Five

Tsilu

Grandfather hangs his gray head and stares at the floor of the rockshelter for a long time before saying, “Are you all right, Tsilu?”

“Yes, Grandfather. Just sad for the baby.”

“Well, don’t be too sad. Death is just a small step along the Blessed Path.”

Grandfather struggles to stand up, but his tired legs fail him, and he almost topples back to the ground, sitting down hard. There is a new fragility that has begun to possess him over the last few summers, but I am still surprised when he has trouble doing simple things.

“Here, Grandfather!” I jump to my feet. “Take my hand. I’ll pull you up.”

“I guess I’m more tired than I thought.” He grasps my hand and lets me pull him to his feet. “Thank you, dear girl.”

Limping to the cradleboard, he picks it up and moves it so that it rests against the wall beside the baby’s head. The cradleboard is a pretty thing, lovingly woven of reeds and cushioned with bunches of cattail down. A clay baby rests inside the cradleboard. Its face has been lovingly painted so that it looks lifelike, as though the baby is asleep.

“For most of the day, the little boy cried. I could hear him all the way to the tansy mustard patch.”

“He misses his mother. Do you still hear him?”

“No, not now.”

“Probably cried himself to sleep.” Gently Grandfather strokes the cheek of the clay baby. “The boy will feel better soon. Each night, when he climbs out of the grave and enters the clay body in the cradleboard, we will speak with him, tell him stories, and feed him cornmeal to keep him happy until he can be reborn in a new body.”

“When will the women start coming?”

“The Hummingbird Clan woman, Muna, has already pleaded to be the first. She will come tomorrow night and sleep on top of the boy’s grave. She and her husband have been trying for many summers to have a child.”

My gaze roams the old tattered toys in the wall niches, babies that were never reborn. “Will he climb into her womb? I’m worried about him. The last baby decided to live in his favorite toy forever.”

There is a remoteness in Grandfather’s eyes, as though his soul is loose and wandering far away. “Hard to say. For a time, I’m sure he’ll Dance on the threshold between life and death, slipping into a womb, then slipping out. But he’ll be alive again in no time. I’m sure of it.”

“I hope so.”

Grandfather reaches out and pats my head. “The baby teaches a lesson. Are you listening?”

“What lesson?”

A smile flickers at the edges of his lips. “For the moment, the boy is caught between life and death. He cannot travel to the afterlife, nor can he live in this world. He is trapped here in this rockshelter with us. The only way he can live again is to give up his dreams for a new family, clan, brothers and sisters, and all the things he longed for. That’s very hard to do.”

“But he must.”

“I hope so. It’s up to us to teach him that giving up things we love is part of being human. We all die many times over our lives, and each dying frees us so we may be born into a new life.” Grandfather bumps his forehead against mine. “Just as you and I were reborn when we found each other that long ago night on the River of Souls.”

I smile. Though I call him Grandfather, we are not kin. Terms like grandfather and grandson are terms of respect among our people. Grandfather found me ten summers ago wandering along the River of Souls in the south. I was about three. “I’m glad I was born into your heart, Grandfather.”

“And I’m glad I was born into yours.” He puts an arm around my shoulders and hugs me. “Can you find the red thread basket?”

“Of course.” I retrieve the small pot in the wall niche near the ladder and hand it over. “Do you want me to tie it?”

“I’ll do it, but thank you for offering.”

“I’ve done it before. I think I did a good job.”

“You did. Someday you will be a very great Spirit elder. I’m sure of it. It’s just my turn.”

I watch him clamp the red thread between his teeth to break it at the right length, before using his finger to make a hole in the soft dirt over the dead baby’s heart. After he plants one end of the thread and covers it up he takes the other end and ties it to the cradleboard. It’s the red road of life. Now the boy’s soul can follow the road to the clay body where he can see the sky and the cliffs. We don’t want him to get lost. He’s scared right now and confused. He might wander off, and we would never find him, then he’d become a homeless ghost baby.

Grandfather gently tugs on the string to make sure it can’t easily come loose from either the hole or the cradleboard. Then he gives me a careworn smile.

I say, “May I pull down a few toys and place them in the cradleboard for the boy to play with?”

“Please.” He smiles at me. “We want him to be happy until he’s born into a loving new family.”