Keeper of Dreams
Lynn Sholes
writing as
LYNN ARMISTEAD MCKEE
KEEPER OF DREAMS
All Rights Reserved © 1993 by Lynn Armistead McKee
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher.
Published by Stone Creek Books
Originally published by Diamond Books
Cover art by Joe Moore
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS:
There are those who deserve particular thanks. My gratitude to the great hunters: Denise, Angela, De, and Penny. Also, to Verda for her support beyond the call, and to Aminah for her friendship and unending assistance.
For my family—you help me catch my dreams
Prologue
The small young body tossed on the mat, his little brown arms flailing in the heavy air as he turned over. The night was moist, hot, and stifling. But that was not what made the boy so restless. Inside his head, images flashed, blurry, fuzzy, accusatory faces with angry piercing eyes and drawn, hollow cheeks—the elders. His good dreams, especially the ones with the nice woman, always slipped away too quickly. The bad dreams that frightened and tortured him stayed with him most nights.
A quarrelsome, weathered face lurched out of the fog of his dream. “Have you had a vision yet?”
The boy shook his head.
“Atula,” came another harsh voice. The boy shrank back. It was his father’s voice. “A vision?”
“No, Father,” he answered.
“When?”
“I do not know, Father.” He could feel the tears forming and the pain in his tight throat as he held back his crying.
All of the elders gathered in front of him, no longer only faces, but full bodies assembling to stand in judgment. Atula’s small hands tugged at the bottom of the flap of hide that covered him from waist to mid-thigh. His mouth grew dry, and his heart pounded in his ears. The People awaited a sign, his first vision. He was the fruit of his father, the shaman. The Gift flowed in his blood. When would he fulfill the prophecy?
“Atula,” a soft, kind voice called. The woman’s voice. The images of the elders faded. The woman held him close, his small arms clinging about her waist, and all the fright, all the shame, disappeared. Though he held on tightly, she was only a dream, and the dream slipped away. He wished he could catch the dream, hold it in his head a little longer, just to see her face, to know who she was.
Atula opened his eyes. His mother’s sister, her husband, and their children were still lazy and warm with sleep. He sat up and looked out from the platform. The sun was rising, a stain of pink and gold tarnishing the eastern sky. Was the woman in his dreams his mother? Was that warm sense of sanctuary a mother’s love? If that was so, he missed her. He wished he could remember his mother, but the spirits had taken her when he was only a baby.
Atula climbed down the ladder and sat next to the cold hearth below. When Chulee, his mother’s sister, awoke, she would take a coal from the ever-burning central hearth to start her fire. His stomach grumbled with morning hunger. Maybe he could catch a turtle or even a marsh rabbit. His father would be proud when Chulee invited him to join in the morning meal that his son had provided.
Atula jumped to his feet and sprang into the brush. Above him, in the twilight of dawn, the earliest birds wheeled and swooped, their bellies hungry like his. Atula sprinted through the thicket of the lush hammock with the lightfootedness and enthusiasm of his youth.
Without warning, his foot landed in a hole, his ankle twisting, bringing him down hard on the damp black soil.
“Ooo!” he cried out, pulling himself up to sit, grabbing his ankle. Then he eyed the hole, a gopher tortoise hole. Perhaps he’d find the morning meal here.
Atula took a stick and probed inside the hole. He had heard that gophers sometimes shared their holes with snakes. Convinced there was no snake, the boy reached in and pulled out a handful of dirt, widening the hole. On his knees and forearms he knelt and peered inside. The sun had come up, warm on his back, shining down over his shoulder and into the hole. Something glinted in the light.
Atula reached in, walking his fingers along the bottom of the slanted hole until he felt something hard. He curled his fingers, scraping the object into the palm of his hand. He withdrew his fist and sat back on his bottom, pushing his thick black hair away from his face with his upper arm. Quickly he uncurled his fingers to see his prize. His mouth fell open in wonder when he saw it.
In the morning sun, the pale yellow calcite crystal glittered. It was in the perfect shape of a shell from the Big Water. What spirit had made this wondrous sparkling thing?
Atula poked it with his finger, then rolled it in his hand. The sun glanced off it and into his eyes. He looked up as a sudden cool wind blew in his face. The sky was a blinding blue. The trees rustled around him, and the fallen leaves swirled.
“Atula,” a voice called. It was the woman. “Do not be afraid. The time has come.”
The boy huddled in the wind, the voice seeming to be part of it. But he was not dreaming. He rubbed his eyes with the knuckles of his first fingers, then felt his scalp for lumps. Had he hit his head when he fell?
“Are you afraid?” she asked.
“Yes,” the boy whispered, immediately regretting his confession of cowardice. He closed his eyes.
“It is all right to admit fear to your mother. But why do you not open your eyes, look at me, and see if you are still afraid?”
Reluctantly the little boy opened his eyes. Standing before him was a glorious apparition, a woman born of the air, soft and made of the clouds, her long dark hair caught in the wind.
“You are my mother?” he asked, thinking how ethereal and beautiful she looked.
“Yes. Come, Atula, and let me touch your face.”
The child stood and moved toward the woman as she reached out her hand. Atula felt the warmth of her fingertips as they brushed his cheek. She smiled kindly at him. “The dream of the elders will come no more.”
Suddenly her warm hand disappeared, and she faded into the air. The wind was still, and the leaves settled to the earth.
Atula ran back into the village, eager to tell his father. He passed Chulee and her husband, who looked up as he ran by.
“Father,” he shouted, out of breath from the run and the excitement. “It has happened! I have seen her! A vision!” he cried.
Ochassee, his father, grinned. “Ah, indeed it has happened.”
Atula told him the story, beginning with the bad dreams and the dreams of his mother that were always so fleeting, never staying long enough. He told of the gopher hole and, suddenly remembering the calcite shell, he opened his hand and showed his father.
“What is that?” Ochassee asked.
The little boy looked at the incredible object he held. He stared a moment. Then with a wide, fascinated smile he looked at his father. “A dream-catcher.”
CHAPTER 1
The silence was broken by the sound of men sucking in their breath in disbelief. The women of the Tegesta village stood still, holding their children against their moss skirts, clutching infants to their breasts. They stopped their tasks, and those who had been seated stood to watch. They stared, dark eyes wide, mouths agape, stricken by what they saw.
Mi-sa approached from behind the crowd. She wished she had a man to stand beside her. Not her father. Not her brother. A man like the one who came to her in her dreams—powerful, faithful, protective, with long flowing hair, dark like the night.
She walked into the gathered Council, moving and weaving her way between the seated men, a silent startling form, until she stood by Cherok, the cacique, the chief. Next to him she sat cross-legged. The air was so dense with mugginess and tension that it could nearly be touched, sculpted between the palms of a man’s hands.
She had not entered the Council ever before. No woman had. But she was the new shaman, and it was time. The young woman looked out into the focused black eyes that stared from carved and creased faces. Brows dipped, fissuring their foreheads. Jaw muscles tightened the lines of their mouths, drawing their lips thin with misgivings.
“Is this not the place of the shaman?” she asked, indicating her spot, holding her hands out in front of her, palms up in question.
The eyes still peered at her with incredulity.
Atula stood, quickly drawing the crowd’s attention. “It is the correct place, Shaman,” he answered in a clear, firm voice, and then sat down.
Cherok nodded. “Yes,” he said, agreeing with Atula.
The small village broiled beneath the sun. The air was thick, heavy with gnats, heat, and humidity. Perhaps the heat would inflame tempers. Cherok hoped not.
At first the Council’s elders focused on the mundane things about which they always parleyed. But this time the discussions seemed limited, the men intimidated, strained. Mi-sa sat quietly listening, not joining in. She was observing different perspectives, grasping dispositions and personalities.
The air boiled with swarms of pests, tiny insects in flight, spots and specks of annoyance and nuisance. The gathered men swatted and fanned the bugs away from their faces.
At last the Big Water journey was brought into the discourse. Cherok tensed, knowing what was coming. If only Mi-sa could give the People more time, he thought, as with a new food, allowing time for the clan to taste it slowly, time to make sure that it agreed with them. Trails of perspiration dripped down the sides of his face, and he felt another stream trickle down his back. Cherok mopped his forehead with the back of his hand, and then nodded at a man who wished to speak.
“Soon the moon will be right for the Big Water journey,” a man in the rear reiterated.
In Council they began to lay out their plans, discuss responsibilities. Had every man checked his stash of harpoons, spears, nets, weights, shell hooks? Those articles would become communal weapons and tools once they were out to sea. Except for a man’s knife, which he kept for himself, all the other gear was shared. Knowing that others would use his tools and weapons, the maker took extra pride in his work. Respect for his craftsmanship, his manhood, was at stake.
“I have no weapons or implements to contribute,” Mi-sa said, speaking out, surprising them.
“Women do not touch such things,” an irritated man remarked, not waiting for Cherok to call upon him.
“But I wish to contribute,” Mi-sa continued. “All of you contribute, and so should I.”
“There is no reason,” the man argued, hearing rumblings of agreement circulating through the group.
“Is it not true that everyone is expected to contribute and share on a Big Water journey?” she asked. “Perhaps I am too ignorant because this is new to me.” Mi-sa lifted an eyebrow. “Perhaps it is acceptable that someone may use the communal weapons and devices without offering some of his own.”
The men quickly understood her meaning and fidgeted uncomfortably. She intended to go with them.
“Cherok!” demanded a short man whose round chest glistened with sweat. “What is this, a woman on a Big Water journey—using weapons?”
“I think you should address Mi-sa,” Cherok returned.
“I do not recognize a woman in the Council,” the short man said, wiping the beads of sweat from his upper lip, and then folding his arms across his chest. Thinking of something else, he leaned forward, squinted, and pursed his lips to emphasize what he had to say. “She may be the shaman because the spirits have recognized her as the seed of Atula, but only men go on Big Water journeys.” He sat up straighter, affecting a lofty pose. “Men fashion and use weapons. The spirits have not taken it upon themselves to change her from a woman into a man.” The man sat back, pleased with his short oration.
“May I speak?” Mi-sa asked Cherok.
The hammock exhaled in great transpiring huffs of steam. Like the men, the leathery leaves of the strangler fig formed wet beads and rivulets. Everything oozed moisture, the sun drawing the hidden sogginess out of the muck and the flesh, and into the air. The men shifted with aggravation and discomfort. This was not a good time, Cherok thought as he acknowledged Mi-sa with a wave of his hand.
Atula lifted his head with pride. Mi-sa, his daughter, was one to be admired. Nothing could alter her streak of pride. A shaman’s pride.
Mi-sa saw her father’s expression, and it gave her strength. “I know that it has been difficult for you to accept a woman as your shaman, but that is the decision of the spirits,” she began. “The spirits decided that the Gift was to be passed to me through my father. And so I speak to the spirits on your behalf. I have been called by many of you to heal your bodies or the bodies of those you love. When you come with such eloquent requests, you always speak with the respect a man gives his shaman. You have asked me to see into the future, to interpret your dreams, to ask the spirits to bless you. I have done this with eagerness. It is my responsibility and my pleasure to serve the spirits and the People. I fear for you—for all of us. A clan without a shaman is a clan that will die. We all know and understand that. If you allow me to serve you only as a woman, to serve you in such diminished ways, then you have no real shaman. I have power, and my power is not limited because I am a woman. Mine is a great power that comes to me through the Gift. This is my charge. Let me be whole and bring to you the light of the spirits.” Mi-sa looked back at Cherok. “I will leave the Council so that every man’s voice can be heard without my interference.”
Cherok watched her leave. He knew Mi-sa, her substance and determination. She was not afraid of controversy. She had been fearful and uncertain too often as a child when the People did not understand that she was the chosen one. She would not be afraid now.
The rest of the Council also watched Mi-sa leave. Her slim female body, formed of provocative curves, moved gracefully and proudly among them. The men looked at her face—the clean straight lines of her nose and cheeks, the fire that burned beneath the black coals of her eyes. Acknowledging her as the inheritor of the blood gift had caused rifts within the clan. She was indeed an enigma, the essence of a woman, the marrow of a shaman. Mi-sa’s body spoke with the suppleness and softness of a woman—heavily lashed dreaming eyes, promising full lips, sensual rounds and arches, smooth tender hollows. But she spoke of such strange notions. She had ideas about taking part in the work and duties of men. She stirred ambiguous, confused emotions as she passed them. She could feel their eyes at her back—eyes that languorously wandered to her narrow waist, the crown of her hip, the length of her shapely legs.
She had joined with no man, although she could choose any male she desired. The spirits had not denied her satisfaction of a primal need. But she would never have a man as a husband. A shaman did not have someone live at his hearth—her hearth—and so Mi-sa had known no man. Unlike other women, she had a choice, and she protected her maidenhood. Because she had the choice, she valued it. She had never met a man extraordinary enough to make her entertain the thought of ending her celibacy. That was something she did not want to think about now, but one day she would need to produce an heir to carry on the line. But what man would want a shaman, a woman within a man’s world? The spirits had been asking her to make sacrifices since the night she was born. Dealings with the spirits had never been a matter of choice. She had no power or control over the Gift.
Mi-sa left without looking back. As she passed the women, they returned to their chores, looking away quickly and timidly, ushering their children off to play. They had listened to the discussions. They had heard the men. But they had also heard Mi-sa. They wondered how she could fulfill her obligations as shaman if she was limited to a woman’s world. They were glad they did not have to make the decision.
Mi-sa decided that she would wait alone for the men to come to an agreement. She wished to visit with her mother, talk with her about what had happened in Council, but she did not want to burden her. Instead she walked to the edge of the village, on the north side.
At night the men hung their medicine bundles near their heads. They slept with their feet pointing to the south and their heads to the north. There, behind the medicine bundles, on the north side, the Trails of Men began, threading out across the vast saw-grass prairie. She stood at the edge, daring herself to step past the invisible line, the boundary that separated the territory of men from that of the women. The men believed that women, especially menstruous ones, would ruin the hunt if they touched those northern grounds.
Mi-sa looked across the tips of the undulating scored blades of the sedge. In her platform she kept two long bones from an animal that she had heard of in legends. Her father had given them to her to use in certain rituals. She thought about that animal, a tall four-legged beast, larger than a deer but built much the same. According to the legends, it had hooves, a long tail, and a shock of hair at mid-forehead in its long face. The creature also had a mane of hair, more like a man’s than an animal’s, along the ridge of its neck. Sometimes when she was holding those bones she could almost see the world as that animal had seen it. She could almost go there, move back into ancient times. She came so close sometimes.
Now, as she looked across the saw grass, she thought of the animal again. What had this place been like when the legendary animal lived here? What had that creature seen? She wondered if the People would one day suffer the same fate and vanish. Would nothing be left but their old bones?
The wind brushed her face, whipping her hair to her back. Above her the sky began to churn; eerily luminous gray clouds were moving in, gathering together, clustering and brooding. Her small hand captured a maverick strand of hair that crossed in front of her eyes. She swept it back, letting the wind seize it.
Mi-sa breathed in deeply. This was one of those times that overcame her, creeping in on her from another world. She recognized the feeling and concentrated on clearing her mind, relaxing, becoming receptive. The purling wind embraced her as if it might lift her. A voice spoke on the wind, finding its way to her, calling her. Cautiously she raised one foot. She held it up, hesitating. She could feel the land pulling her, drawing her, expecting her to step onto it. And the wind sang her name.
Mi-sa put her foot down, feeling the tooth-edged saw grass swipe at her leg. The storm echoed, rumbling, threatening. Again through the swishing and lashing of the saw grass she distinctly heard the unearthly voice beckon. Words, sounds, spun from her tongue in a quiet song, and in a moment she felt the wind move her. Beneath her feet she could feel the spongy island of peat vibrate with the crack of thunder. Even through her closed eyelids she saw the lightning flash.
After taking a few more steps—or was it many?—she opened her eyes. Slashing rain stippled her with rolling drops until one blended into another. The young woman turned, facing each of the four directions, watching the rain and wind thrash the stubborn swords of sedge. The strong, dank smell of the peat rose to her nose. The voice of the wind summoned her, directed her, and Mi-sa raised her hands to the black sky, lifting her face to the rain. She stood mired in the soggy peat, singing to the clouds.
Miakka had seen her daughter walk toward the north edge of the mound. When she did not return and the storm seemed to grow fierce, Miakka went to see. Still standing within the village, she saw Mi-sa in the distance, her arms raised, not in supplication but in honor.
A loud crack of thunder followed a brilliant jagged bolt of lightning. Miakka shuddered. She didn’t like the lightning. “Mi-sa,” she called out, a little uncertain as to whether she should interfere. Mi-sa didn’t seem to hear her. Miakka wished her daughter would get out of the storm. She worried that someone would see that Mi-sa had entered the territory of men. She didn’t want any more altercations or squabbles surrounding her daughter. There had been enough. This was a new beginning, marking the fragile acceptance of Mi-sa, a woman shaman.
“Mi-sa!” she called again, louder this time. Miakka turned, shielding her eyes from the rain, looking back to see if anyone else had heard her call or had seen Mi-sa. She was relieved that she saw no one.
Miakka trotted closer, standing at the edge of the north line of the platforms. She raised one hand to her mouth to help channel her call, but just as her lips formed her daughter’s name, she froze.
Above the howl of the wind and the splattering of the rain, she heard a thrumming, a buzzing, a vibration. As the sound filled her ears, she witnessed a bright blue-white light surround Mi-sa. The halo of light fanned out, and flickers of brilliance broke free like sparks from a green-wood fire.
Miakka stood awestruck. She watched as the light faded. Mi-sa looked down as she lowered her arms. Finally the young woman stood still, her body appearing taut and tense. Miakka watched the transformation as Mi-sa’s shoulders relaxed and her body slackened.
The rain turned to drizzle, and the wind quieted. Mi-sa turned around and looked at her mother, then took a deep breath and walked closer to Miakka, closer to the invisible border that separated the men’s exclusive land from the common land.
Miakka was anxious, fearing that someone still might see. “Come,” she said, trying to hurry Mi-sa.
At last Mi-sa was close enough. The mother reached for her daughter’s hand. Mi-sa stood on neutral ground, earth that was appropriate for women to occupy.
Miakka looked deep into her daughter’s eyes; every time she did so she realized that there was a dimension to her daughter that she would never know. A part of her child belonged only to the spirits. And a part of her daughter would always be a child, the child born beneath the shooting star, the child whose father, the shaman, had named Mi-sa, Light in the Darkness.
Mi-sa’s hand was cold. Miakka removed a skin she had wrapped around herself to keep dry and draped it over Mi-sa’s shoulders.
“The Council has decided,” Mi-sa said.
CHAPTER 2
The time had come—the day to begin the Big Water journey—the journey to the sea. Mi-sa stood in the opening of her platform. The sun was rising, splattering the low sky with gilt-edged clouds. The moon was round and full, yet to grow timid in the light of the daystar. The night had been long and still did not seem to want to let go.
Mi-sa had awakened several times during the night, anxious and startled. She had stood looking out of her platform, searching for the sunrise, but there had been only the moon and the stars.
At last she inhaled the morning air, still damp with the night sweat of the earth, the musk that was much like the earthy smell of the man who appeared in her dreams. The wonderful dreams. The nights of contentment and peace.
She started early today, checking the basket that sat by her sleeping mat. Strong and woven from rushes, it could hold many things. Packed inside was more of the mossy air plant in case she needed to reweave her skirt or make a new one, but that was all. What else should she take with her? Food would be provided by the clan. She had no useful tools to contribute. The basket looked empty.
“Mi-sa.”
She had been concentrating so hard that she had not heard Cherok, her half-brother, come up the ladder behind her and into the platform. She was glad to see him. She immediately wrapped her arms around his neck as she had so many times when they were children.
“I have brought you something,” he said as she ended the embrace and stepped back.
“A gift? What have you brought?”
“First you must listen to me,” he said, reaching out and holding her hand. “Hear all that I have to say. Do not interrupt to object. Do you agree?”
“All right,” she said, sitting on the floor, tugging on his hand.
Cherok sat across from her. “Remember that you have promised to listen.”
Mi-sa nodded. What curious thing could Cherok have brought that would demand such serious talk?
“You are the shaman. I have known it all your life, from the first time our father bent low before the fire with you in his arms as he named you. In your eyes I saw that you touched the stars, that you were with the spirits and with the People. But all the people of our village have not known this for so long. Accepting a woman as a shaman has been difficult for them.”
“I understand, but—”
“Mi-sa, do not speak,” he said with a smile, chastising her for interrupting. “Even though this has been difficult for them, it is the will of the spirits, and you must carry on, dismissing their reluctance. Their skepticism must not inhibit or intimidate you. Do you understand so far?”
Mi-sa nodded but did not speak.
“The Big Water journey can be filled with dangers. It is a man’s work and requires the tools and weapons of men. You cannot go unprepared. Each man carries his own knife. I cannot let you go on this journey defenseless.” Cherok paused and squeezed her hand. “I love you, sister.”
Mi-sa’s eyes clouded, and she wiped at the tears.
Cherok handed her something wrapped in a rabbit fur. “Open it,” he said.
Mi-sa slowly unfolded the small pelt, stopping to look at her brother before unfurling the end. What would she have done all her life without him? It did not matter that they had different mothers; the blood of their father was strong.
She uncurled the end of the fur wrapping and looked at the object she held in her hand. It was a man’s knife, the edge of the macrocallista shell ground sharp. A fighting knife. A weapon.
“Cherok,” she said, nearly whispering with surprise. “I cannot—”
“You must. I am haunted by the possibility that you might someday need to defend yourself and be unable to. Take this—for me.”
“But the men will be angry with you. This will be hard for them.”
“So it will be hard. The Great Spirit has made his will known to us, and we must do as he wishes if we want to walk the sacred path.”
“But as you have said, the men need time to adjust. A woman carrying a man’s knife may cause more dissension.”
“Mi-sa, the aged ones tell us that everything they see changes a little in a man’s lifetime—from when they were suckling babies until they became aching old men who stand with the aid of walking sticks. They say that when change comes to a living thing, we must accept it. That is the wise thing to do.”
Mi-sa reached over and again embraced her brother. She whispered his name as she felt tears roll down her face. They were a part of each other, bound by something from another time. There was a power, a connection, perhaps because they shared a father, a holy man, a man whose seed carried a spiritual covenant. Whatever this special bond between them was, why ever it was, it ran deep.
Mi-sa placed the knife in the basket, lifting the moss and shoving the blade underneath it. But then she stopped, withdrew the knife, and walked to a peg in one of the platform support posts.
“What about this?” she asked. “Could I use this as a sheath for the knife?” She took down a pouch that was used for gathering herbs and roots and other medicinal plants.
“That will be good,” Cherok answered.
Mi-sa tied the pouch around her waist and slipped the knife inside it, watching the blade slide against the leather. She closed the flap and kneaded the outside of the pouch, feeling the shape of the weapon inside as it dangled at the top of her thigh.
“Are you comfortable with it?” Cherok asked.
She walked about the platform, feeling the new weight bump against her. “Not too awkward,” she answered.
“How quickly can you get to it if you need it?” he asked her.
Mi-sa threw open the flap, reached inside, and withdrew the knife, then held it out in front of her in a defensive stance. The shell blade felt cold and smooth in her hand. She felt her stomach crawl into an anxious ball as she put Cherok’s gift back into the pouch. What if she really did need to use a weapon? Could she effectively defend herself with the knife?
She slid her hand out of the pouch and patted it. This was a good place to keep the knife. She was not hiding the weapon inside the basket, but she was not flaunting it. She did not wear it as openly as the men, who slipped their knives boldly through the belt of their breechclouts. Perhaps this way the weapon would not be too offensive to them. She had no intention of swaggering about, parading the knife. They would not have to stare at a woman donning a man’s weapon. She also knew that she could not let them see her awkwardness or the gut uncertainty she felt. She could only show herself as confident and consummate.
Cherok went to the ladder. “Make your preparations,” he said before he left.
“I love you, too, Cherok,” she whispered.
Atula also came to see her. Her father helped her select herbs, roots, and leaves to pack. Then he handed her something from his pouch. “These you must keep with you,” he said, poking at some plant parts and mushrooms he had placed in her hand. “These are powerful things that open your mind to the spirits. Use them if you must.”
Mi-sa nodded and folded the plants inside a small piece of hide. Atula had taught her other ingredients for vision teas, but not these. They must be most powerful, she thought.
Atula reached out and touched her arm as she placed the packet in the basket. “You will do the best that you can. The spirits have given you more power because you were denied a lifetime of training. They compensate. We are not to understand their ways. Trust the instincts they have given you. Hear what they say, and do not cloud your visions with worldly concerns. The spirits speak to the People through you.”
Mi-sa looked at him, perplexed by what he was trying to tell her.
Atula saw the bewilderment on her face. “I have not been able to teach you all the things. The spirits know this. Be receptive to their voices, their messages. Do not grieve over your mistakes. Let me carry that burden because I let you grow to a young woman without teaching you. It is my fault that I did not recognize you as the heir to the shaman’s gift. The spirits tried to tell me. I was blind because you were born a girl child.”
Atula took her by both shoulders and looked deep into her eyes. Mi-sa stared back, lost for a moment in his gaze. There was still magic inside her father.
“You need the face of a shaman,” he said. “Hand me the paint.”
Mi-sa reached for a pot of dark red pigment mixed with fat. Atula took it from her and dabbed his fingers in it. With one hand he lifted her chin, and with the other he stroked the slick color across her cheekbones and out to the edge of her jaw. A coal provided the dark smudges he chalked over her eyelids.
Mi-sa stared at her father, who was deep in concentration. She was curious how the colored marks made her look. She had seen Atula with these same marks. Why had the spirits chosen a woman?
She remembered her childhood, her growing up, and how difficult that time had been for her, how the People misunderstood her. Would her childhood have been easier if the spirits had chosen to keep the custom of bestowing the Gift upon a male child? And when the spirits had seen her distress, why had they not intervened?
Atula pulled back, cocked his head, and looked at her face. “Now you look like a proper shaman”.
“I have so many questions,” Mi-sa said. “So many things I wonder about.”
Atula looked at his daughter. “Tell me,” he said, folding his arms. “How can I help?”
“Dreams. Do you have dreams?”
“Of course. Dreams are meaningful to a shaman.”
“That’s not what I mean,” Mi-sa said, shaking her head. “Do you have dreams that are empty of meaning—just dreams?”
Atula looked at her, feeling sorry that she was so troubled and confused. “Dreams that come to a shaman come from the spirits. Sometimes a shaman understands the meaning immediately. Sometimes not for a long time. A shaman’s dreams are visions.”
Mi-sa hesitated before speaking again. Her words came out haltingly. “Mother … Did you dream … have a vision about her? Did you know you would love her before you did? Did the spirits tell you?”
“No. Your mother was enough in the flesh.” He laughed.
“Father, I want to know.” Mi-sa did not smile.
Atula’s face turned serious. “No, Mi-sa, I did not have dreams about your mother. The spirits did not tell me in a vision. We fell in love like any other man and woman, though such a love must surely be the work of spirits.”
“Oh,” Mi-sa said, sounding disappointed. Who, she wondered, was the man in her dreams?
“You look so unhappy.”
“No. I am all right,” she answered.
Atula stood and walked to a corner of the platform. Propped up in the corner was a tall staff with the carved head of a hawk with shell eyes and painted feathers. Beneath the head, the wooden staff was twisted into the shape of a snake, its mouth agape, fangs exposed, ready to strike. Farther down, where the staff straightened, the wood had been worn smooth through the generations by the shamans’ hands.
“This belongs to the shaman,” Atula said, handing it to his daughter. “Carry it proudly.”
Mi-sa slipped her hand into the impressions. The fingers that had held it before were large and had left depressions that swallowed hers. She held on tightly, defiantly, and in her heart the spiritual fire burned bright. She knew that despite her uncertainty now, she would one day pass on that staff, and set deep inside those old worn grooves would be new, shallow but significant depressions made by a woman’s fingers—her fingers.
Mi-sa gently moved the staff. The feathers and shells that dangled beneath her hand swished and tinkled. The sound was musical, the soft spiritual tone making her close her eyes. Her lips moved, but she made no sound as she said a silent prayer for strength and wisdom.
She held her staff, took a deep breath, and let it out.
“You are ready,” Atula said before descending the ladder.
Mi-sa looked at the basket that almost looked too small now. Her own fetishes, made with the counsel of the spirits, jingled and clacked as she lowered them inside the basket. The prayers came easily, spoken from somewhere inside her. They came naturally, bubbling from a fountain of insight and wisdom. When she was a child, those spontaneous prayers had sometimes frightened her mother. The words and chants had flowed from her so unexpectedly and in such quiet, mystic ways.
Mi-sa walked to the opening of the platform and looked out. The moon still hung there, insubordinate and resolute, though it must have known that it would eventually lose to the sun. Men were already beginning to move toward the gathering place in front of the trails. Almost time to go. She would walk alone to display courage and confidence.
Mi-sa watched a little longer. She did not want to appear overanxious by arriving too early. Women began to follow the men, carrying baskets laden with food. She saw Miakka coming her way.
“Let me carry your basket,” Miakka called up to her. “I will go ahead with it.”
Mi-sa smiled at her mother. It was a good idea. Mi-sa brought down the loaded basket and staff. The weight of the basket made her lean to one side.
“A shaman should arrive with dignity,” her mother said, taking the basket from her daughter.
Miakka was right. She should arrive at the canoes unencumbered, ready for the ceremony. Her struggle with the heavy basket would have undermined her dignity.
“I am glad you walk with me,” Mi-sa said.
Miakka looked ahead at the gathered crowd. “The warriors of your people await you.”
The men could not take their eyes off her. It was a strange sight for them; a woman in the accoutrements of the shaman. There was something powerful and sensual about the contrast between the harsh colored lines on her face, the feathered cape around her soft shoulders, the severity of the staff encircled by her long slender fingers. The crowd grew quiet.
Mi-sa planted the staff firmly in the soil. She had given a blessing the night before to each warrior who was going on the voyage. The men had slept away from the women, keeping their weapons and tools at their sides. Today they were rested and eager.
The last of the baskets was placed inside the two large Big Water canoes. Other villages often banded together to go on such journeys. But those Tegesta villages were close to one another. This village was built upon a lonesome hammock, far from the many villages built upon the ridge of land that stoically rose from the marsh. The nearest neighbor to Cherok’s clan was too far away for frequent communication, but still the people of the isolated village carried on with the Tegesta traditions. They knew and respected their heritage.
The men of the village boarded the canoes and waited. Suddenly Mi-sa’s voice rang out. Her face was glowing in the morning sunlight, the sleek painted lines shining. Her long black hair dipped past her waist as she tilted her head back and called the spirits. “See us. See us who embark on this journey. Let the water whisper our names. Let our weapons be sharp and our aim true. Guide our hands and our eyes. See us. See us who embark on this journey,” she called.
As she had on the day she had walked into the Council, she could feel the men’s eyes on her, wandering, searching, staring.
The shaman and the cacique, the two most powerful clan members, traveled in separate dugouts as a safeguard in case of trouble.
In the dugout, Mi-sa leaned forward and forced her staff into the bank and pushed off. Cherok’s canoe followed. She relinquished the job of moving the canoe to a man standing ready with a long pole.
A sudden shiver ran through Mi-sa as she watched the men with the pole ease her canoe farther along. Her mother stood close to the water, but as the canoes gained distance, Miakka’s face began to fade.
Mi-sa stood, causing the dugout to rock, startling the men as she held on to the last glimpse of her home. As the mound became smaller and smaller, Mi-sa stood tall, unmoving, inside the canoe, staff at her side, her other hand clutching the medallion that hung about her neck. It was made from a skull fragment of Ochassee, her grandfather. The shiver had been like the sensation at the beginning of a vision. But the vision never developed. That was odd.
A few great egrets flew above them like escorts as Mi-sa took her seat. The shiver again. Perhaps she felt the peculiar sensations because this was something new for her. She would talk to Atula when they could be alone. She looked back at him and then at the other men. All the men were smiling, chatting, enthralled with the beginning of the Big Water journey—but Mi-sa was not so thrilled.
She took her last look at her village, a deep green hump, like the algae-covered carapace of a turtle, in the brown sea of saw grass. The great egrets, streaks of gliding white, good omens, veered to the south. The silent flurry cleared the sky without much notice. Mi-sa shifted, feeling uncomfortable already. The peculiar feeling came not because the seat was too rough or too hard. Nor was her uneasiness due to heat or glare, or even due to the fact that she was an unwanted participant in this journey. She could not quite understand the source of her disquiet and restlessness.
Mi-sa looked up, wanting to sight the egrets again, but they were gone. A more ominous form had taken their place. A dark bird with a large wingspan was riding the thermal currents in the air, circling the small flotilla. The turkey vulture watched from high above.
A sudden rush of fear surged through her, filling her with a strong sense of foreboding. Stop, she wanted to say. Turn back! But she did not want to show alarm. She did not want the men to see how frightened she had become. They would think she was weak—a woman afraid of this men’s journey.
She looked again at Atula. Had he also seen the egrets leave and the vulture appear?
CHAPTER 3
The canoes moved more swiftly as the water deepened. By the end of the day, the dreary stretches of saw grass disappeared and the sky turned gray, occasionally whipping up a quick rainstorm. Gradually the Tegesta made their way into a river banked with trees, vines, brush, and ground cover—a dense jungle with wet green fingers that hung over the edge of the water. The river was dotted with springs, clear, dazzling blue water that gushed to the surface.
The sun set over their right shoulders as they headed southeast. “There,” Cherok said from the front of his canoe, indicating the overnight camp they often used.
Mi-sa strained to see everything. The change of surroundings had kept her attention the entire day. The dramatic variations in light and color, in depth and dimension of landscape, had engrossed and captivated her as the canoes moved from flat wetland, and what seemed like an eternal lens of water, to outcroppings of limestone with all forms of life clinging to them in congested thickets. The only time the women experienced a change in scenery so sensational was when they went to the coontie grounds, the high dry pinelands. She wished her mother could witness this.
The men beached the canoes on a slope in the bank, a ramp they had made over time. They then began to clear away the opportunistic brush that had sprung up since their last visit. Mi-sa set aside her staff and feather cape and joined in, pulling the tall weeds by hand. The men took out their knives and fastened them to sticks, then slashed stalks down to their roots. The extended knives made the work easier, with no need to bend over, but Mi-sa thought it better to keep her knife concealed and use it only if she had to.
The men dripped with sweat as they worked, their bodies gleaming beneath the angled rays of the sun. The gnats massed around them like swarming clouds.
“Talasee,” Cherok called. “Start the smoke fire.”
Talasee took a coal from the insulated pouch he carried and placed it in a nest of cattail fluff. Gently he blew on it as he rested the prize on the ground, bending over it and nurturing the flicker until he had a strong blaze. Mi-sa brought him an otter-stomach pouch filled with water.
The men had cleared the area, set aside the long grassy weeds to be used as beds, and piled the leaves in heaps. Though the leaves were already damp from the frequent rain during the day, Mi-sa poured more water over them and stirred them with a stick, making certain they were saturated. Satisfied, she carried an armload of the wet debris to the fire. Talasee nodded, and Mi-sa dumped the leaves onto the fire, creating a heavy gray smoke.
The men took refuge in the gray cloud of smoke, which offered immediate relief from the retreating insects. They rubbed a repellent on each other, a salve made from fish oil, alligator oil, and bear grease. Mi-sa had not thought to bring salve when she packed her basket.
Several of the men noticed as she swatted insects and crept closer to the fire, staying in the thick smoke, but no one offered to share his ointment.
One of the men dabbed himself with the oil as he stared at her, fantasizing what it would be like to rub the oil on her body and feel the fleshiness of her breasts slip beneath his hand. Mi-sa could feel his unwelcome eyes wander over her. She turned sharply, her disapproval and contempt flashing in her eyes. The man looked away.
As the late afternoon settled over them, the air became heavy with humidity and acrid smoke, and the insects became more aggressive. Mi-sa stayed near the smoke, close to the fire, tolerating the heat.
“Mi-sa,” Cherok called, seeing her discomfort.
She looked up to see him beckon her with his hand. The heat had made her feel sick. Her head was light, and her body was drenched with perspiration. She wiped at her brow, smudging her face with dirt.
“Here,” Cherok said by the edge of the water, handing her a pouch. “Fill this one for Talasee.”
He motioned for her to step into the water and flashed his supply of the repellent at her.
The young woman waded onto the small shelf in the river and splashed water on her overheated body to cool down. She scooped up handfuls of water and gulped it.
“Well,” Cherok began, “are you going to fill the pouch?”
Mi-sa nodded at him, taking the pouch from her shoulder and dipping it in the water. “Now you will share your ointment?”
“Here,” he said, discreetly exchanging the ointment for the pouch. “I have another. Keep this one. You are so stubborn I knew you would never ask.”
“How do you get inside my head?” she asked him with a grin.
“You taught me, remember? Are you not a part of me?” he asked, referring to their special kindred and spiritual link.
“Thank you, Cherok,” she said as she passed him. “I will sleep with my back to the ground.”
Cherok chuckled again, understanding what she meant. She could spread the repellent everywhere but on her back, and she would not ask anyone to do it for her.
As the evening progressed, the Tegesta shared baskets of dried fish as well as strips of deer meat and alligator. Bellies full, they stretched out by the smoke of the fire. Talasee threw more wood and wet leaves on it for the night. The brush they had cut served as their beds.
“I am glad you are here,” Cherok said to her. “It is your place.”
Mi-sa looked up and smiled at him. There would never be a man in her life as important as Cherok. He was more than her brother.
Cherok moved on, preparing his bed.
The wind stirred the leaves, whisking all kinds of debris across the clearing. The rain quickly began to fall in heavy, furious drops. Talasee grabbed a deer hide, and with the help of another man, held it over the fire to protect the coals. The hide flapped and snapped as the men grappled with it in the gale. The rain had come like this all day, in violent bursts, lasting only a short time. This squall proved to be no different, moving on before too long.
Soon they all returned to their soggy beds and slept—even Mi-sa.
Her first dreams feathered in and out, nonsense wanderings. But deeper in sleep she heard music, a song she did not know. Then she heard a deep voice call her name.
“Come closer so that I might see you,” she said, turning and looking for him.
No answer came, but she could feel his warm hand move from behind her and caress her cheek. She leaned back, settling into him. “Who are you?” she asked. “When will I know you?”
Mi-sa could feel him nestle in her hair, feel the warmth of his breath on her neck. Then he began to drift away. She could feel the coolness of the breeze against her cheek where once his hand had rested. She felt the cold vulnerability of her back as he moved away.
“Wait, please,” she called as she turned around, wanting to hold on to the dream a little longer. But he was gone.
Her eyes opened, and the wink of the tiny red cinders in the fire made her remember where she was. She stood and walked to the fire for comfort, staring into the burning coals. She broke a stick that lay nearby and, finding it dry enough to burn, held it in the flames, watched it catch, and listened to it crackle. As she peered into the glow, she heard a whispering—or was it just the sound of the wind? Mi-sa tossed the stick into the fire and looked up at the sky. Clouds moved swiftly across the moon. The wind had picked up again, swirling the leaves, kissing the fire, bringing it more life. The smoke blew away from the sleeping men before it could discourage the insects. The rain would not be far behind.
Mi-sa gazed into the fire. Perhaps the eerie whispering was really only a lingering fragment of her dream. She had so many questions. She wanted to ask Atula about her dreams and about the dread she had felt at the beginning of the journey. She found herself wishing he would awaken.
In a moment Atula sat up. He saw her sitting by the fire and went to join her. “Something troubles you,” he said, squatting next to Mi-sa.
“And you?” she asked.
Atula pitched a small twig into the blaze, then folded his legs under him as he sat.
“Do you not feel it?” she asked.
“I do not look for things anymore. That is your job now. Tell me what troubles you.”
“When we left the village,” she began, “I had the same feeling I get when a vision begins, but it stopped with only a shiver.”
“Then perhaps there was no vision to come,” he said.
“Perhaps. But I was left with this ominous feeling. A sense of dread.” Mi-sa stopped for a moment. “If only I knew what to expect, how to react. What does this mean, or that? I feel so blind, as if I were walking in the dark, with no light, no direction.”
“The Gift is burdensome,” Atula remarked. “Especially for you.”
Mi-sa closed her eyes. “I saw more signs. Surely you noticed them, too.”
“Tell me. I will try to help.”
“The egrets. White egrets flew above us, but then they left. When I looked again, a vulture circled us, watching from high above.”
Atula’s face was solemn. “Everyone could see the egrets. Everyone could see the vulture. But you are shaman. You could see more than birds. What was in your heart?”
“I wanted to turn back.”
“And why did you not direct us to do that?” he asked.
“I did not want the men to see me afraid.”
Atula breathed deeply. “It could be that the spirits have shown you something, and you have ignored it because of your pride. You must have faith in yourself as well as the spir—”
He did not get to finish. Mi-sa interrupted. “But I must be so careful,” she defended herself. “If the men see me weaken, see me falter, that would undermine their confidence in me. This is a fine line that I walk.”
“Then you must listen more keenly. If the spirits have given you a vision, a message, you must deliver it.”
Mi-sa stood up and started to pace. “But you did not notice the birds. You would have understood their meaning,” she said, leaning over to him.
Atula patted the ground, asking her to sit again. “The spirits do not speak through me anymore. They recognize you as shaman.”
“Surely you hear the voices of the spirits. Before I was shaman, even as a little girl, I saw and knew things. The spirits showed me, spoke to me.”
“And they do so now. Trust them. Trust yourself.”
A blast of wind howled in the trees, blowing the flames off the fire so they escaped into the night air.
“I have dreams,” she said hurriedly, anticipating the rain.
“Do you wish me to help you interpret them?”
“Well,” she began, “they are of a man.”
Mi-sa went on to explain the dreams and the man who came to her, the man she did not know. Was the dream or vision only a fantasy, or did it have meaning? Atula listened intently, watching the lines of her face change from curiosity to puzzlement.
“What do you think it means?” he asked.
Mi-sa looked into the distance. “I do not know. I am afraid that it is only a mockery, that there never will be a man.”
“This causes you great trouble?” he asked, looking up at the branches of the trees. The wind was growing stronger. “Was there anything else?” he questioned.
“Here by the fire, moments before you joined me, I heard my name whispered, as in the dream.”
“Have you seen his face?” Atula asked, speaking louder as the wind rushed past.
“Never. The dream is fleeting.”
Atula reached for his medicine bag. He fumbled with the drawstring but was suddenly distracted by the angry howl of the wind. He let go of the medicine bag and looked up. In the moonlight he could see the clouds racing by. Bad sign. Three levels of clouds, all moving swiftly across the sky. “Open your mouth. Taste the air,” he said, standing up, his face wrinkling with worry.
Mi-sa stood next to him, opening her mouth, tasting and smelling the wind. The air was filled with the essence of a storm—a storm bred at sea.
Atula closed his eyes and started a chant. Mi-sa watched in awe. Her father was so powerful, the wind in his hair, the moonlight on his face, the sound of his voice echoing with its mystic rhythm. The wind began to roar.
Suddenly Atula turned to her, his eyes filled with a revelation. “This is what the spirits—”
He did not finish. The wind crashed through the trees, tearing a large limb from its trunk, sending it hurling through the air. It caught Atula on the side of his head and slammed him to the ground before he could tell her what he had seen. Blood trickled down the side of his head.
“Atula!” she screamed, feeling the first bites of the wind-driven rain. She touched her fingers to the side of his neck, and then turned him on his back. Kneeling over him, she waited to feel his breath on her cheek, but there was too much wind. Her hair blew frantically across her face, tangling in front of her eyes and flying into her mouth.
The wind screamed, louder and louder, as if it were a living thing. The men had awakened, surprised out of their sleep.
“Help me,” Mi-sa called to Cherok. “Atula has been hurt!”
The rain whirled through the air, mixed with leaves, sticks, and dirt. “Help me,” she called again, looking up to see the moon disappear behind a great cloud. More limbs were flying, cracking and crunching as they banged into trees.
Cherok tied his hair in a knot behind him to keep it out of his eyes. He felt Atula’s chest and looked at his face.
A loud cracking, then a creaking sound startled them. An old gumbo-limbo pitched toward them. Cherok grabbed Atula’s feet and dragged him out of the way. Men scurried for cover. The tree fell, pinning one man beneath it. The man screamed with pain, blood dribbling from the corner of his mouth. Some of the men tried to lift the tree, to no avail. More trees began to crack, splinter, and fall. The men scattered, running from the ferocious storm.
“There is no place to hide,” Mi-sa screamed to Cherok.
“The canoes,” they heard Talasee yell. Mi-sa and Cherok struggled to see the bank. The large canoes were rocking, beginning to lift and ride the flooding river. They looked back for others who might help, but the storm had terrorized them all; men ran in all directions in search of some place safe.
Cherok and Mi-sa ran to help Talasee secure the canoes. They tugged at one of the dugouts, squinting in the rain, trying to pull it farther up on shore. Already water slapped at their ankles. It was difficult to see, for the clouds covered the moon, and the rain created a nearly opaque curtain that plunged down in stinging, battering sheets.
“Pull,” Talasee screamed, trying to coordinate their efforts. It was becoming nearly impossible to hear over the tumultuous roar of the tempest. Even the earth seemed to rumble.
Another extraordinary gust caught the stern of the boat and whipped it around, knocking Talasee to the ground.
“Cherok,” Mi-sa shouted, “Talasee is down.”
Cherok hurled himself into the violent wind, fighting his way toward Talasee. The fire keeper stood up, holding his shoulder, trying to immobilize it and stop the pain. He reeled, attempting to keep his balance in the wind.
“I am all right,” Talasee managed to say, staggering toward Cherok.
“Stay back,” Cherok warned.
Talasee didn’t seem to hear him. He continued to fight, leaning into the wind, pushing forward until he reached the canoe. He let go of his shoulder, groaning at the loss of support.
The canoe spun around, its bow crashing into another dugout. Splinters fanned out from its side. Mi-sa’s feet slid under her as she wrestled with the canoe. A green twig stung the side of her face, smacking her with the stem and the leaves. She brushed it away. The twig caught in the wind, flying on. She felt the water at mid-calf. The river was rising dangerously fast. They had to forget about saving the canoes and get away from the water.
“Come on,” she called to Cherok and Talasee.
“Where?” Talasee screamed.
“Just run! We have to get away from the river.”
Cherok rushed to Atula while Talasee stood helpless, unable to assist because of his injury. Mi-sa lifted Atula’s shoulders and heaved as Cherok hoisted his father over his shoulder. He locked his arm under Atula’s buttocks. Atula’s limp torso, head, and arms dangled down Cherok’s back.
“All right,” Cherok said. “Go!”
The three of them began to move at a sprint, nearly blinded by the rain and wind, abandoning the boats, covering their heads with their hands, guarding themselves from flying debris.