Child of the Dead (4 page)

V
ery gingerly the three riders made their way down the slope and into the village.

“I am made to think,” said Singing Wolf, “that we should touch nothing until we know more.”

His voice sounded high and strained, even to himself. He had not encountered a feeling like this before. An unfamiliar spirit hovered here, one that was evil and very dangerous. The horses were skittish, snorting at the smell of death and sidestepping nervously.

Besides that smell, though, Singing Wolf felt that there was another. He had dealt with much sickness as a holy man of the People. The spirit of every illness, his father had taught him, has its own smell. Animals were more sensitive to such things, accounting for the behavior of the horses. He had wondered, sometimes, if man had lost the keenness of smell when he learned to speak. But no, that could not be it. According to the old legends, all animals and all humans once spoke a single language. Maybe the animals had been given the gift of a sensitive nose when they
lost
the power to speak. No matter, now …

But his nose was picking up a special scent, a completely unfamiliar one. He felt that it was related to the spirit of whatever illness … yes, it was surely a sickness that had caused this destruction. He reined his horse to a stop and the others did likewise.

“Let us look around from here for a moment,” he suggested.

They were among the first of the big lodges. Lodges so much like their own that Wolf felt he might have understood these people and their ways. There were differences … The shape of the doorway, the unfamiliar designs painted on the lodge skins. But the basics were there. The east-facing door, the construction of the smoke flaps, the placement of the poles. It was all familiar.

“Look!” Beaver Track pointed to the doorway of one of the lodges.

A moccasined foot was exposed to view. That of a man, probably, from the size. Above that, a bare calf. Wolf moved his horse a step closer, to see farther into the lodge.

“Be careful,” urged his brother, gripping his ax.

Wolf felt that whatever this danger, it could not be successfully faced with an ax, but he said nothing. He could see more of the man’s leg now. The color was bad, a sickly bluish hue. Unquestionably, this individual was dead. What sort of people, Wolf wondered, would leave without caring for their dead? It would be unheard of in any tribe he had ever known. A dishonor.

The leg, he now saw, was disfigured with several wounds. Small, blackened circles, much like the holes made by the lead ball from a musket. But there were several. He could see three or four between the knee and the ankle. Flies buzzed or crawled around and across them.

“
Aiee!”
called Beaver. “Another!”

Wolf turned to follow his brother’s pointing arm. There, in full sight before another of the lodges, sat a man, naked except for a breechclout. Dead, like the other, but seated in a natural pose, this one leaned against his willow backrest. He, too, had been dead for a number of days, Wolf guessed.

“He is
spotted!”
blurted Beaver Track.

“Yes … like the other,” Wolf agreed.

Not wounds
, he thought,
but sores. This is the deadly spirit!

He felt an urge to flee, but there was a need to understand more. It was apparent that there were other
bodies, scattered through the camp. Some were old, but often there were men and women who had been in their prime. Children, too. This sickness seemed to spare no one.

Stirring in the back of his mind was something he had heard last season when they had camped at the French trader’s. Old Three Fingers, the trader, had been conversing in hand signs with some Kenzas from upriver. They told of such an illness among a distant people to the northeast, the story told to them by a traveling trader. It would strike suddenly, with fever and coughing, followed by many sores like insect bites. Soon these turned to festering spots that covered the victim’s entire body. Usually, he died, the Kenzas said.

Yes, Three Fingers had answered, this was a sickness known to his people. “
Poch
,” he called it. Very dangerous …
What had he said!
It jumped from the sick to the healthy, leaving its deadly round tracks behind.

“
Do any survive!”
Singing Wolf had asked.

“Oh, yes,” said the trader. “Usually far more than half. But it jumps easily. One does not touch the sick, or anything they have touched.”

That statement had impressed Wolf. Several sicknesses of that sort were known to the medicine men and women of the People, so it had stuck in his mind. Even so, it was probably only luck that he had suggested not touching anything as they rode in. Or maybe, guidance. Certainly, he had not expected anything like this. This, he now realized, must be the dreaded
poch
that the French trader had warned of.

One other thing now came to memory. The Kenzas who had told the thirdhand tale had argued, insisting that maybe three out of four had died among the sick, as he had heard it. Most of the listeners had assumed that this was an exaggeration, produced by the retelling of a good story.

Now Wolf was not so certain. This band, the people who had died here … He had estimated from the number of burial scaffolds that many lodges were in mourning. Now it seemed to be that there were more dead, a corpse or two abandoned in perhaps half of these dwellings. He did not want to investigate too closely.

He was still convinced, however, that some of the people of this band had departed, followed by the dogs and taking most of the horses.

“What has happened here, holy man?” asked Broken Lance, bewildered by the enormity of the scene before him.,

“I cannot be sure, my chief,” said Wolf slowly. “I am made to think it is this way: I was told of such an illness last season, a very dangerous new spirit-sickness. It jumps from the sick to the healthy.”

Beaver Track looked around them uneasily, and Wolf continued.

“These people had this bad thing, and some died.” He pointed to the scaffolds. “Then, those who prepared them for burial died, too. Those still alive hurried to leave, in fear of their lives. I am made to think that those who touch the sick or the dead are struck down, too.”

Broken Lance nodded. “Then it is important that none of the People touch anything here, no?”

“That is true, Uncle.”

“Then let us leave.”

The old chief reined his horse around and rode majestically back up the slope toward the wolves at the crest of the ridge.

“Pass the word,” he ordered. “No one is to touch anything here. We move on. We will stop early for a council, and Singing Wolf will tell us all of the evil thing that is here.”

“My chief,” suggested Wolf. “It might be good to tell them something now. Some of the curious, or those who might want to look for something useful …”

“That is true,” agreed the chief. “Wait!” He called to the scouts. “Tell them we will draw back a little and hold the council now, to explain. But no one goes in!”

To emphasize that, he signaled to one of the Bowstring Society with hand signs. The warrior relayed the message and the Bowstrings moved into position along the ridge.

There was much excitement and many rumors as the People drew back from the slope and toward a level meadow where they could hold the impromptu council.

The chief’s pipe bearer selected a site for the fire and a few people began to bring sticks and chips. A fire would be necessary as a symbolic gesture to the spirits of the place, a sort of permission to camp. Or, in this case, to stop only long enough to hold the council. The fire was perhaps even more important, thought Wolf, to appease the spirits of the evil thing that lurked just over the ridge.

Broken Lance opened the council, performed the ceremony with the pipe, and passed it to the subchiefs seated in the circle. The pipe passed more quickly than usual, because an urgency hung heavy in the air. Finally Broken Lance spoke.

“My brothers, this is a dangerous thing of which we speak. As I am sure you already know, there is a village over the ridge, there. A camp where everyone is dead.”

There was a gasp from the crowd. Some may not have heard the rumors yet, and some who had might not have believed. Now, to have it confirmed by their leader himself …
aiee!

“Singing Wolf will tell you of this,” the old chief went on.

Wolf rose, not quite prepared to have the council turned over to him.

“My friends,” he began. “There are things I do not understand about this. I heard of it at the trader’s last season.”

A few nodded their heads. Some others had heard the story of the Kenzas, too, it appeared.

“This is a new sickness, and it kills many. There are dead ones over there, with many spots on their bodies, the wounds that kill. I am made to think … Well, this is what the trader, Three Fingers, said, too … This is a spirit that jumps easily. Anyone who touches a person sick with these sores will be in danger. Oh, yes … these same spirits may stay on anything that the sick one has touched. That is why no one must go into that camp of the dead. I am made to think, my chief,” he turned to Broken Lance “that we should travel quickly, well away from this place, before we sleep.”

There was a murmur of approval, and Broken Lance nodded.

“Let it be so,” he announced.

There was a flurry of activity, as preparations for departure were hurriedly completed. People were already mounting their horses and shouldering their packs when there came a cry of terror. One of the women had stepped behind a fringe of sumac to relieve her bladder before starting to travel. Now she came running back toward the others, terror in her face.

Several warriors sprang to help her, weapons ready for anything that might appear. A couple of the Bowstrings, already mounted, kicked their horses into a lope and converged on the sumac thicket. Then the nearest of the horsemen pulled his mount to a sliding stop, wheeled and retreated.

What can it be?
thought Singing Wolf.
A bear, maybe?

Everyone was retreating now. The thicket parted, and out stepped a child. A little girl, it appeared, of five or six summers. She staggered as she walked, a ragged dress of skins hanging loosely on her emaciated body. She was whimpering as she moved slowly toward the half-formed column, while brave warriors retreated before her.

Now Wolf understood. Every exposed portion of the thin body was marked with circular pustules, yellow and ugly and with a blackening crust in the center of each.

“S
he is dying anyway,” said one old woman. “Kill her to keep her from following us!”

“She could not keep up,” insisted another. “Just leave her behind. She cannot last another day.”

“But surely we can do something for her,” a more compassionate voice joined in.

“The holy man said that those who touch her will have the sickness.”

Singing Wolf did not know what to do or say. He almost felt personally responsible for this dilemma. How could he have known that there was a survivor? Or that it would be a small child? And even if he had known, what would he have done differently? Here was a major threat to all of the People. His heart went out to this dying child, but it was as someone had said. Nothing could be done for her. The decisions of the People must be for the good of the People. This dying child was an outsider, a member of some unknown tribe. It was an inescapable fact that even her own people had abandoned her in fear of the sickness that she carried. Probably her parents were dead, and everyone else was afraid.

As the People are now
, Wolf reflected. What
should
be done out of pity, when nothing can really be accomplished, and any contact is dangerous?

The girl wandered toward a group of children, whimpering and babbling in some unknown tongue.

The children scattered, some squealing in mock terror, others laughing hysterically from the tension of facing the unknown. One of the mothers swooped in to pick up her own child, a boy of three or four.

“Go away, girl,” she screamed at the pitiful stranger.