have gone seeking a Spirit Helper closer to your village. These hills are cursed.”
Kanadesego nods. “The end is upon us, friend. It’s only a matter of time before the human False Face dons a cape of white clouds and rides the winds of destruction across the face of the world.”
Our people have a legend that foretells the coming of a half-man half-Spirit False Face. It is prophesied that he will don a cape of white clouds and ride the winds of destruction across the land, wiping evil from the face of Great Grandmother Earth. We have to memorize the story by the time we’ve seen eight summers.
“Yes, I’m sure that’s true.”
I reach up to touch the sacred shell gorget my father gave me twelve summers ago. It is hidden beneath my cape, but its image appears clearly on the canvas of my souls, the twisted face with buffalo horns and serpent eyes, falling stars tumbling down … . They must think I’m touching my heart to emphasize my beliefs.
Pandurata hisses, “This is a dark time. A time of despair. After the human False Face rides, the world will be reborn, fresh and clean. All lost souls will be found and shown the way to the Land of the Dead.”
I take another bite of jerky. All my life I’ve heard stories of the One Who Is to Come. They still stir my blood. My heart beats faster; my lungs work. But my interpretation is different. As the warfare has grown more brutal and desperate, I’ve become more and more certain that the human False Face is already here, already riding the legendary winds of destruction. There have, in fact, been times when I have wished for it. Anything to end the struggle and the suffering. To blot out the hopelessness I see in the eyes of children.
I swallow my last bite of jerky and heave a sigh.
“We are on the road to find him, you know,” Kanadesego says. “You should join us.”
“To find whom?”
They blink, glance at each other, and stare at me as though I’m stupid. “The human False Face. Some say he’s already in the forest battling the sorcerers, as is prophesied. We are going to seek him out and help him.” Kanadesego seems pleased with this mission.
Pandurata scowls at me. “You really don’t understand, do you? The whole country north and south of Skanodario Lake is like this.” She gestures to the empty smoldering village visible through the trees. “We are not content to wait for the end. We’re going forward to meet it. To help bring it about. And we’re taking our dearest ancestors with us.” She reaches down to stroke a skull.
As the forest brightens, the birds begin to sing and hop from branch to branch over our heads. The musty scent of moist leaves fills the air. I take some time to appreciate the beauty before I say, “I have felt that way myself, especially when the battles were most terrible.”
Kanadesego sits up straighter. “You were a warrior, then? I thought perhaps you were a shaman, a holy man.”
A sensation of emptiness swells my chest, as though desert walks in my heart and my souls are becoming wastelands of hope. “I was a warrior for twelve summers.”
“Then you must have seen the signs,” Pandurata insists. “Have you not seen Diatdagwut, or witnessed the flocks of gahai that filter through the forest? I have a friend who saw the Forks River turn to blood.”
I dare not state my opinion for fear that they will attack me, or worse, stop talking to me. I need to hear their stories. But I’m thinking that I myself have seen rivers turn to blood—rivers swollen with the bodies of the slain—and if the Forks River turned to blood, the Hills People and their mad chief, Atotarho, are more likely to blame. I silently offer a prayer for the dead and turn my attention to her words about the gahai.
Gahai are not Spirits of the first order, but lights that guide sorcerers as they fly through the air on their evil journeys. Sometimes gahai lead their masters to victims, other times to places where they can find charms. Her question, of course, goes along with her impression that the forest is filled with sorcerers, like Ohsinoh.
I reply, “Maybe it is the end.”
“Oh, it is,” Pandurata says fervently. “Last summer was like winter. The crops wouldn’t grow.” Tears catch her voice. She swallows before continuing, “And now this sickness.”