Two days after the solstice ceremonies, he had followed the Serpent to the house where Clan Elder Graywood Snake had lived. The oval-shaped house had been built on the first ridge, just to the left of the low causeway leading up to the Bird’s Head.
Graywood Snake had died suddenly. One moment she was hobbling across the plaza, the next, she cried out and fell over. Her souls had fled before she hit the ground. That had been last night.
Heat filled the house, heavy like a weight, and more stagnant, if possible, than the muggy afternoon beyond the door. In such hot weather a corpse had to be processed quickly, for in hot air corruption was drawn quickly to feed on a corpse. Salamander wasn’t sure why that was. Something about corruption’s ability to scent death? The Serpent had never given him a straight answer as to the reasons—which led Salamander to suspect that the old man didn’t really know.
Salamander squinted in the dim light, his hands working with smooth strokes as he severed the thin muscles inside the old woman’s thigh. He had to saw at the thick tendon that tied her thighbone to the mound of her pelvis. In the process, he tried not to touch the woman’s deeply wrinkled vulva. It reminded him of a shriveled gourd husk, whiskered with mold. Worse, it reminded him of his wives’.
Beside him, the Serpent’s raspy old voice rose and fell as he chanted the Death Song. The melody called to the Sky Beings and
Earth Beings, asking them to come and see, to be witness to the passing of the great Elder’s souls. Next he Sang to reassure Graywood Snake that she was being cared for in the manner of her people, that her corpse was being treated with the proper respect.
The thick tendon parted, and Salamander was able to roll the leg back to expose the ball joint to his sharp stone knife. The Serpent turned his attention to the skin still left around the woman’s hips. With practiced strokes he peeled away the old woman’s vulva and severed the tissues inside to leave an arched hump of bone, raw and bloody. The bowels, vagina, and bladder that had once been cradled within had already been removed when they excised her organs.
Outside the door, Salamander could hear soft weeping as Speaker Clay Fat and his sister, Turtle Mist, mourned the death of their Elder.
What had been Graywood Snake’s leg came free in Salamander’s hand. He set it carefully to the side, picking bits of tissue from his fingers and wiping them on the inside of the wicker basket that held the old woman’s flesh and organs.
“You have become practiced at this.” The Serpent studied him with thoughtful eyes. His sagging face—like Salamander’s—had been streaked with black charcoal stripes to appease the Dead. “You are already better than Bobcat. Have you given thought to following me?”
“No, Elder. That is Bobcat’s place. He knows the songs. He did very well walking at your side for the summer solstice ceremonies.”
“You could, you know. Follow in my footsteps, I mean.”
“I have other responsibilities.”
“You are no longer the child I once knew. You have aged in the last three moons since you were made a man and married.”
“I have too much to worry about.”
“Yes, I haven’t heard a word from your Clan Elder at Council since you were accepted there.” Then he resumed his chanting.
Salamander pinched his lips, frowning, his thoughts locked on Wing Heart’s perplexing silence. She might have lost part of her souls, given the way she walked about, a listlessness in her eyes.
He picked up the Serpent’s words and Sang in gentle accompaniment as he thought of his mother. He couldn’t help but compare her to Graywood Snake. Unlike his mother, he had always liked Graywood Snake. Even after his near-unanimous nomination to the Council, she had treated him like a fellow rather than a jest, as the others had.
Salamander ran his blade down the inside of the leg, separating the thin skin. With careful strokes he severed the ligament and tendons
in the round, peeling the muscle back from the bone. That done, he had placed the cool flesh in the basket; reverently, he severed the tendons at the kneecap and folded the leg bones double. He laid them with the arm and leg bones that already rested on the rick of wood. Dry and seasoned, the pyre would burn hot and completely, in defiance of the moisture that hung in the summer air outside.
“I will miss you, Elder,” Salamander said as he cleaned the last bits of tissue from his knife and ritually passed it over the smoking coals in the fire pit. Not that the house needed a fire, given the melting heat of the day, but the smoke was required, not only for purification of the tools, but to keep evil spirits out and away, and to assist Graywood Snake’s souls in their passage from this life to the next.
Sweat beaded on Salamander’s forehead as he Sang the final verses of the Death Song. Then he and the Serpent carefully placed the naked bones of her torso atop the pyre, propping them in the cradle of her limbs so that they wouldn’t roll off.
“Rest well, old friend.” The Serpent patted the rounded globe of her skull with blood-encrusted hands. “You have always been a light in my life. Your fond wit and smile brought happiness to many of my days. I will see you someday soon.”
Salamander watched the old man’s gentle motions as he caressed the bones. “Does it bother you?”
“Hmm?” The Serpent turned, gaze absent. The skin seemed to hang like a wet rag from the flat planes of his charcoal-smeared face.
“She was your friend.” Salamander gestured toward the bones. “We have just cut her into pieces. It seems like a violation.”
Salamander hated it when the old man gave him that look of irritated consideration. “Her souls have left the body, Salamander. I am overjoyed to be the one to help her during her passing. Put yourself in her place. If your souls were hanging here in the air”—he pointed at the smoke-filled ceiling—“would you want some rude stranger, or an old and dear friend, seeing to the care of your body?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Ah, that’s because you have not considered death, my young friend. The living lose themselves in the pain of the moment. They are completely absorbed by their own sense of loss. They never think about how fragile the souls of the freshly dead are. Imagine yourself as having just died: You are lost, grieving, your body refuses to respond to your orders as it did when you were alive. Your loved ones are all around you, crying, pulling their hair. You try to help them, to calm them, but they are deaf to your entreaties. You can
only watch their pain, unable to soothe it. Meanwhile, all around you, spirits are gathering, calling to you, trying to get your attention. Old friends, long dead, are crowding around and demand to speak with you. Other spirits are circling, knowing you are vulnerable, easily attacked. You must guard against them, but you are so confused, worried, and scared like you have never been before.” He shook his head. “I think dying is much more frightening than being born.”
“You think they are linked?”
“Yes,” the old man replied. He looked at the basket made of split cane. “Can you carry that?”
“If you can Sing. I’m still learning the words.” Salamander stepped over, crouched, and shifted the basket onto his back. Graywood Snake had been old and frail; she weighed almost nothing. He took the load and ducked out into the hot sunshine. Eyes slitted against the glare, he could see Clay Fat, his portly body streaked with perspiration, his round face stricken. Turtle Mist’s features were drawn, her eyes sad.
They will be all right, won’t they? Not like Mother. The aftereffects of death now scared him. His mother hadn’t been the same since White Bird’s death. Instead, she had turned into a walking husk, the seed that should have been within gone black and shriveled. He wondered if perhaps White Bird had been so frightened that he had clawed away part of Mother’s souls as his own had been drawn into the realm of the Dead.
The basket leaked, and as he walked, Salamander felt wet drops of fluid spattering his legs. Their route took them southwest, proceeding through the gap that separated Rattlesnake Clan from Eagle Clan. One by one they passed the remaining ridges. From the rows of houses, people from Graywood Snake’s clan watched with somber eyes, many singing and calling final wishes to their departed Elder.
“So, where are the souls?” Salamander asked.
“Hovering close to the bones, you know that.” The Serpent paused in his Singing. “Why do you ask?”
“Because of the people,” Salamander replied quietly, keeping his head down as was respectful toward the dead. “They call out to Graywood Snake, but what is left of her in the basket is soulless meat, correct?”
The Serpent grinned humorlessly. “That is the way of people, Salamander. The living see the Dead everywhere. It hurts nothing and makes the living feel better. Perhaps the Dead hear all of the calls. I don’t know, and worse, I can’t find out until I, myself, am dead.”
They passed the last of the ridges with their mourners, and walked out onto the beaten grass beyond. To their right, the Bird’s Head rose high and resolute into the yellow-hot air. The ramada at the top looked fuzzy and wavered in the humidity. Bright fabrics that had been tied to the sun poles hung limp and heavy.
As they walked toward the distant forest, insects chirred and whizzed around them, transparent wings glittering in the white light. Looking to the south, across undulating dimples of old pits, Salamander could see Dying Sun Mound, flat-topped and green at the end of the causeway. On this day a group of children and dogs chased across the low-walled expanse of the mound, flinging a leather-wrapped ball back and forth with sticks. Their shouts and barks barely carried in the heat.
Sweat broke free to stream down Salamander’s body and mix with the juices that streaked his buttocks and legs. He batted at the growing number of big black flies that buzzed around, drawn by the odor of fresh wet flesh.
Their route took them past the southern end of the huge borrow pit. As they rounded the rim of the deep pit, Salamander could look down into the dark waters. Insects broke the surface, and a flight of ducks exploded from the green weeds that lined the shore, their wings whistling as they battered the air.
Salamander was wishing for a drink by the time they made the forest margin. Entering the shadows provided the slightest relief from the searing sun, but the hot wet air seemed to press in close.
The Serpent led the way along a narrow trail beaten into the leaf mat by the passing of tens of tens of tens of bare feet over the ages. They walked under the arching span of hickory and beech trees before stepping into a small clearing thick with old brush.
“Clay Fat needs to send someone to burn this brush next winter,” the Serpent muttered.
Each of the clans had a spot like this, removed from the Sun Town by a short walk. Here, in a small clearing, the cuttings were disposed of.
Salamander glanced around, seeing the thick brush. Old branches, worn gray by weather, poked out of the clusters of palmetto, privet, and honeysuckle. Raspberries were forming, the fruits green and lush. They would produce a harvest that no one would come to collect. A thousand spiderwebs laced patches of white in the branches.
“They catch the flies and beetles,” the Serpent said, noting his interest. “For some creatures, there is good hunting around the leftovers of the Dead.”
A crow cawed above. Since the night of his initiation, he had grown more than a little leery of crows. Salamander looked up, seeing the black bird alight on the waving tip of a branch to watch with one beady eye. Only then did the white droppings that marred the leaves and branches catch his attention. No wonder the place looked so lush. Death fed life here, be it the carrion eaters or the plants. He swung the basket down, reaching in to help the Serpent remove slimy strips of muscle, skin, and viscera. These they draped around on the brush, easy at hand to the scavengers. More crows called in the treetops, eager for the coming feast.
Salamander batted at the flies as he laid the last of Graywood Snake’s body onto the sagging branch of a privet bush. He realized the crunchy stuff under his feet was maggot casings.
“Evil spirits!” the Serpent cried to the open sky. “Stay here, and away from the souls of our departed friend. This is your place! Take what you will of what we leave here, and be content. Come no closer to Sun Town, or I shall have to do battle and destroy you.”
Salamander swallowed hard. He never felt safe when they made these deposits. His Dreams, always uncertain to start with, were labored after he and the Serpent processed a body. That he involved himself in such doings irritated his wives to no end—perhaps explaining his willingness to help the Serpent with his grisly chores.
“Come, my friend.” The Serpent turned and led the way back into the forest. “We have finished this portion of our duty. All that remains is to help Clay Fat fire the house tonight. I shall have Bobcat do most of the Singing. I think he is ready for that.”
They walked in silence as they retraced their tracks. Breaking into the open again, the sight of the Bird’s Head to the north and the children playing on Dying Sun Mound to the south reassured Salamander.
“Mud Stalker came to see me last night,” the Serpent said offhandedly. “Knowing that Bobcat had been called to Ground Cherry Camp to attend a broken leg, he asked me to find another to help with the Elder’s body.”
Salamander shot him a glance. “He did?”
“It appears that some do not approve of your interest in acquiring the arts necessary to handle the dead.”
“That is not their concern.” Salamander swung the basket back and forth, slinging the loose gore from its stained bottom.
“You are not happy in your marriage,” the Serpent stated.
“You have divined this on your own, have you?”
“Do not mock me. You have been married now for almost three
moons. And a Speaker for your clan for nearly as long. I can feel Power and trouble gathering around you.”
“Mud Stalker is disappointed with me. I haven’t always voted the way he would like. And Mother, I don’t understand. She mostly just stands there, eyes lost on the distance. I have caught her talking to Cloud Heron’s ghost when no one’s around.”
The Serpent sighed. “What about your Dreams?”
Salamander ground his teeth, then admitted, “They come sometimes. Many Colored Crow has come to me since the night of my initiation. Sometimes I fly with Masked Owl. He tells me things.”
“Such as?”
“He tells me to watch out for certain people. He gives me glimpses of faraway lands. Sometimes he warns me of things.”
“What things?”
Salamander shook his head. “I’m sorry, Elder. They are between Masked Owl and me.”
Carefully, the Serpent said, “You are aware that Mud Stalker and your wives are plotting?”
“Oh, yes. Though why they insisted that I marry is beyond me. And why, for the sake of Snakes, did they appoint me to the Council? I just sit there. I’m an embarrassment. Look at me! But for the political necessity, I wouldn’t be made a man yet. Who ever heard of a boy like me sitting in the Council?”
The Serpent slowed as he reached the deep borrow pit. With care he stepped over the edge. The slope was steep, but a narrow trail had been worn through the thick green grass and into the brown earth. A misstep meant a nasty tumble through the weeds and grass and into the stagnant water below. Salamander started as a snake slithered rapidly away. He could see the plants moving as the reptile wound along the slope. Wood snake? Or water moccasin?
At the bottom, the Serpent crouched on a thin strip of beach and splashed his hands into the water. Cleansing had to be done on the western side of Sun Town, every bit of blood, liquid, and tissue washed away. The borrow pit pond was the perfect place for these ablutions. With great care, the Serpent washed his hands, taking time to pick the dried blood from under his fingernails. “Bide your time, Salamander. You are meant to be a joke. It is the revenge Mud Stalker has planned for your mother and clan.”
“It humiliates me,” Salamander agreed as he stepped to one side and perched on the steep slope. He bent forward and dunked the basket into the water, seeing minnows, tadpoles, and insects swimming away. He sloshed it back and forth before hauling it out, ripping
a handful of grass free and scrubbing the insides to remove the stains.
“And what does a salamander do when a raccoon is snorting and sniffing around a fallen log? Does he run out immediately in search of insects?”
“Of course not.”
“There is a lesson in that.” The Serpent rubbed at a blood spot on his forearm and looked up pointedly. “Do you know what it is?”
“I didn’t want to be a member of the Council.” Salamander tipped the basket to dump the red-stained water out. “I didn’t ask for any of this.”
“Sometimes the best people are those who didn’t ask for the responsibility.”
“Sometimes they aren’t.”
“Power chose you, Salamander. At each important event, it has settled around you like a blanket. Just as it did atop the Bird’s Head and at your initiation.” He paused, looking down at his hands again, inspecting them to make sure they were clean. “I won’t be around to help you much longer.”
“What are you talking about?” Salamander bent down and began washing his hands.
“I’m talking about the future. What is to come. You are so young, my friend. That is your strength and your weakness.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“Listen to me!” the old man demanded. “Something is coming, something I cannot see over the horizon of time. I am an old man, and I will probably not live to see this thing happen. My friends are dying. Graywood Snake was younger than me. Elder Back Scratch is ailing and will die soon—leaving that witless Sweet Root as Clan Elder. Cane Frog will be lucky to survive another winter. Who can tell how many moons I have left? This, however, I know: Learn from your Spirit Helpers. Learn from the world. Do not seek fame, or revenge, or any other petty gratification. Do you hear me, Salamander? Be who you are! That is why Power chose you.”
“Be who I am?” He glanced at the old man in puzzlement.
“Exactly. And be it smartly. You are caught between Masked Owl and Many Colored Crow because they saw something in your souls. Dreams are crossing here. Different paths to the future. Like those crossed lines I carved into your chest, you are the place between the North and the South, the East and the West. You lie between Masked Owl and Many Colored Crow. A battle is being waged, and you are the key.”
“What battle? What are they fighting over?”
The Serpent shook his head slowly. “It is an old thing between them. They are brothers, you see. Masked Owl and Many Colored Crow. They take other forms at times, sometimes wolves, ravens, eagles, lions, bears, but one is always light, the other dark. Forever separate, forever bound, but never in agreement. They pull the world back and forth between them.”
“And I am supposed to bring an end to this?”
“No. You are just supposed to help one side win for the time being.”
“But how can I be part of this? I don’t even have a Spirit Helper to advise me. Not even Salamander.”
The Serpent made a face. “Are you that dull-witted?”
“How do you mean?”
“Many Colored Crow sits atop the Men’s House during your initiation. Masked Owl takes you flying in your Dreams. Boy, just what do you think a Spirit Helper does, anyway?”
Salamander blinked, a cold shiver running down his back despite the dripping heat. No wonder he laughed when I asked if Salamander would consider being my Spirit Helper.
“That’s right,” the Serpent told him fondly. “Just be yourself, Salamander. That will save you. So long as you do not lose yourself, do not become like the others. If you forget who you are, become like them, you are going to be crushed like a caterpillar in a lizard’s jaws.”