coyote-animal of our legend, she has no mate and sometimes does mad things, but her bravery saved Wind Laughing.”
“Apinu,” Kesbe answered in the formal manner, too taken aback to bristle at Imiya’s description of her. Two of the taller youngsters, a girl and boy, came forward to lift her. It was then she noticed that her injured knee had been bound up with a soft cloth soaked in herbs.
“No, I can get up by myself,” Kesbe protested as hands reached for her. The throbbing in herknee fueled an upsurge of resentment. Hadn’t she done enough already? It seemed close to cruelty to force someone still shaky from pain and shock into what seemed a totally unnecessary effort.
The child-warriors ignored her objections, offering only physical support as she hopped awkwardly along the beach, where scattered rocks threatened to twist the ankle of her good leg. Using a borrowed lance as a crutch, she limped toward the wuwuchpi’s carcass, holding her nose.
Imiya met her, holding two wooden wands and a pair of aronan feather-scales. “Make the paho , the prayer stick, as I do,” he said and crouched on the ground. Kesbe let herself down awkwardly into a sitting position. She was already dizzy and the smell of the carcass when she took her hands from her nose made her wonder if she was going to lose her lunch right there and then.
Deftly Imiya joined his feather-scale to the wand with cotton twine. Kesbe’s fingers were clumsy, but under the eyes of the watching child-warriors, she made the best effort she could. Her prayer-stick completed, she lurched up on one foot again, trying to ignore the cold sweat on her forehead and the seething resentment in her stomach. What was this, some sort of ritualistic hazing? Or test of endurance?
Approaching the wuwuchpi , Imiya climbed barefoot up the scabrous arch of the largest segment, prayer-stick in hand. “Hotopa Wuwuchpi, we did not ask permission of your spirit before we killed you. I who threw the spear, I who crushed your pincer with a rock, lay this paho upon you so that your spirit is not angered.”
He placed the prayer-stick gently, almost sorrowfully, then backed down, slipping a little in the slimy residue still clinging to the carapace. Hands pushed Kesbe forward. “Oh no,” she protested in English. “You’re not getting me up on that thing. Imiya!”
“It is needed,” the boy said sharply in his tongue. The hell it is, Kesbe thought and let herself collapse. The child-warriors left her alone to battle with her pain and nausea. They formed a semicircle about the monstrous carcass. More prayer-feathers were laid and chants sung.
Kesbe became aware of the paho still clutched in her damp palm. In her world, it had no meaning. In her world, things such as this creature had no spirit or propitiate. She knew better than to believe in prayer and ritual.
Her memories of the Deer Dance returned. She had performed in that ceremonial. Part of her clung fiercely to that knowledge. Out of the fog of pain and resentment, the face of her grandfather came to her and with it came memories. His eyes watching her in the Deer Dance. His fingers, peeling back the pinyon cone to reveal the seeds inside. His voice, telling her the old stories of animals and spirits while she listened, wishing she could believe, but knowing she was already too world-wise. The tribal legends were not true, not in her world.
You are no longer in your world , Bajeloga’s voice rasped at the center of her mind.
Again, she wished Morning Bird Man were there, to speak to the child-warriors, to make the prayer-stick, to understand…But he was dead, the only remains of him the memories she bore. She must be the one to push aside her pain and her disbelief, to act as he would.
She lifted her head. The high children’s voices had fallen silent. The last prayer-feather fluttered on the carcass of the wuwuchpi . No. The last paho was here, still clutched in her hand. Holding it, she struggled to get
“Apinu,” Kesbe answered in the formal manner, too taken aback to bristle at Imiya’s description of her. Two of the taller youngsters, a girl and boy, came forward to lift her. It was then she noticed that her injured knee had been bound up with a soft cloth soaked in herbs.
“No, I can get up by myself,” Kesbe protested as hands reached for her. The throbbing in herknee fueled an upsurge of resentment. Hadn’t she done enough already? It seemed close to cruelty to force someone still shaky from pain and shock into what seemed a totally unnecessary effort.
The child-warriors ignored her objections, offering only physical support as she hopped awkwardly along the beach, where scattered rocks threatened to twist the ankle of her good leg. Using a borrowed lance as a crutch, she limped toward the wuwuchpi’s carcass, holding her nose.
Imiya met her, holding two wooden wands and a pair of aronan feather-scales. “Make the paho , the prayer stick, as I do,” he said and crouched on the ground. Kesbe let herself down awkwardly into a sitting position. She was already dizzy and the smell of the carcass when she took her hands from her nose made her wonder if she was going to lose her lunch right there and then.
Deftly Imiya joined his feather-scale to the wand with cotton twine. Kesbe’s fingers were clumsy, but under the eyes of the watching child-warriors, she made the best effort she could. Her prayer-stick completed, she lurched up on one foot again, trying to ignore the cold sweat on her forehead and the seething resentment in her stomach. What was this, some sort of ritualistic hazing? Or test of endurance?
Approaching the wuwuchpi , Imiya climbed barefoot up the scabrous arch of the largest segment, prayer-stick in hand. “Hotopa Wuwuchpi, we did not ask permission of your spirit before we killed you. I who threw the spear, I who crushed your pincer with a rock, lay this paho upon you so that your spirit is not angered.”
He placed the prayer-stick gently, almost sorrowfully, then backed down, slipping a little in the slimy residue still clinging to the carapace. Hands pushed Kesbe forward. “Oh no,” she protested in English. “You’re not getting me up on that thing. Imiya!”
“It is needed,” the boy said sharply in his tongue. The hell it is, Kesbe thought and let herself collapse. The child-warriors left her alone to battle with her pain and nausea. They formed a semicircle about the monstrous carcass. More prayer-feathers were laid and chants sung.
Kesbe became aware of the paho still clutched in her damp palm. In her world, it had no meaning. In her world, things such as this creature had no spirit or propitiate. She knew better than to believe in prayer and ritual.
Her memories of the Deer Dance returned. She had performed in that ceremonial. Part of her clung fiercely to that knowledge. Out of the fog of pain and resentment, the face of her grandfather came to her and with it came memories. His eyes watching her in the Deer Dance. His fingers, peeling back the pinyon cone to reveal the seeds inside. His voice, telling her the old stories of animals and spirits while she listened, wishing she could believe, but knowing she was already too world-wise. The tribal legends were not true, not in her world.
You are no longer in your world , Bajeloga’s voice rasped at the center of her mind.
Again, she wished Morning Bird Man were there, to speak to the child-warriors, to make the prayer-stick, to understand…But he was dead, the only remains of him the memories she bore. She must be the one to push aside her pain and her disbelief, to act as he would.
She lifted her head. The high children’s voices had fallen silent. The last prayer-feather fluttered on the carcass of the wuwuchpi . No. The last paho was here, still clutched in her hand. Holding it, she struggled to get
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