Child of the Dead by Don Coldsmith Page A

behind and hurried on. They changed directions this time, at thesuggestion of one of the older men of the band. It might confuse the bad spirits that pursued them.
    The course was now more southerly than their previous southwest direction. In another two days they changed again. This began a zigzag pattern that was not really a recognizable pattern at all, to further baffle the spirits. Wolf was not certain that it was a valid theory, but it could do no harm.
    Another family announced that, although there was no sickness in their lodge, they were leaving the band.
    “We are tired of running,” said the woman. “We will stay here, and join the band for winter camp. Sycamore River, no?”
    “Maybe,” answered Broken Lance. “Where will you go now?”
    “We stay here. There is water, grass … the place is pleasant, no?”
    “That is true. May it go well with you.”
    “And with you, Uncle!”
    The others moved on. The band had begun to look alarmingly small to Singing Wolf as he looked back along the column.
    Many sleeps away, a small girl dozed fitfully by a dying fire.
    Her little world had been a happy one. Plenty to eat, loving parents, other people that she knew and trusted. There had been other children, with whom she played. They had learned many things … The Children’s Dance … that had been sheer enjoyment and excitement. The rhythmic thump of the drums, the hopping steps, the praise and pride that had been hers.
    And the stories … she loved the stories of long-ago times. How Bobcat lost his tail, why Rabbit has only a little fat …
    She could not remember when or how things had begun to change. There had come a time when the dance drums were silent and there were no more stories. There was singing, a sad chanting that made grownups cry. Some of the people that she knew lay still and cold. They were wrapped in robes or blankets and placed on platforms of poles like lodge poles, with much more crying and singing, and they did not come down. They wereseen no more. That she found disturbing, and even more so when it happened to some of her playmates. There was the day when Songbird could not come out to play, and then was not even there any more. Why would her friend leave her that way, without saying anything? Mouse’s mother said that the girl had “crossed over.”
    At least her parents were one solid strength on which she could depend. She sat on her mother’s lap at a council one evening, frightened by the serious tone of the talk. She had hoped when they gathered that this was to be a story fire, but it was quite different. Old men discussed in worried tones what should be done. Gray Mouse did not understand why there should be such worry. The talk was boring, and she fell asleep in the pure protection of her mother’s arms.
    Then her mother had fallen ill, and great ugly sores grew on her face. People tried to keep her away from her mother, which made the girl frightened and angry. When she was told that her mother had crossed over, it was devastating.
    “She left without me!” Mouse wailed.
    By that time she was sick herself. So many were crossing over that there were not enough left to wrap them and sing the sad songs. There were not enough to look after each other among the living, either. Mouse found herself wandering among the lodges. She had been told by those who had been caring for her to go away. Confused and weak, she sought her own lodge. Maybe her father was there … she would be safe with him.
    Father was there, but he, too, was still and cold, beside the bed where her mother lay. Frightened and crying, Gray Mouse crept close to her mother and sobbed until she fell asleep.
    When she awoke, there were shouts and confusion. People were saddling horses and packing belongings, obviously preparing to travel. She was puzzled as to why most of the lodges were still standing. She approached a woman in the lodge next to her parents, a woman she knew. Surely Left-hand Woman would help her.