Ride the Moon: An Anthology by M. L. D. Curelas

bear hung around her neck.
    Demaswet shivered as Shanaitwasa lit the two wooden pillars inside the pit. Death crept in the shadows, as the singers cried out for compassion from Father.
    Nawdithi’s sacrifice would always be remembered. Her sacrifice would never be forgotten.
    Your people will live because of him.
    One of the holy men handed Shanaitwasa a perfect square of caribou hide. Demaswet’s heart sunk. It was the burial items.
    There is more to life than your own feelings.
    A lesson she’d wished she could have learned at childhood. If only she could learn humility, but her parents, grandparents, and ancestors could not teach her that lesson. Only when faced with the starvation of her people could she finally accept that it had been her selfishness, her pride in having the most beloved son that offended Father so greatly.
    The death of Nawdithi was the only way for them to live.
    She turned and caught sight of Nawdithi. Crushing pain forced her to gasp for air. Tears stung her eyes, freezing her eyelashes in the cold bite of the wind. Four boys carried the still form of her son. He was a slight boy, only beginning his maturity. A man would have easily carried him, but these boys had escaped the sacrifice to Father. They would escort their friend to death.
    Demaswet swallowed down envy for their mothers.
    She shot a look of bitter frustration at the glowing moon in the sky.
    You should have punished me, not him.
    You are being punished.
    The last of their provisions went to Father. Every scrap of dried meat from their smokehouse floor. Every dried berry from their storage pits, no matter how mouldy. Even the last of the whale oil that they’d been drinking instead of burning. All of it; dug up, gathered, and returned for Father. Enough food to feed them through one changing phase of the moon, mere days, and it would be offered in exchange for mercy. Perhaps their sacrifice to him would bring back his favour.
    She was sacrificing her child; the tribe was sacrificing their lives. She felt the honour of their gifts to Father, gifts needed because of her failings.
    More pyres sparked to life beyond the sacred circle. They would dance. They would chant. They would bury her son alive using the large mound of earth behind the drummers.
    And you will sit there and watch.
    Demaswet set her jaw. She would not let the others see her tears. She was in a place of honour. She would not let them see inside her. She would be strong and give as much honour to her position as her heart allowed.
    Nawdithi was laid between the pillars of fire. His body was pliant. In the firelight, she could see his confused gaze. He did not understand what was happening to him. Perhaps the herbs made him already see the next world, the ancestors who would welcome him as an innocent calf, sacred and special.
    â€œDemaswet, we honour your sacrifice to provide your son as an offering to the Moon Father, to bring us the ice so that the seals may come,” Shanaitwasa said. She turned to Demaswet and inclined her head. “You shall have the honour of preparing your son.”
    Demaswet gulped, but nodded her acceptance. She pushed herself up from the wooden chair that had been made for her and pulled her fur-collared hood tighter around her face. The two holy men emerged once more from the darkness and slid into the pit. The boys carefully passed Nawdithi’s limp body to the men. They placed him on the ground, on his stomach.
    Demaswet stared and looked wildly at Shanaitwasa.
    â€œNo,” she mouthed to the wise woman. Her heart pounded and tears splashed down her cheeks, the wind turning them cold in an instant.
    Shanaitwasa continued her chant, not interrupting the cleansing prayers. She did, however, look at Demaswet with a nod and eyes filled with both hard resolve and compassion.
    Demaswet wept, unable to hold back the tide. If he was buried face-down, his spirit would never be released. Instead, it would linger, trapped and