Raven Mocker (5 page)

W
orries hung over her in the ensuing days. One was the awareness that someone had tried to kill her with the snake. At least it seemed so. Another, the disquieting events at the Council, and the knowledge that another Council hearing was pending. Still another, perhaps worse, was the suspicion that the accusation might even be justified in some way.
Maybe they are right. I could be a Raven Mocker.

With the next breath she would think such an idea ridiculous. Surely it could not happen to a person without his or her knowledge.
When
could it have happened? But close on the heels of that thought, another…
Maybe I was born with it.

She had always been different in many ways. She knew it. Everyone knew it, from the time she was small. Perhaps that was the difference. The Raven Mocker, born among ordinary humans, of human parents, but with the ability to transfer and absorb the unused life-years of the dying ….

But if that were true, where did the old granny, her namesake mentor, fit in? The two of them had always seemed so close, so similar … not in appearance, of course, but in spirit. To others, so similar that she now bore the same name: Snakewater. Had the witch woman, too, been a Raven Mocker?
Is that how it works?
she asked herself. Was the understudy already born a Raven
Mocker, or was such status bestowed by the teacher when
that
Raven Mocker became tired of the false immortality?

No, she told herself, that was making it too complicated. Her mentor had been kind and generous and had helped many people, as she had herself. They had been gifted with certain powers, which required some knowledge of how to use them to the good of others. That the old granny had given to her.
It cannot be evil to help others
, she assured herself.

She tried to shake off the fantasy that had begun to depress her. There were times when her heart was so heavy that she even considered suicide, though not for long. Such reflections might interfere with what she was intended to do. She wished that she could talk to her teacher. She shrugged off the angry thought that
Granny left me.

Maybe she could talk to someone else …. No one in her own village, of course, but was there not a conjure woman in the next town, Keowee, a day’s travel to the north? Yes, she was sure of it. Possibly … What was her name… Frog! Yes, Spotted Frog. No sooner had she thought of this possibility, than she began to plan her journey. It did not take long. She gathered enough food for subsistence, blankets for the overnight stay, and chose a small but well-made basket as a gift. She would start at daylight.

H
er heart was light during the journey. The day was pleasant, the road easy. She nodded cheerfully to the few travelers she met, and they returned her greeting.

She was surprised at the changes since she had last visited here. There were fields and farms and houses and herds of cattle grazing. She shook her head in disapproval. The Real People were living like whites.

Reaching the outskirts of the town, she made her campfire and settled for the night. She would go in when morning came and ask for Frog, the medicine woman. She was tired and slept well.

In the morning she rose, went to water at the stream, and redressed, combing her hair to appear presentable.
Entering the town, there were more changes—a store, a blacksmith preparing his forge for the day’s work… Times were changing. She had no difficulty inquiring her way to the house of Spotted Frog, and knocked at the door.

“Who is it?” a voice called.

“I am called Snakewater,” she answered. “I come from the town to the south of here. Old Town. The one with the wall. I would talk ….”

A woman appeared in the doorway. She was heavy, of medium height, and she might have been of almost any age. The lines in her face belied the jet black of her hair. All in all, though, the lines were those of a happy disposition.

“I have heard of you,” she said. “Come in. Let us smoke.”

Snakewater offered her gift.

“It is beautifully made,” said Spotted Frog. “Your work?”

“No, no. A woman in our town makes them.”

“
Wado!
It is good! Come… let us sit outside. The day is pleasant.”

They sat on a bench, and Spotted Frog brought a pipe and a burning stick with which to light it. They smoked in silence for a little while, and finally Frog spoke.

“How may I help you?”

“I—I don’t know,” said Snakewater truthfully. “There are things that I do not understand.”

The other woman smiled. “There are many things like that, no? What is it, Snakewater?”

“Well, I… What do you know of the Raven Mocker?” she blurted.

Several emotions flitted across the face of Spotted Frog. Suspicion, fear, defensiveness, maybe even anger.

“Why do you seek of this?” she asked carefully. “Has your town a problem?”

“No …Well, maybe. There are suspicions, talk. There have been accusations.”

The other woman was quiet for a little while.

“You have heard the stories of the Raven Mocker?” Snakewater finally prompted.

“Of course. He steals unused life-years at the death of a young person. Or any person. Adds them to his own, to become immortal.”

Snakewater nodded. “Did you ever hear how he
becomes
a Raven Mocker?”

A look of alarm, almost of horror, settled on the face of Spotted Frog. “You want to
become
a Raven Mocker?”

“No, no! Not that at all! It is only… Ah, how can I say it? I am the one who has been accused.”

The woman rose and stepped back, as if there was a danger in the nearness.

“I cannot help you!” she snapped.

“Please!” pleaded Snakewater. “I mean no harm to anyone. I do not know how this started. There has been an attempt on my life. There was a hearing in our Council.”

Quickly she told about the snake, the outcome of that episode, and of finding the sack in which the snake had been tossed, and of the details of the hearing.

Spotted Frog’s face softened. “I am made to think,” she pondered, “that your heart is good. Yet I do not know how I can help you.”

Snakewater’s eyes welled up with tears. “Could I be a Raven Mocker without knowing?” she blurted.

“Who knows? But I would not think so. No, surely one would
feel
the change when new years were added, no?”

“
Wado.
Thank you. That was my thought too. But I have no one to talk to… no one to understand.”

“Ah, we may never understand. Maybe it is not meant that we should. But I have heard that your medicine is good.”

“I have thought so. I have tried to make it so. But no one comes to me now. They are afraid.”

“Yes… afraid enough to try to kill you, no?”

“I fear that is true.”

“You may have to move, Snakewater. Another town?”

“I had not thought of that. I have never lived anywhere else. Never
been
anywhere except here.”

Frog nodded sympathetically. “I will conjure a spell for you. I wish that I could do more.”

A
t least it was comforting to know that there was someone who could understand. Even if she was no closer to understanding the whole thing, here was something to cling to. Spotted Frog, a powerful medicine woman, did not believe that she, Snakewater, could be a Raven Mocker. That was reassuring.

As she walked along, she fingered the protective amulet that Frog had given her. It was a medicine bag on a thong, a tiny buckskin pouch no bigger than her thumb. The woman had placed tiny pinches of several substances in it. Snakewater did not know what …. She preferred not to know, and her trust in Frog and her medicine was strong.

She was somewhat stiff and sore from the long journey yesterday. That, she thought with wry humor, was probably good. If she were really a Raven Mocker, her limbs would be young from the young lifetimes she had absorbed. It amused her to think so. It had been a good thing, to share her concerns with another medicine woman, and she was thinking more clearly now.

It was a matter of concern that Frog had suggested that she move to another town. Such an idea had never occurred to her, but it might be the most practical solution. Another town, a fresh start. It was something to think about.

She knew that there were Cherokees moving westward, building towns in a place called Arkansas. There would be need for a person with the medicine gift. But how could she find the town where she could settle, one with the need for the skills she could offer?

I
t was well after dark when she reached home. She had refused Frog’s kind invitation to spend the night. She had been away for two days, and it would be good to be home. This thought made her uneasy again about the possibility of moving. Well, she’d think about that later.

The town was quiet and dark. The moon had risen to help her find her way, and the squat outlines of her modest dwelling had never looked so welcome. She was tired, as she shuffled the last few steps to the doorway. She paused, hesitating to step into the darkness where—

The familiar buzzing rattle sent cold chills over her. Was it starting again? This time she was not close enough to be in real danger. She stepped back, and the rattling ceased. She must have some light …. The fire was surely dead, after two days …. She would have to make one. With a sigh she set her pack against the outside wall of the hut and drew out her flint and steel. It took a little while to arrange her tinder and the charred cloth that would catch the first spark. She knelt, striking the metal with her flint, trying to catch the spark she needed …. There! She lifted the handful with the spark and blew gently until it glowed, then burst into flame, lighting the area in front of the hut ….

She fumbled with some of her fuel, stacked against the end of the structure, and quickly fashioned a torch. Carrying it for light, she approached the doorway again. The rattle sounded …. Very cautiously she peered around the opening and drew the hanging doorskin aside, to see…
nothing.

The startling sounds ceased, and Snakewater could have sworn that she heard a suppressed giggle.

“Damn you, Lumpy!” she exploded. “Where are you? That wasn’t funny at all!”

She tossed her pack inside, followed it, and quickly sought her pallet. It had been a long and eventful day, and she was exhausted.

T
hree Fingers spent a very uncomfortable few days, waiting for the next meeting of the Council. There were several things he did not really understand. It was still a mystery to him, how rumor and accusation could have divided the town so quickly and so bitterly. As far as he knew, Old Town had experienced no more illness or unexpected death than any town does. People are born, live, and die, like the leaves on a tree. Death is a part of the cycle, just as autumn leaves grow ripe and fall in their multicolored splendor. That was an analogy which appealed to him.

He regretted the losses, some more than others. The death of a child is always hard, even beyond the loss to those most closely involved. Such concern Three Fingers felt quite personally, as part of the responsibility of his office. Still, death happens. To look for causes beyond the obvious seemed fruitless to him. There are things not meant to be understood by mere mortals.

It seemed infinitely more ridiculous to him that anyone would attempt to assign
blame
for such an inescapable event as a random death. He was concerned that this conflict threatened the town. Already there were friends of the Spotted Bird woman, sympathetic to her loss, who were loud in their denunciation of old Snakewater. The situation might deteriorate to the point where they began to demand action. And in turn the council might find it
necessary to make some sort of decision, simply to avoid violence. That was a hard thing to imagine, in a law-abiding setting such as Old Town. The Real People had respected the authority of duly chosen leaders for many generations.

Sometimes he wondered, though, how he had allowed himself to be selected for his present position. And
why
would he have accepted it? For the prestige, he had to admit.

But in the years since he had been Peace Chief of Old Town, there had certainly been no crisis to compare with this. His greatest fear was that friends of the woman who had brought the accusation would try to take action on their own. That in turn could trigger a defensive reaction by the supporters of the medicine woman. Such a thing could tear Old Town into two warring camps, and he doubted that the town could survive such an internal war.

I
t was a welcome distraction, then, when a trader and his wife arrived at Old Town. They sought out the leaders of the town, Three Fingers and Log Roller, to pay their respects, as was customary and proper. It was always pleasant to have traders visit. They carried not only trade goods, but news and stories. Many traders did not include Old Town among their stops. It was somewhat off the main road and had a reputation for being a little slow to accept change. Such a town is likely to acquire also a reputation for slow trade. There is a reluctance to try new things.

Such a reputation did not bother the citizens of Old Town, or its leaders. It was apparent that its citizens were content to follow the old ways. The crops were planted outside the walls, in small plots and fields. Few people had livestock, beyond a horse or two. By contrast, some of the Real People in other areas had adopted many of the white man’s ways. Three Fingers was aware that over beyond Keowee there were larger farms and fields worked by black slaves, and plantations with big houses, herds of cattle, pigs, and poultry. The traditional walled towns of
the Real People, as well as their houses and clothing, were becoming more and more like those of the white man. A strange thing: The whites had never seen crops such as corn, pumpkins, beans, or potatoes until a few generations ago. But they had learned to plant and grow these crops from the Real People and other tribes, changing the whites’ ways to meet new conditions. Now the change had come full circle. The Real People were adopting white ways. Ah, it made his head ache to think about it.

But now Three Fingers was glad to see the trader. He would have a variety of new goods. More importantly, news of other towns, maybe even new stories. But above all the presence of the trader would provide a distraction for Old Town. People would not be brooding about the question of the Raven Mocker. At least not so much. It was another three days until the time for the council to reconvene.

This trader, a Choctaw, had been here before and was known to Old Town. Trading was brisk, and the time around the story fire in the evening an enjoyable distraction.

On the first evening the trader began by relating all the news from the places he had been. A fire had destroyed the council house in one town, and it was being rebuilt. The Peace Chief in another town had been killed by a tree he was cutting. It was an accident—a sudden shift in the breeze just as the trunk spoke its characteristic crack and began to fall. The tree twisted, spun at an awkward angle on its stump, and fell directly in the preplanned path of retreat. But such things happen, no?

Three Fingers hoped that Old Town’s people would not see a similarity in this, the unexpected death of a young man, with their own Raven Mocker problem. Or maybe it would be a
good
thing. No one can ever be sure of anything, except that he can always expect the unexpected. He smiled to himself at this contradictory thought. Ah, well…

There was good news, of course. Crops were good and
hunting productive. In several areas the Real People were raising pigs, which seemed to thrive on the abundant crop of acorns this season. The pigs met with mixed reactions, but there was much to be said for an animal that required little hunting. Cattle, too, were becoming more common, for meat and milk, and ox teams were replacing horses and mules for hauling wagons.

There were also, said the Choctaw, more Cherokees heading west to join their relatives in Arkansas. Several towns had been established already. It was good country, he said, beyond the big river, the Mississippi. All new country, with few white men yet. The French had been there earlier, trapping furs, but had been replaced by a few of the English-speaking whites.

“These are the ones we know,” he explained. “We called them
Yen gleesh
, before. They call themselves Americans now. You know them.”

The crowd nodded, murmuring.

“Not many of them west of the Big River yet,” the Choctaw went on. “But lots of room out there. I am thinking of going there to trade.”

“You go there now?” someone asked.

“No, no. Not this season. We are not prepared for it. Maybe next season. But some of your people are going.”

“Ours? The Real People?” someone asked.

“Yes, so they call themselves, as you do—Cherokees. They are only a day or two behind me, maybe.”

“How many?”

“I don’t know. Two wagons, maybe three. Two or three families.”

“Will they come this way?”

“I could not say. Maybe they follow the main road, through Keowee …. Yes, that’s most likely.”

It was about this time that Three Fingers noticed Snakewater, out on the fringe of the crowd. He wasn’t sure for a moment whether his eyes were deceiving him. The old woman was at the farthest edge of the circle of
light. She was not doing anything in particular, just quietly listening.

Interesting
, Three Fingers thought to himself.
She seldom attends the story fires.

I
t was three days until the Council would meet again. Snakewater was doing a lot of thinking. Her conversation with Spotted Frog had been useful in providing new ideas. Until then she had not even thought of leaving Old Town. Now it seemed like a worthwhile option to consider. She had never run away from trouble. It was against her nature.

Yet this current problem was different in many ways. She had been accused of things over which she had had no influence. Even if she
were
a Raven Mocker, she told herself, she would have little control over whether someone lived or died. She used her potions and teas and ceremonies to try to
help
the sick or dying when requested. As her mentor had reminded her many times, to misuse such gifts would be quite dangerous to herself.

Even so, the thought occurred to her that maybe, somehow, she
had
misused her gifts. No… On reflection she did not think that was possible. Besides, this was a unique situation. The attempt on her life was a very unsettling thing. Would it ever be that she could feel confident and at home in Old Town again? It seemed unlikely. Someone’s hate was deep and powerful, to make him (or her) take the personal risk required to handle that snake and put it in the bag. The idea of leaving began to look more and more attractive. After all, even if the decisions of the Council were favorable to her, some unknown person would be out there with a powerful hate… powerful enough, maybe, to try again to kill her.

The arrival of the trader, and his news of other Cherokees moving west, stimulated thoughts of leaving. She might be able to join such a party and travel with them. Maybe she could inquire of the trader before he left. Yes, that could do no harm …. She’d talk to the
trader or his wife …. Yes, the
wife!
That was it! They were expected to leave tomorrow, but she would rise early and talk to the wife, learn more if she could. More about the travelers who were coming along behind them. There might be a good chance that she could join the travelers.

But what about the Council? It seemed that no one was certain as to what action would be appropriate if it
was
determined that she was a Raven Mocker. Maybe, she thought, that was the reason for Three Fingers’s delay. The Peace Chief himself was unsure. Now, what if she approached Three Fingers and offered to solve his problem by leaving? Yes, that might be the answer. She would talk to him tomorrow too.

She fell asleep with a sense of satisfaction. She was ready, at least, to take some action toward solving her problem, and that of Old Town.

S
ometime later she awoke with a sense that something was wrong. It took her a moment to orient herself to reality and to realize that she was awake and not dreaming. Yes, she was in her own house, in her blankets. The familiar scents of her drying herbs were there. But something was
different
somehow. What had wakened her? Some primitive instinct, a warning of danger?

Snakewater lay unmoving, waiting …. She could see the familiar outline of the doorway by the pale starlight that leaked in around the doorskin that served to close it. Then she sensed a presence somewhere near. Just outside the door curtain, maybe. Surely not
inside
the hut. No, outside. She could hear someone or
something
shuffling along the outside wall, coming toward the door. Quietly she reached out and picked up a knife that lay beside her pallet. She had placed it there with no real purpose in mind; just her general sense of uneasiness over the situation at Old Town.

Now she shifted it to her right hand in a position of defense. An assailant attempting to surprise her would find what it meant to experience surprise.

The approaching visitor paused, and Snakewater realized that whoever or whatever was there may have been listening to her breathing as she slept. A change in the rhythm might have signaled that she had wakened. Instantly she resumed the deep, slow breaths of a sleeper, even adding a light snore as she inhaled. The invader moved on toward the doorway and paused again. Surely a human, she thought. Then, to her amazement, a voice spoke softly.

“Snakewater!”

It was the voice of a man, urgent yet secretive. She paused a moment, and he spoke again.

“Snakewater! I mean you no harm. I would speak with you.”

She was astonished. She did not recognize the voice, but there were many in Old Town with whom she had never had a conversation.

“Who are you?” she demanded.

“It does not matter. I come as a friend. May I come in?”

“No! Have your say from where you are!” she demanded.

She was still trying to identify the voice. It seemed to be that of an older man, and carried a tone of authority. It was definitely not Three Fingers. She knew him well. Not Log Roller, the War Chief, either. No, this must be a person whose authority derived from his wealth or prominence in the town. She had little contact with such persons.

“Well … I would rather speak face to face!” the visitor said.

“No! Talk, now!”

“I—I want to help you, Snakewater. I can make you wealthy.”

She snorted with laughter. Why would she want such a thing?

“How?” she asked, trying to control her indignation. “What would I have to do?”

“Very little,” the visitor said, more confident now. “Just teach me how to do it.”

“Do what?”

She was completely puzzled now.

“To become a Raven Mocker, like yourself!”