waist pouch. She’d given it to Ashan,
telling her she didn’t know why. It was one of those times when she just
knew:
She was supposed to bring it to the Moonkeeper.
Neither did Ashan know why, but she had accepted it, and was making it into something that had no name because such a thing
had never been made before.
Following an inner voice, she scraped it clean; trimmed it, cutting carefully around the eyes, then sewing them shut; cut
away the nose, lips, and whiskers, until what remained was a shape with three even sides. She burned the remains in a sacred
fire. She left the ears on, split so they would dry straight; worked in brainflesh to cure it, fat to soften it, and wood
ants to sweeten it.
The headskin of the songdog was a fine thing now.
This day Ashan planned to sew a piece of bison skin to the back. She had cut it in the same shape, and changed its color from
golden to brown with root tea, an idea that came from watching a Tlikit woman color grass to weave into a basket.
Twisting and pushing a bone awl, she began making sewing holes.
The hairs on her neck stiffened; her eyes darted; her ears opened.
Here it comes,
she thought, gritting her teeth.
Whenever she worked on the songdog’s hide, fear crept in and overshadowed respect and gratitude. Fear was not a good feeling
for a Moonkeeper.
“But it was so bad,” she said. The memory choked her, filled her with tears. “To see those lights rushing at me. To fall and
fall.”
The bone awl pierced the other side. She backed it out and started another hole, trying to keep them evenly spaced.
“Why would Coyote Spirit throw me from a cliff? Why did I have to suffer that? How can I trust anything?”
She heard only the whine of her own voice.
Because of his twin natures, Spilyea was the hardest of the Animal Spirits to understand. What could not be understood could
not be predicted, and predicting was a Moonkeeper’s work. She had to keep trying, in spite of fear. The headskin in her lap
forgotten, she concentrated on what she knew:
From the Misty Time, Coyote Spirit was a friend to people. He had a quick, stubborn mind. Coyote was the one who suffered
many failures making the First Man and First Woman, but did not give up. Coyote begged Amotkan to give his mud dolls breath—and
speech, which he himself did not have. Through time, he stayed interested in people, teaching themsurvival skills, as if he wanted to keep improving what he had made.
“I understand that,” Ashan said. “Coyote made us. So he loves us. Like we love our children.”
She looked at a nearby rock where a spirit would sit if one were here.
“Or do you?” she asked.
No answer.
Ashan would not give up—not this time.
“Spilyea: We know you as Friend, and also as Trickster. You are the Playful Spirit. But what is play to you can be death to
others. How can you play deadly tricks on your friends? People would not indulge in such mean fun.”
Today, because she had been strong and patient, Spilyea spoke in her mind.
You know me as two, Trickster and Friend, but I am many. I am Destiny’s hand. Destiny needs your sacrifices, but you are weak.
Would you have jumped from the cliff?
“Of course not.”
So I pushed you. As a Friend.
“Why would Destiny need me to bear such terror? To be so badly hurt? Is Destiny an unkind spirit?”
No. But only shared crisis kept the meeting of the tribes peaceful.
“I see.”
People
had
come together over Ashan’s almost-death.
After that day, she no longer feared Spilyea. She had a better understanding of him than anyone ever had. No one, not even
a Moonkeeper, could ever know, or trust, Coyote Spirit. But if he harmed her again, Ashan believed that it would be for a
reason more important than one woman’s terror and pain.
CHAPTER 14
T SILKA SAID TO THE WOMEN, “BOTH OF YOU WILL pretend to get sick.”
Elia’s mother, Euda, had a sister named Yak. One was as fat in body and sour in spirit
telling her she didn’t know why. It was one of those times when she just
knew:
She was supposed to bring it to the Moonkeeper.
Neither did Ashan know why, but she had accepted it, and was making it into something that had no name because such a thing
had never been made before.
Following an inner voice, she scraped it clean; trimmed it, cutting carefully around the eyes, then sewing them shut; cut
away the nose, lips, and whiskers, until what remained was a shape with three even sides. She burned the remains in a sacred
fire. She left the ears on, split so they would dry straight; worked in brainflesh to cure it, fat to soften it, and wood
ants to sweeten it.
The headskin of the songdog was a fine thing now.
This day Ashan planned to sew a piece of bison skin to the back. She had cut it in the same shape, and changed its color from
golden to brown with root tea, an idea that came from watching a Tlikit woman color grass to weave into a basket.
Twisting and pushing a bone awl, she began making sewing holes.
The hairs on her neck stiffened; her eyes darted; her ears opened.
Here it comes,
she thought, gritting her teeth.
Whenever she worked on the songdog’s hide, fear crept in and overshadowed respect and gratitude. Fear was not a good feeling
for a Moonkeeper.
“But it was so bad,” she said. The memory choked her, filled her with tears. “To see those lights rushing at me. To fall and
fall.”
The bone awl pierced the other side. She backed it out and started another hole, trying to keep them evenly spaced.
“Why would Coyote Spirit throw me from a cliff? Why did I have to suffer that? How can I trust anything?”
She heard only the whine of her own voice.
Because of his twin natures, Spilyea was the hardest of the Animal Spirits to understand. What could not be understood could
not be predicted, and predicting was a Moonkeeper’s work. She had to keep trying, in spite of fear. The headskin in her lap
forgotten, she concentrated on what she knew:
From the Misty Time, Coyote Spirit was a friend to people. He had a quick, stubborn mind. Coyote was the one who suffered
many failures making the First Man and First Woman, but did not give up. Coyote begged Amotkan to give his mud dolls breath—and
speech, which he himself did not have. Through time, he stayed interested in people, teaching themsurvival skills, as if he wanted to keep improving what he had made.
“I understand that,” Ashan said. “Coyote made us. So he loves us. Like we love our children.”
She looked at a nearby rock where a spirit would sit if one were here.
“Or do you?” she asked.
No answer.
Ashan would not give up—not this time.
“Spilyea: We know you as Friend, and also as Trickster. You are the Playful Spirit. But what is play to you can be death to
others. How can you play deadly tricks on your friends? People would not indulge in such mean fun.”
Today, because she had been strong and patient, Spilyea spoke in her mind.
You know me as two, Trickster and Friend, but I am many. I am Destiny’s hand. Destiny needs your sacrifices, but you are weak.
Would you have jumped from the cliff?
“Of course not.”
So I pushed you. As a Friend.
“Why would Destiny need me to bear such terror? To be so badly hurt? Is Destiny an unkind spirit?”
No. But only shared crisis kept the meeting of the tribes peaceful.
“I see.”
People
had
come together over Ashan’s almost-death.
After that day, she no longer feared Spilyea. She had a better understanding of him than anyone ever had. No one, not even
a Moonkeeper, could ever know, or trust, Coyote Spirit. But if he harmed her again, Ashan believed that it would be for a
reason more important than one woman’s terror and pain.
CHAPTER 14
T SILKA SAID TO THE WOMEN, “BOTH OF YOU WILL pretend to get sick.”
Elia’s mother, Euda, had a sister named Yak. One was as fat in body and sour in spirit
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