Harvest Moon

Harvest Moon

By Krista D. Ball

Copyright 2010 by Krista D. Ball

Cross-legged, Dancing Cat sat pounding the sun-dried Saskatoon berries between two hand-sized rocks. The stone, her hands, and her buckskin dress all bore the tell-tale signs of berry duty. Streaks of red dye, impossible to clean, striped her clothing and tanned skin. She tried pushing her hair off her cheeks, only to have the sticky residue coating her fingers glue the dark strands in place. The black flies swarmed and buzzed, ready to feast.

She worked in silence as part of the greater circle of twenty women, who chatted as they worked. Dancing Cat had no reason to join in. They only spoke to her to criticize or belittle, never for companionship. The band no longer even called her by name.

Her attention faded away from her work. She stared past the women to catch a glimpse of Eagle Eyes, her brother, mounting his horse. He was only six years older than her and already leading hunting parties, while she sat, docile and obedient, making powdered berries. His gaze caught hers, full of warning. She looked away with the heaviness of her situation pressing against her chest. Dancing Cat pounded her berries harder, trying to crush her own aching loneliness.

“I wish I could ride again,” she mumbled.

Her mother, Crow, glared at her. ?I have no patience for you today. We have berries to crush. Shall I remind you why we need them?”

“No,” Dancing Cat said, sullen. They couldn’t start the pemmican cakes without the berries. Without them, they would starve when winter fell. She’d heard the lecture many times before and did not want to hear it again.

“Good. Put aside your childishness and work in silence, Cursed One.”

Dancing Cat swallowed down the slight. She remained silent against the grunts and nods of the other women. She dropped her gaze, making snide, internal comments about how her mother’s black hair no longer resembled a crow’s blue-black feathers. It made her feel better, petty though it was.

Some days, she saw herself as Cursed One instead of her name. Today was not one of those days. Today, she was still the girl who wriggled out of the womb twenty years before and was joyously named Dancing Cat. Today, she hated her duty and silence. Still, she would do both and would not complain. One day, she would escape into death and be free.

Using a sharp stone, she scraped the mound of berry powder off the buckskin in front of her into the main pile. She dumped several handfuls of the tiny Saskatoon berries back on her ragged buckskin to resume pounding but not before licking her fingers clean of the tart, feathery residue.

No one noticed.

“Creator wills it, the men will bring home a buffalo from the hunt,” Crow said to the other women, who nodded in agreement.

Dancing Cat let her mind wander as the women chatted about the tribe’s need for a buffalo. The herd would move southeast in another moon cycle, and so the entire tribe would move with them before the final move into their winter camp. Faded memories of riding ahead of the hunt flashed across her mind; images so foreign that she wondered if they were true anymore.

A chill crept up her spine. The late summer wind had turned cold. She flicked her gaze back to the hunting party. The rest of the men mounted their horses and galloped off to the nearby buffalo herd. She sighed, remembering the freedom of riding. She had been their tribe’s first female messenger. She missed it.

“Cursed One! Pay attention. You are chipping your rock. If I find stone in my cakes this winter, I will take yours and let you go without.”? Her grandmother glared at her, her thin lips pursed. “Stop daydreaming.”

Dancing Cat stared at her grandmother, trying to control her tone. “Sorry,
Nohkom
. I was just —”

“Daydreaming,” Hawk Sight snapped. “We expect you to do your share of work. If you do not, you will be the first to starve this winter.”

Dancing Cat hung her head, fingers trembling from the nauseating mix of anger and fear. She bit back the disrespectful words that boiled inside her. Hawk Sight was not just her maternal grandmother, but also the band healer and an elder. No one would dare speak back to her, let alone the tribe exile.

She looked up at the several generations of women around her. The nodding heads and smug looks told her that the threat of starvation was real. She pushed her grandmother’s words out of her mind by grinding the berries perfectly between the two flat rocks.

“Remember Stoney?”

Dancing Cat slumped. Hawk Sight never could let things go.

“She thought she could laze around while we women worked. But when we ran out of food that winter, she was the one left to starve. We don’t need lazy women.”

“Yes,
Nohkom
.”

And on it went for the afternoon, story after miserable story about women who starved to death. It would have been bad enough for just her grandmother to have told the stories. Instead, the others joined in, telling of captured Red Valley, Cree, or Inuit wives who had been left to starve when food stores ran low. All at her grandmother’s say. Hawk Sight might have been a great healer, but she was also cold and merciless in Dancing Cat’s opinion.

They told the stories to make her work harder, but it had the opposite effect. Her work slowed. She could not stand up for herself against an entire band, but she could refuse to obey the people who threatened to kill her. If they wanted her to die, then they could starve, too.

Dancing Cat shook her head, shocked at herself for even thinking such a thought. Perhaps she deserved her title, after all. Only the Cursed One would be so disrespectful towards her elders.

“I will fetch water,” she said, picking up the small basket of empty water bladders in the middle of the circle. None of the women acknowledged her.

She dragged her feet to the river, past the elk-hide tepees and the five wooden structures drying buckskin. A colt followed her for several steps until she stopped to scratch it between the ears. He nuzzled her belly before taking off to eat. A pang of longing pricked Dancing Cat’s heart. The colt was the offspring of her messenger horse. Her former horse, she reminded herself.

Smoke filled the air throughout the camp, though it was thickest along the northern edge where the fire pits dried the berries and deer meat. She coughed and rubbed her watery eyes.

The smoke created a wall between the river and the watchful eyes of her people. For that, she was grateful. A moment’s peace was rare for Dancing Cat, and she treasured the moments in case they became her last.

She slipped out of her boots and waded into the calf-deep steam. Frothing cold water slammed against her bare skin. She looked to the west, towards its source, squinting against the descending sun. One of her first messages was to a band of her people in the western mountains, who trapped wolverines and cougars there. She peered towards the south with a sigh. She had been in the lands of their rivals, Red Valley, several times. She loved their wide open plains.

The only place she had never been was north, to see the isolated Inuit. It had been a hope that she would see their ice-covered world. Now, she was lucky ever to leave the clutches of her band. Unlike those who cursed her, she knew exactly what she had lost. Taking away the honour to ride took away the freedom and lust for life that she had once had.

As she filled up each dried deer bladder, she dreamed about the water sweeping her away to the next life. Perhaps the next existence was better than this one.

Motion caught her eye, and she squinted against the afternoon sun. She gasped. By the tree line, not ten steps away, her tribe’s sacred bundle dangled from a wooden trivet. It swung gently in the breeze. She assumed the Caretaker had moved it out of his tepee in preparation for the Harvest Gathering.

Dancing Cat frowned. She was banned from the festival. All of Battle Cliff’s bands would gather together in the next day or so to dance and celebrate the Harvest Moon before the snow came. She would have to carry on for another year without the prophetic guidance of her ancestors.

Or, would she?

Her flesh turned to goose flesh as a crow squawked. She wondered if the bird had heard her disobedient thought. She had long desired to consult the sacred bundle for it held the power of prophecy. Through it, she could learn if the ancestors had also abandoned her. With that knowledge, she could decide her own fate instead of leaving it in the cruel hands of her grandmother.

She looked around, but there was no one in sight. Cautiously, she approached it, still carrying her basket of bladders. Her heart pounded and not only at being alone in the presence of the most sacred and honored item she had ever known. She would certainly be left to starve if caught standing there.

The magic of the bundle was only for the Caretaker blessed with the training to consult it, for its power was dangerous if not handled properly. As Cursed One, she would never be allowed in its presence. A rebellious wave washed over her. She had already been named Cursed One.

There was no further indignity left for them to inflict, other than kill her, something she wanted to do to herself nearly every day for the last two years.

“Just a peek,” she said, creeping closer to the trivet. She reached out to touch the bundle, only to recoil from the freezing fingers of magic that grabbed her hand. She had not expected it to have such strength.

Taking several breaths to regain her nerve, she took the sacred bundle into her hands. The invisible, icy touch of magic twisted its way over her body. Goose fleshcovered her skin, making her hair stand on edge. She recited a chant from her childhood to help keep her safe and calm her fears. A crow landed in front of her and shrieked in anger. She ignored the bird.

Although Dancing Cat had seen the Caretaker open the sacred bundle before, she wasn’t convinced that she knew the correct sequence to open it. Legend had it that great mishaps would happen if it was not done properly. Still, it was worth the risk. The very worst that could happen would be her death.

No, she thought. The very worst would be nothing happening at all.

She knelt and placed the bundle on the mossy ground. The beaded cloth was stiff with age. The dried leaves that separated each cloth layer crackled. Dancing Cat wondered if they were the original leaves or had been replaced periodically. Either way, she did not want to take the chance. She cautiously unfolded each sheet, always careful not to lose the delicate, dried leaves.

The faint tickle of onion scented the air on the fourth unwrapping, and she saw the final leather pouch.

She was almost certain the pattern was North-South-East-West and started to ply back the corners. Dancing Cat whispered to the Creator and the Spirits to forgive her desperation.

Needing to know if the ancestors had abandoned her in this life surpassed any desire to be a good woman.

Underneath the final layer sat a palm-sized pouch, covered in gleaming black beads. She pulled it open and the magic pressed harder against her, turning her fingers blue with cold. She ignored the freezing pain and gaped in awe at the contents in front of her. Inside were two arrowheads from when the first war ended and a string of red beads made from Battle Cliff’s oddly-coloured pebbles. She eyed a small bone and her heart skipped a beat. She knew from the stories that it was the finger bone of the tribe’s first Caretaker, who walked with the Creator and learned the secrets of the hunt.

Scared, Dancing Cat looked around her. Still alone. Deciding she would never get another chance, she prayed aloud. “Ancestors, help me find my path. Reveal a glimpse of my future so that I can decide if you want me to continue living in this world. My tribe has cursed me. I seek to know if you have cursed me, too.”

A strong wind blew against her, and the icy grip of magic left with it.

Her shoulders sank. Somehow, her prayer had sucked the magic out of the bundle. Dancing Cat struggled to keep stone-faced, but traitorous tears trickled down her face. Even her ancestors had turned their backs on her. She was on her own in this world and, if she killed herself, she would still be alone in the next. That knowledge stabbed her heart, breaking it into pieces.

All for something that wasn’t her fault.

Dancing Cat folded the layers of the bundle together sloppily, no longer caring if the combination was correct. Anger surged inside her. If they did not respect her, she refused to respect them.

A crackle of lightning zapped her fingers. The blue light snaked around her wrists and forearms before encompassing her entire body. Her heart pounded in her chest as fear gripped her. She stood, unable to release her death hold on the sacred bundle. Perhaps the spirits had come to kill her.

A hazy fog swirled around her. The greens and browns of the woods around her smudged and streaked the fog, though she could no longer see distinctive shapes. Her muscles clenched.

“Why do you want to die, my granddaughter?” a female voice echoed around her.

“Who…who are you?” Chills shook Dancing Cat’s body. She looked around, but could not see where the voice came from. “Spirit, show yourself.”