Wandering Spirit's Last Song by Christo Rose

Author:Christo, Rose [Christo, Rose]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
Published: 2013-10-30T04:00:00+00:00

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I fried bannock for dinner that night, but only Wolf Voice had an appetite. After he'd eaten he dragged his down bed to one side of the tipi and curled up on it and went to sleep, snoring. Lucky Little Man pulled his bed close to Wolf Voice's and went to sleep beside him. The pair of them struck me as kindred spirits. It was a long while before Round the Sky made her bed, and when she did she lay on her side, facing the crackling hearth. I knew she was asleep once she started fidgeting, an unconscious habit of hers. I wondered what she was dreaming about. I wondered if her baby dreamed, too.

Peyote petals burned in the dish beside my mattress. Smoke curled up the tipi poles and coiled their way outside the tent. I lay on my back, staring at the stars through the vent in the hide roof. They looked the same to me, radiant pricks of bleeding light. To Stonechild they must have looked distinct. Maybe he had names for them. Maybe he could tell how far we were on the Summer Bird's Path every time he so much as glanced heavenward.

Wake up, I prayed. Great Spirit is dreaming; and all of us and all of life are no more than that dream. Wake up, I prayed, because nothingness was better than pain.

Just then it started raining. The drops came fat and loose and sizzled when they touched the burning firepit. I got out of bed, annoyed. I threw a handful of tallow in the hearth, grabbed a tin bowl and stole outside the tipi. Of all the times for Brother Moon to shake out his fishing net.

Outside I fitted the bowl over the vent in the tipi. Water clanged rhythmically off the overturned tin. I huddled under my ribbon shirt, a midnight purple. More than anything I hate the feel of velvet when it's wet. I turned around to stare at the Moon in the sky, smoky and white with a giant, pock-marked face. He was jeering at me, full of spite. I contemplated jeering back.

Instead I trudged out to the grazing pen where the Writers' horses were sleeping. I opened the store box and got out the rain blankets, aerated fleece. None of the horses seemed very eager to have a silly human tugging mantles over their heads while they were trying to sleep. One even kicked mud at me. I was glad it was only mud.

"I was going to do that."

Stonechild was outside the gate. His eyeglasses were very wet and he wiped the lenses with his sleeve--which, of course, was very wet, too.

I went through the gate and closed it behind me. I leaned back against it. The rain ought to have flattened my hair but it felt thicker, wilder than ever. I spent several long seconds tucking it behind my ears and then--when it wouldn't stay put--giving up. Stonechild smiled before he could catch himself. Warmth spread to his Moon-colored eyes.

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