The woman sits alone in the lodge, singing a song to herself. It is a song her mother had taught her, had sung to her when she was just a girl, and her voice falters as she realizes she cannot remember all the words. The meaning has been lost, like the smoke rising through the hole in the lodge into the night sky. The fire beside her crackles, hungry, consuming, placated only by the small bundle of sticks she has gathered with her knotted hands.
With her brother, she had finished building the last of the scaffolds, leaving her body rugged and sore with torn calluses on her palms and splinters beneath her fingertips. But the scaffolds were done, and the last of the bodies had been placed upon them, left along the bank of the river. When they finally give way, they will collect what is left behind and return it to the earth, but until then, they wait.
Her daughter is still asleep on the other side of the fire, wrapped in buffalo hide and lying atop the thick woven blankets the white men sent. A single strand of dark hair winds down the girl's sleeping face, like a serpent slithering from the brush to a warmer place, and her body heaves rhythmically with every gentle breath.
The woman stares intently at the girl, fearing that at any moment her breath would be stilled, the body emptied of the last bits of life still clinging within, and yet, she hopes this will be the way her daughter dies--at peace with the world around her, forsaking the wails and throes, the violent vomiting, and the bleeding pustules suffered by the rest of her people. At times, she dreams of lying beside her sleeping child, weeping as she smothers the girl with a coat of soft fur, and when she wakes, sweat dripping from her brow, she is not entirely convinced that this would be the wrong thing to do.
She closes her eyes, desperate not to let herself cry. The song is forgotten.
The wind outside, however, has one of its own, singing it loudly as it whistles through the empty lodges that surround hers. Over the years, she has become so accustomed to the sound of bustling people on the other side of the thin earthen walls that she still imagines that she hears them. At night, she hears the voices of the dead--laughing, celebrating in words she cannot discern. They are the voices of ghosts, and they are not meant for her ears.
A figure appears at the throat of the lodge. He exhales deeply to make his presence known, and she looks up at him, firelight dancing across the length of his body to expose buffalo hide and a dark, rigid face with eyes like stone.
"How is she?" he asks.
"Sleeping. Now quiet, or you'll wake her."
"There's something here."
"What?"
"I don't know. Something moving, something large. I hear it in the brush."
She stands up, clutching her breast with a battered hand.
"Is it man or spirit?"
"A man, I hope, or else something come to tend to us."
She follows him outside, leaving the safety of the lodge and the fire within, warming with a thick smoke that drives away the scent of death and decay hovering over the village like a rain cloud. Though in the open air, she can smell it, borne on the wind off the river bank, where an entire village of corpses lay on heavy wooden scaffolds. She would do anything to keep that smell from her daughter, that she would never know the odor of human suffering and decay.
"Which way?" she asks.
Her brother points and leads her onward.
Along the edge of the village, where the long, ragged grass grows in patches around abandoned lodges, tall enough to hide a man, should he choose to be hidden. In the darkness they hear something moving, pulling the thick grass from side to side, an armful at a time. The pale moonlight lends its glow to their cause, and with it, they see the curtain of grass part and a man stumbling to the ground, panting at their feet.
His face is as pale as the moon and stars, flecked with bramble scratches, his skin white, his coat a tattered remnant of an officer's uniform. The brother and sister say nothing to him, even as foreign words crackle from his lips. They know what he is and offer no helping hand, instead turning away, back to the ruins of their village and the warming fire of their lodge. The white man follows them, crawling behind like a savage shadow, like a wounded animal loping toward assumed safety.
"What should we do with him?" she asks.
"Nothing."
"We leave him to die, then? Give him no food, no place to rest?"
"Why should we? You see that coat he wears. You know what it means. His kind brought death to everyone we've ever known."
"Look at him. He's dying."
"Good."
"You don't mean that. We can't let him suffer. That's not our way."
"What way? We have no way! Not anymore. Our entire village, sister. Our entire village."
They step into the lodge, leaving the white man to collapse in the dirt outside. Inside, the girl still sleeps soundly, her eyes clinched in the grasp of some strange dream.
"I'm going to help him," she whispers. "Because that's still my way."
He reaches for her arm, catching her wrist in a tightening fist, his eyes fueled by fire and anger, but she shakes him away, her own stern determination overpowering him.
"Do not forget whose lodge this is," she says. "We may be all that's left, but you can't deny my familial right."
She gathers some scraps of food left by the fire and a spare blanket and strides defiantly back outside, where the man waits in a huddled pile. There is no tenderness, no care in her eyes as she stares down at the darkened figure, only pity. She throws the food and blanket to the ground.
"Here," she says, though she knows he can't understand. "Stay outside. My lodge is not open to you."
As she retreats back to the warmth of the fire and the cold stare of her brother, the white man scrambles for the food, clutching what he can and shoving it into his mouth, dirt and all. In the pale light of the moon and the muted red glow of the lodge fire, he stares down at the blanket in front of him, and he realizes what it means. He curls up, coverless in the loose dirt, and fades to a restless sleep, stirred by nightmares and the guilt he cannot silence.
"Ah, conflict!"
"What do you think?"
"Interesting, so far. Just one question, though."
"Okay."
"What are their names?"
"What?"
"Your characters--I notice that you haven't given them names, and please don't tell me you were going for some arty approach because I'll just tell you how absolutely trite and pretentious that would be."
"I thought it might have more impact if they were nameless, like they died without being remembered, like the statistics from some old text book that they are."
"Well, you'd be wrong, dear. In your story, they're still very much alive. Besides that, you said yourself that the theme would be carrying on even as their world is ending. You don't think that they'd forsake their names in the last moments like that, do you?"
"Well--"
"Don't compromise your story just because you hit a creative brick wall. Press on. Break through."
"Okay, so... names?"
"Names."
"I can do that."
With her brother, she had finished building the last of the scaffolds, leaving her body rugged and sore with torn calluses on her palms and splinters beneath her fingertips. But the scaffolds were done, and the last of the bodies had been placed upon them, left along the bank of the river. When they finally give way, they will collect what is left behind and return it to the earth, but until then, they wait.
Her daughter is still asleep on the other side of the fire, wrapped in buffalo hide and lying atop the thick woven blankets the white men sent. A single strand of dark hair winds down the girl's sleeping face, like a serpent slithering from the brush to a warmer place, and her body heaves rhythmically with every gentle breath.
The woman stares intently at the girl, fearing that at any moment her breath would be stilled, the body emptied of the last bits of life still clinging within, and yet, she hopes this will be the way her daughter dies--at peace with the world around her, forsaking the wails and throes, the violent vomiting, and the bleeding pustules suffered by the rest of her people. At times, she dreams of lying beside her sleeping child, weeping as she smothers the girl with a coat of soft fur, and when she wakes, sweat dripping from her brow, she is not entirely convinced that this would be the wrong thing to do.
She closes her eyes, desperate not to let herself cry. The song is forgotten.
The wind outside, however, has one of its own, singing it loudly as it whistles through the empty lodges that surround hers. Over the years, she has become so accustomed to the sound of bustling people on the other side of the thin earthen walls that she still imagines that she hears them. At night, she hears the voices of the dead--laughing, celebrating in words she cannot discern. They are the voices of ghosts, and they are not meant for her ears.
A figure appears at the throat of the lodge. He exhales deeply to make his presence known, and she looks up at him, firelight dancing across the length of his body to expose buffalo hide and a dark, rigid face with eyes like stone.
"How is she?" he asks.
"Sleeping. Now quiet, or you'll wake her."
"There's something here."
"What?"
"I don't know. Something moving, something large. I hear it in the brush."
She stands up, clutching her breast with a battered hand.
"Is it man or spirit?"
"A man, I hope, or else something come to tend to us."
She follows him outside, leaving the safety of the lodge and the fire within, warming with a thick smoke that drives away the scent of death and decay hovering over the village like a rain cloud. Though in the open air, she can smell it, borne on the wind off the river bank, where an entire village of corpses lay on heavy wooden scaffolds. She would do anything to keep that smell from her daughter, that she would never know the odor of human suffering and decay.
"Which way?" she asks.
Her brother points and leads her onward.
Along the edge of the village, where the long, ragged grass grows in patches around abandoned lodges, tall enough to hide a man, should he choose to be hidden. In the darkness they hear something moving, pulling the thick grass from side to side, an armful at a time. The pale moonlight lends its glow to their cause, and with it, they see the curtain of grass part and a man stumbling to the ground, panting at their feet.
His face is as pale as the moon and stars, flecked with bramble scratches, his skin white, his coat a tattered remnant of an officer's uniform. The brother and sister say nothing to him, even as foreign words crackle from his lips. They know what he is and offer no helping hand, instead turning away, back to the ruins of their village and the warming fire of their lodge. The white man follows them, crawling behind like a savage shadow, like a wounded animal loping toward assumed safety.
"What should we do with him?" she asks.
"Nothing."
"We leave him to die, then? Give him no food, no place to rest?"
"Why should we? You see that coat he wears. You know what it means. His kind brought death to everyone we've ever known."
"Look at him. He's dying."
"Good."
"You don't mean that. We can't let him suffer. That's not our way."
"What way? We have no way! Not anymore. Our entire village, sister. Our entire village."
They step into the lodge, leaving the white man to collapse in the dirt outside. Inside, the girl still sleeps soundly, her eyes clinched in the grasp of some strange dream.
"I'm going to help him," she whispers. "Because that's still my way."
He reaches for her arm, catching her wrist in a tightening fist, his eyes fueled by fire and anger, but she shakes him away, her own stern determination overpowering him.
"Do not forget whose lodge this is," she says. "We may be all that's left, but you can't deny my familial right."
She gathers some scraps of food left by the fire and a spare blanket and strides defiantly back outside, where the man waits in a huddled pile. There is no tenderness, no care in her eyes as she stares down at the darkened figure, only pity. She throws the food and blanket to the ground.
"Here," she says, though she knows he can't understand. "Stay outside. My lodge is not open to you."
As she retreats back to the warmth of the fire and the cold stare of her brother, the white man scrambles for the food, clutching what he can and shoving it into his mouth, dirt and all. In the pale light of the moon and the muted red glow of the lodge fire, he stares down at the blanket in front of him, and he realizes what it means. He curls up, coverless in the loose dirt, and fades to a restless sleep, stirred by nightmares and the guilt he cannot silence.
***
"Ah, conflict!"
"What do you think?"
"Interesting, so far. Just one question, though."
"Okay."
"What are their names?"
"What?"
"Your characters--I notice that you haven't given them names, and please don't tell me you were going for some arty approach because I'll just tell you how absolutely trite and pretentious that would be."
"I thought it might have more impact if they were nameless, like they died without being remembered, like the statistics from some old text book that they are."
"Well, you'd be wrong, dear. In your story, they're still very much alive. Besides that, you said yourself that the theme would be carrying on even as their world is ending. You don't think that they'd forsake their names in the last moments like that, do you?"
"Well--"
"Don't compromise your story just because you hit a creative brick wall. Press on. Break through."
"Okay, so... names?"
"Names."
"I can do that."
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