Ride the Moon: An Anthology (10 page)

“You are free to go, my lord,” I tell Moon. “Unleash Sun and find your way to the skies once more, if you can. Nothing will eclipse your light.”

He reaches for me. “Wait, my love—”

I ignore his plea and step through the last mirror. I cannot bear to see the Moon again.

“Build one more thing for me,” I ask of my architect.

He looks up from his blood-soaked sleeves.

I point above us. “A mirrored room atop our tower's peak.” I shattered the mirrors in Sun's cell. In time, he will burn his way free of stone and find Moon.

The architect stares at me with hollow eyes. “For what purpose, sire? There are no heavenly bodies left.”

“I still live,” I cry. “Build me a room of mirrors, so what light I have left will reflect over all the land.” I kneel before him and grasp his hands in mine. Blood warms my fingers.

He says nothing.

I cannot see him like this: in despair, in pain, as if he is alone.

Trembling, I press my face against his knees. (So be it, my love.) I pull back the traceries of starlight I sewed through his veins so he would live as long as I. “I release you, my friend. Do as you will with what time you have left.”

Dying is only the loss of light.

The knife falls soundless to the floor from his grasp. He clasps his wrists, red and slick, and begins laughing. I look up. His forehead rests against mine and his body shakes uncontrollably.

I will not ask him to stay. I have kept him so I will not be alone. No longer will I slowly destroy him. “Please do this last thing for me,” I beg.

“Yes,” he says, “I will do this for you.”

My architect begins to work.

When the mirrored room is finished, I kneel in the center, eyes closed, hands on knees.

Each mirror is angled towards the others and a ring of glass curves outward: it will reflect all the light out into the world. It is all I can give.

The architect clasps my shoulders. I lean my head back into his chest, listening as his heart slows.

And I release what light remains in the stars.

We are not alone.

The sky will always be dark.

For a brief time, the world will not.

L'Anse Amour, Newfoundland and Labrador, is the site of North America's oldest burial site. I've always been fascinated by this twelve-year-old child buried face-down on the rocky shore of Labrador. Why was this child buried in that manner? What was the significance of his grave items? Who were these people who once walked those shores?

7500 years ago

Southern Labrador Shore

Demaswet hunched her shoulders against the frigid air as she sat motionless upon her red, wooden perch. Her muscles ached from five days of sitting and sleeping upright, but she would not remove herself. She flicked a bitter glance at the full moon and heard Father's laugh.

Stubborn pride brought this fate upon you, not I.

The drums kept their steady rhythm. Two holy men, the sons of the tribe's wisewoman, Shanaitwasa, sang in their high, wavering pitch, singing away evil spirits and inviting the Father to bless their offering.

Demaswet watched the holy men symbolically sweep out the last of the evil. The torchlights inside the pit flickered and projected their shadows on the earth walls; the evil darkness could not be kept out of the ceremony. It insisted on remaining.

That is because the evil is inside you.

Guilt gnawed at her, yet she remained still. Nawdithi would soon be carried into the sacred space. The circle would be complete.

Soon, it would be over.

The holy men crawled from the pit, the torchlight dancing across their dirty, sweating faces. They remained bowed as they exited, giving honour to her. Heat rose in her cheeks, but the darkness concealed her blush of guilt. She did not want their honour.

The drumming stopped and Demaswet could hear the rhythmic crash of the ocean against the rocky shoreline further beyond. She closed her eyes and listened to its soothing song. She drew strength from the tide, even if Father controlled it.

But, the drums began again. A new song and her heart matched the frenzied beat. The song meant the time had arrived.

You brought this punishment.

Demaswet did not argue, though she shot the moon a contemptuous look. Her pride prevented the ice from forming. She was not so arrogant to believe she could directly influence the seasons. Rather, her pride offended Father so greatly that nothing short of this could atone for her error.

Bile rolled in her stomach and Demaswet was thankful for her voluntary fast. Four days without food would be four days extra to help fortify the others. It was the least she could do.

At the arrival of the last moon, Father should have brought the seals, as the last of their winter provisions waned. Yet, the seals and their pups did not come.

The oldest of the elder women sacrificed themselves, hoping that it would stretch the food supplies. But the ice remained treacherously thin. The hunters could not even cross the great expanse to the next land; the winds too cruel to allow boats and the ice too dangerous for crossing.

Infants and elders died, this time from starvation.

You should have been humble.

Father sent the dreams soon after. No ice, no seal, no breath soon to be drawn unless his people cleansed themselves. Without forgiveness, they would starve. The caribou were gone. The birds of summer would not return for several more moons. No whales washed upon the shores to feed them and fill their stone lamps.

The young men, still strong and full of life, sought out the hunting caches and returned with the smoked caribou, the dried cod, and the crushed, dried berries. It was not enough.

Demasweet watched as her people gathered the last of their meagre supplies and sat them near the pit. She longed to help, longed to be useful. However, her role was to watch and be honoured.

Honoured! When she was the one who brought this curse upon them! They, her own people!

The wind cut through Demaswet's sealskin clothes. Or, perhaps it was the chill of loss and regret that made the hairs on her arms press against the fur lining.

She had made the decision. In the wise woman's dreams, Father did not point to her. That would never be his way. How could a person learn if they did not make the choice themselves? No, he sent the others one dream and sent her another.

I am not so cruel. I always provide a choice.

A bitter laugh escaped Demaswet, though none could hear it over the drums and chants. Some choice. Allow Shanaitwasa to choose and sacrifice a child one by one or offer her own child, knowing Nawdithi's death was what Father demanded.

You could have let them kill off the young, one by one. All of the boys, then all of the girls. Perhaps starvation would have taken Nawdithi instead of me.

That was not a choice.

Demaswet knew her sacrifice would save them all. Children were in an endless supply, created by only a few tumbles of glory. Simply do not take the herbs and roots and spend time with a man of her choice and she could have as many children as she pleased. Her tribe, however, was not so easily replaced with a quick delight. If they all died, there would be no more children, there would be no more hope, there would be no more.

Just spirits drifting without anyone to guide or protect.

Father controlled the weather and the ebb and flow of the tides that crashed against their jagged shore. Father controlled the water. He could control the ice and bring the seals. He could save them.

Love was a luxury. Life was a necessity.

Two men and two women moved to create an entrance into the sacred circle, never losing the pitch of their song. Two drummers rose and stepped ahead, cutting into the circle. Her muscles tightened. This was it. She would say good-bye tonight to her favourite child.

Lose him or lose your tribe. It was always your choice.

Shanaitwasa walked purposefully into the sacred circle, slamming her staff into the ground with every step, singing her own chant. She turned her weathered, wrinkled face to Demaswet and bowed low.

Even though guilt and regret filled her, Demaswet returned the bow, her eyes closed against the tears that welled in her eyes.

Shanaitwasa walked a slow circle around the burial pit and Demaswet could hear the clang of shells as the wise woman walked past her. Shanaitwasa wore the blessed clothing, the sealskins softened by the teeth of a great wise woman now long passed into the next life. Caribou hide wrapped around the staff, bound by sinew. The teeth of a bear hung around her neck.

Demaswet shivered as Shanaitwasa lit the two wooden pillars inside the pit. Death crept in the shadows, as the singers cried out for compassion from Father.

Nawdithi's sacrifice would always be remembered. Her sacrifice would never be forgotten.

Your people will live because of him.

One of the holy men handed Shanaitwasa a perfect square of caribou hide. Demaswet's heart sunk. It was the burial items.

There is more to life than your own feelings.

A lesson she'd wished she could have learned at childhood. If only she could learn humility, but her parents, grandparents, and ancestors could not teach her that lesson. Only when faced with the starvation of her people could she finally accept that it had been her selfishness, her pride in having the most beloved son that offended Father so greatly.

The death of Nawdithi was the only way for them to live.

She turned and caught sight of Nawdithi. Crushing pain forced her to gasp for air. Tears stung her eyes, freezing her eyelashes in the cold bite of the wind. Four boys carried the still form of her son. He was a slight boy, only beginning his maturity. A man would have easily carried him, but these boys had escaped the sacrifice to Father. They would escort their friend to death.

Demaswet swallowed down envy for their mothers.

She shot a look of bitter frustration at the glowing moon in the sky.

You should have punished me, not him.

You are being punished.

The last of their provisions went to Father. Every scrap of dried meat from their smokehouse floor. Every dried berry from their storage pits, no matter how mouldy. Even the last of the whale oil that they'd been drinking instead of burning. All of it; dug up, gathered, and returned for Father. Enough food to feed them through one changing phase of the moon, mere days, and it would be offered in exchange for mercy. Perhaps their sacrifice to him would bring back his favour.

She was sacrificing her child; the tribe was sacrificing their lives. She felt the honour of their gifts to Father, gifts needed because of her failings.

More pyres sparked to life beyond the sacred circle. They would dance. They would chant. They would bury her son alive using the large mound of earth behind the drummers.

And you will sit there and watch.

Demaswet set her jaw. She would not let the others see her tears. She was in a place of honour. She would not let them see inside her. She would be strong and give as much honour to her position as her heart allowed.

Nawdithi was laid between the pillars of fire. His body was pliant. In the firelight, she could see his confused gaze. He did not understand what was happening to him. Perhaps the herbs made him already see the next world, the ancestors who would welcome him as an innocent calf, sacred and special.

“Demaswet, we honour your sacrifice to provide your son as an offering to the Moon Father, to bring us the ice so that the seals may come,” Shanaitwasa said. She turned to Demaswet and inclined her head. “You shall have the honour of preparing your son.”

Demaswet gulped, but nodded her acceptance. She pushed herself up from the wooden chair that had been made for her and pulled her fur-collared hood tighter around her face. The two holy men emerged once more from the darkness and slid into the pit. The boys carefully passed Nawdithi's limp body to the men. They placed him on the ground, on his stomach.

Demaswet stared and looked wildly at Shanaitwasa.

“No,” she mouthed to the wise woman. Her heart pounded and tears splashed down her cheeks, the wind turning them cold in an instant.

Shanaitwasa continued her chant, not interrupting the cleansing prayers. She did, however, look at Demaswet with a nod and eyes filled with both hard resolve and compassion.

Demaswet wept, unable to hold back the tide. If he was buried face-down, his spirit would never be released. Instead, it would linger, trapped and starving in his burial home, unable to join his people, unable to stand and hunt and fill his hunger.

Why? Was not my sacrifice enough without this?

No.

Hands shaking, Demaswet held out her hands for the holy men to help her down. She rushed to Nawdithi's side, but took a long, deep breath before kneeling next to his limp form. Nawdithi's glossy eyes stared ahead. Hopefully, he did not realize what was happening.

Perhaps he might even forgive her one day.

It is your fault. Your pride must be punished.

Shanaitwasa chanted under her breath, the words barely audible over the howls of the wind, the crashing of ocean, and the songs purifying the sacred circle. She continued to circle the pit, keeping the evil away, calling on Father to bless them.

Both holy men held out hollowed soapstone, filled with red ochre. Demaswet slipped off her caribou mitt and dipped her fingers into the sacred paint. Fish sizzled and popped on top of the wood and rock pillars. Pungent juniper filled the air. Women whispered incantations. Men sang in a high, wavering pitch. Shanaitwasa banished evil spirits.

But it was Demaswet who prepared her son for death.

Tears welled in Demaswet's eyes, but she fought them down with the understanding that she was doing the right thing. Nawdithi was too loved, too well liked. She had let her pride swell and, for that, her people suffered. Nawdithi fell to fever twice over winter and, yet, she nursed him back to life, taking more than their share of food and herbs to heal him. She cried to the spirits, the ancestors, the rocks and trees and anyone who would listen. She would not let him go, even as three others died to the fever. She did not care about them; she cared about Nawdithi.