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

starving in his burial home, unable to join his people, unable to stand and hunt and fill his hunger.
    Why? Was not my sacrifice enough without this?
    No.
    Hands shaking, Demaswet held out her hands for the holy men to help her down. She rushed to Nawdithi’s side, but took a long, deep breath before kneeling next to his limp form. Nawdithi’s glossy eyes stared ahead. Hopefully, he did not realize what was happening.
    Perhaps he might even forgive her one day.
    It is your fault. Your pride must be punished.
    Shanaitwasa chanted under her breath, the words barely audible over the howls of the wind, the crashing of ocean, and the songs purifying the sacred circle. She continued to circle the pit, keeping the evil away, calling on Father to bless them.
    Both holy men held out hollowed soapstone, filled with red ochre. Demaswet slipped off her caribou mitt and dipped her fingers into the sacred paint. Fish sizzled and popped on top of the wood and rock pillars. Pungent juniper filled the air. Women whispered incantations. Men sang in a high, wavering pitch. Shanaitwasa banished evil spirits.
    But it was Demaswet who prepared her son for death.
    Tears welled in Demaswet’s eyes, but she fought them down with the understanding that she was doing the right thing. Nawdithi was too loved, too well liked. She had let her pride swell and, for that, her people suffered. Nawdithi fell to fever twice over winter and, yet, she nursed him back to life, taking more than their share of food and herbs to heal him. She cried to the spirits, the ancestors, the rocks and trees and anyone who would listen. She would not let him go, even as three others died to the fever. She did not care about them; she cared about Nawdithi.
    She would not let him go.
    Only now, she would let him go, to languish in the next life unable to hunt or pray or help.
    Demaswet rolled her beloved son over on his back to cover his simple clothing and exposed skin, painting him for the ritual to return life through the sacrifice of his. He grunted and moaned a few times, but she shushed him to silence. She was to remain silent and not speak to him, for his spirit was already preparing to depart. The sounds above would drown out her words if she uttered them, but Father would hear and only punish her further.
    Yes, I will.
    After she covered his clothing and face, she stepped back. The men carefully rolled Nawdithi to his front. He struggled now, his face pushed into the ground. Once again, she stroked him with the red ochre and shushed him to compliance. He turned his head and rested it on its side. She covered him, her heart pounding and tears falling freely now.
    Can I at least say good-bye to him? I have done as you asked.
    I am not without mercy. You may say good-bye.
    Exhausted and drained of any reason to keep drawing breath, Demaswet did not argue. She whispered her thanks. She kissed the red-painted face of her son, the paint brushing on her lips. Nawdithi focused his eyes and they filled with fear and betrayal, before his glance drifted off once more.
    Demaswet’s breath hitched in her throat. It would not be enough to give up her son. No, she would endure an eternity without him or his forgiveness. He understood her punishment. He understood she had a choice.
    Was it not enough to kill him?
    No, you needed to suffer to learn. Never again will you make this mistake.
    Demaswet stood and squared her shoulders. She would be strong. She was only one person. Her pain was nothing compared to the pain of her people. There was no rush, and so she lingered at her beloved son’s side. Then, Shanaitwasa completed her prayers and entered the pit. She inclined her head to Demaswet.
    Demaswet was lifted from the pit and returned to her seat of honour. The chants, prayers, and songs grew louder. The holy men placed a large rock on Nawdithi’s back, pinning him to the ground. He let out a cry of pain and fresh tears dripped from Demaswet’s