Harvest Moon, Page 2

  She opened her eyes and noticed for the first time that she was in the midst of a small, shady thicket. Birch trees loomed above her head, the branches shielding her from the oppressive mid-day sun. Magpies and crows argued nearby, filling the air with their squawks. The ground beneath her partially-naked body seemed softer, fuzzier. She raised her head enough to see a clean, mixed-fur blanket tucked neatly underneath her…and a white and brown horse staring at her.

  “Hello there, friend,” she said to the animal, that nibbled at her hair. “That isn’t food.”

  Twigs crackled.

  Dancing Cat froze. “Who’s there?”

  The smiling stranger with the broad shoulders stepped over her and collapsed to the ground. “Good, you’re awake.” He picked up the wood pipe again and lit it. Before handing it to her, he said, “Small breaths until you’re used to the smoke. I don’t need you choking to death like earlier.”

  There was a time that she would have laughed at herself. Not now, however. All she wanted was to be numb. She took shallow puffs of the sweet smoke. “I haven’t smoked a medicine pipe since I was a child.”

  “I noticed. You hit your head in your coughing fit and knocked yourself out again.”

  She stopped smoking. “How long?”

  “Over a day. Your ancestors want you to live,” the stranger said, staring straight into her eyes.

  Dancing Cat snorted and handed him back the pipe, struggling not to cough. Self-consciously, she hugged her chest. “Where is my tunic?”

  He pointed at her torso. “The same place as mine. Holding your ribs together.”

  Dancing Cat felt her face burn. “You can have it back.”

  He waved her off. “I wasn’t supposed to leave camp with it. I smuggled it out,” he said with a sheepish smile. “The Creator sent you so I’d be forced to give up the tunic.”

  Something in the way he said tunic clicked in her mind. She recognized his accent.

  “You’re from Red Valley!”

  His smile faded. “And you’re a long way from Battle Cliff.”

  This was not the lush woods of home. Her ancestor had dropped her in the midst of the open prairie of their southern rival. Wedged between the frozen north and the mighty Cree lands, Red Valley and Battle Cliff fought for generations over land. This stranger, for all his kindness, was an enemy.

  She tried to scramble away from him but was immobilized by white-hot pain that threatened to bring up the contents of her stomach, even if it was only bile. Unable to move, she gripped her fur blanket until her knuckles turned white. Her eyes widened when she saw her sacred bundle next to her. Relief washed over her, realizing that she had not lost it.

  He watched her for a moment with his dark eyes before shaking his head. “I have no plans to kill you.”

  She wondered if he would have treated her differently if still in her female flesh. Perhaps being a man, in this one instance, was a good thing. “What about scalp me?”

  He laughed. “I put that in the same category as killing so, no, I won’t scalp you either.”

  Dancing Cat narrowed her eyes at him, trying to make herself as manly and threatening as possible though she knew she had no idea what she was doing. “Aren’t you going to ask for the same promise from me?”

  “I’m confident enough in my hunting skills to avoid an enemy that can’t even sit up.” This time, an easy laugh escaped his lips. His eyes shined of honesty, and for whatever reason, she let her muscles relax. Despite the rivalry between their peoples, she would trust his word.

  Laughter bubbled out of her, and she groaned from the pain. She covered her mouth with her hand, partially to control her laughter and partially out of habit; her mother often said she laughed too much like a man. She could feel her cheeks flush.

  He cocked an eyebrow. “Did I embarrass you? A warrior blushing! I think I’ll keep this pipe away from you. It seems you are too tiny to handle it.”

  Dancing Cat realized that she must have been an odd sight, a small warrior covering his laughter. She giggled at herself, deciding that the effect of the grass was a good enough reason to get away with not behaving like a man. She did not know why she was still alive, but she was.

  And laughing for the first time in years.

  She cleared her throat. “What should I call you?”

  “Healing Stranger?” He beamed a smile at her, and she felt the strings of her heart tug.

  She swallowed back the lump in her throat, worried that Small Tree’s plan would be to give her a perfect warrior, only to snatch him away from her. Melancholy fell on her.

  “I am called Bearclaw. What is your name?”

  “Dancing Cat,” she said proudly. It was the first time in two years that she had said her name aloud.

  “A woman’s name!” Bearclaw roared with laughter. Her eyes must have betrayed her hurt feelings. “I don’t mean to laugh, but that is the silliest name for a warrior that I’ve ever heard.”

  “Ah, my older brother named me. He said I looked like a dancing cougar when I came from the womb.” At least she did not need to lie about her name. “It is considered a name of honour.” Dancing Cat left out the part where they stripped her of it after her disgrace.

  Bearclaw shook his head. “Your people have strange ways.”

  Pressing her hand against her ribs, she pushed herself up enough to sit. Lying around had made her body ache. She needed to stretch, even if the stabbing pain nearly blinded her.

  Bearclaw offered her a deer bladder of water, from which she drank heavily.

  “I’ve never been hurt this bad before,” she confessed between undignified gulps. Her grandmother would have slapped the back of her head for the behaviour, for certain. Dancing Cat gulped harder out of spite.

  “Then either you are very lucky or a very cautious hunter.” Bearclaw handed her a small pouch. “Raspberries. Eat. I’m tired of dripping broth down your throat.”

  She accepted the bag and blurted, “Oh, I’m not a hunter.” From the confused look on his face, she realized the blunder and added, “I am a messenger for my tribe.”

  He nodded his approval. “Your family must be proud.”

  His words cut her deep, and she looked away, clearing her throat. Bearclaw narrowed his eyes. “Why are you on Red Valley land?”

  It took a moment for Dancing Cat to spin a lie. She wondered why Small Tree had allowed her to live. Perhaps it was to add additional torment. “I must have gotten lost.”

  “Then you are a poor messenger,” he said with a grin. His eyebrows rose at her growling stomach. “Are you well enough to eat grouse?”

  She nodded emphatically, stuffing a handful of the tart berries in her mouth. Since she had been renamed Cursed One, the band had only given her scraps and leftover bones. Dancing Cat had forgotten what it was like to eat freshly-cooked meat.

  Now that she had propped herself up against a narrow tree trunk, Dancing Cat could see the small fire and trivet where the bird roasted. Bearclaw expertly pulled the grouse from the wooden spit. Fat splattered, sending sizzling, flickering flames higher than the main fire. She licked her lips. Her mouth watered thinking about the greasy, charred meat.

  The wind blew Bearclaw’s breechcloth to one side and she blushed, seeing his private parts. Something hard pressed against her own trousers. She reached down and gasped in horror.

  “You all right?” he said over his shoulder.

  Dancing Cat froze, her hand wedged firmly inside her trousers. “Ah, itchy.”

  Bearclaw laughed. “I’m sure you are. You lost control of your bladder a number of times while unconscious. There’s a stream nearby. After we eat, I’ll help you there.”

  She grimaced and whimpered at that thought. “Ah, so why are you out here alone?”

  Bearclaw shrugged, turning back to the hot bird. He carefully placed it on a piece of buckskin. “It’s complicated. Lucky that you aren’t a woman or I’d claim you as my prize.”

  She shuddered. Her brothers brought
home women as their war prizes. Other times, women offered themselves as peace property. Either way, Dancing Cat never wanted to be something stolen or bartered only to be ignored in a new tribe. Even if it was to a fine and handsome figure of a man. “I wouldn’t have let you,” she said.

  He pounded a fist against the tautness of his chest. “You’re a scrawny thing. I’d win.”

  She laughed at his display. Men never acted like that when women were around. Even though she missed her own body, she did enjoy this moment.

  Bearclaw put the grouse on the ground next to her before he sat down. “May I bless the food for both of us?”

  “I would be honoured.” In truth, she had no interest in praying to the Creator or the spirits, and certainly not to her ancestors. They had turned their back on her. She would turn her back on them.

  “Eat,” he urged, having already torn off a piece of the roasted flesh.

  Dancing Cat hesitated for a moment longer before overcoming the oppression of her last two years. She ripped a piece of the greasy meat off the bone and stuffed it into her mouth. She moaned as the hot, salty meat touched her tongue. Two bites and she swallowed hard. She twisted off a well-cooked wing and gnawed at it, oil dripping down her chin.

  Bearclaw released a short bark of laughter. “If I knew you were this hungry, I would have gotten us deer.”

  She stopped eating, horrified at her display. Dancing Cat couldn’t put her chewed wing back, but she couldn’t keep eating, either. So she just sat there, staring at him, pleading with her eyes.

  “For the Creator’s sake, don’t look at me like that. Brave up, Dancing Cat, or that name of yours will turn you into a woman.” He motioned at her food. “I got the grouse for you. Eat it all, if you need it. When was the last time you had a nicely roasted bird like this?”

  “Over two years,” she mumbled between bites.

  He opened his mouth but shut it before words came out. She averted her eyes, worried that he’d ask her more questions. All she wanted was to eat. She wondered if Bearclaw sensed her resistance to speak about her own life.

  He silently offered her the deer bladder of water. Several moments passed before he spoke. “You asked why I am out there. I’m on a spirit quest for answers. There are questions that I have, and I don’t want to return home until I know what path I should take.” He shrugged, nonchalantly; the way her brother always did when he tried to cover up his true feelings. “Perhaps helping you is a part of that. I’m happy to do it.”

  Dancing Cat struggled not to give him a beaming smile. While she didn’t know much about men, she knew they didn’t beam at each other. But, being there with him, sitting on a clean blanket, eating hot food gave her a tiny morsel of dignity. And it made her heart ache all the more because she knew it would be snatched away from her soon enough.

  Regardless that she said she’d never honour her ancestors again, she looked away long enough to mouth, “Thank you, Small Tree, for this undeserved kindness.”

  * * * *

  Dancing Cat carefully placed one foot in front of the other, grasping bushes and trees for support. A rain of orange and red leaves fell upon her. Irritated birds squawked as they flew off to find new perches. She had spent half a moon cycle successfully dealing with nature’s call without Bearclaw seeing her. It had not been easy, that’s for certain. The man was silent like the sunlight and could appear just about anywhere. She found it hard enough to pee without blushing. She wouldn’t have been able to handle someone else seeing her naked with that thing dangling between her legs.

  She stumbled and a squeal escaped her lips. The pain, though less than before, still fogged her vision. Branches snapped and crashed as Bearclaw rushed through the sparsely wooded area to reach her.

  “I’ve told you not to wander around without helping. You’re still unbalanced,” Bearclaw jumped over a fallen tree and grabbed her arm. Dancing Cat stiffened when Bearclaw’s hand slipped around her waist, but he didn’t seem to notice. Or, at least, didn’t seem to care. “You’re as stubborn as my father.”

  “Nature called rather strongly,” she said sheepishly.

  He frowned. “I could have helped you. It’s not like you have parts I’ve never seen before.”

  A nervous giggle escaped her. The exasperated expression on his face only served to heat her cheeks. Bearclaw shook his head. “A warrior giggling and blushing. No wonder they made you a messenger instead of a hunter.”

  Though she’d refuse to admit it out loud, she appreciated his help. Perhaps too much. His calloused hands felt too good against her skin, even if it wasn’t as smooth as her former skin. She didn’t know how to control her mounting attachment to him, but she knew that it had to end.

  First and foremost, she was cursed. The ancestors would find a way to twist this into some miserable punishment. Of that she was certain. Second, if by some fate they decided to leave her be, she could not develop an attachment to a man…while looking like a man herself! There wasn’t even a word for that.

  Sullen, she let Bearclaw ease her back to the fur blanket. She reached out and touched the beaded sacred bundle, still next to her. She had not opened it since that day by the stream. Once was enough. No magic pulsed from it; not since the day Small Tree appeared to her.

  Bearclaw’s horse whinnied and trotted up to her, nuzzling her chin. She reached up and stroked his face. Sadness crept over her. Her love of riding had helped to bring the curse upon her. While her time with Bearclaw had been comforting, it was not real. It would end. She would be alone.

  “Roasted onions?”

  She waved off the man’s offering. Her appetite was gone. His shoulders dropped and, for the briefest of moments, she thought he was disappointed. Sighing, she motioned for them.

  “If you don’t like onions…”

  Dancing Cat shook her head, stuffing a layer of sweet and pungent onion into her mouth. “I love them. I’m merely feeling…” She struggled to find the word.

  “Low in spirit, perhaps?”

  She stopped sucking on her sticky fingers and stared at him. He shrugged his shoulders and Dancing Cat’s heart plummeted. While not ready to talk about her life, she was equally not ready to disappoint him.

  Bearclaw fiddled with the seam of his trousers. The weather had turned and, with it, brought the need for more clothing. He had come prepared, at least. “I won’t ask what you’ve been through, but I can see that it’s given you great pain. I have asked my ancestors many times to soothe whatever hurt possesses you.”

  “Thank…” Her voice died. “Thank you.”

  He turned to face the crackling fire and leaned against a fallen log. Taking her cue, she leaned against her tree trunk. There, they sat in silence for the evening. Dancing Cat couldn’t remember the last time she was so content, with or without her old body.

  Beaver Moon

  A full moon cycle had passed with her recovery progressing at a good pace. It still hurt to sneeze, cough, roll over at night, but at least pain no longer blinded her when she shivered from the cold. She thought of her tribe, her family, who would be trapping beavers for winter pelts.

  Dancing Cat didn’t know what she would do once the snow came, but she tried not to think about the future. Curiosity about the future had not brought her good fortune.

  Dancing Cat stared at her shirtless reflection dancing in the stream. Soon, the snow would stay, and with it, the waterways would freeze. Six moons would pass before the spring thaw, relieving her of seeing her masculine features. Nevertheless, for a man, she fancied herself rather handsome. She was never very pretty as a girl, but at least she turned out to be a fine man, almost as fine as Bearclaw.

  She gulped at that thought and sighed. She picked up the deer bladder she had come to fill and headed back towards their camp at the edge of the frost-covered thicket. Bearclaw had been acting strangely the last handful of days. Up until then, he had been increasingly attentive.

  Dancing Cat wondered if this was where the happiness woul
d end once again.

  Bearclaw was pacing between their blankets and the fire pit where they cooked, crushing the frozen grass beneath his feet. He did it often enough that it didn’t seem strange to her. She offered him a smile, which faded at his grim, almost angry face.

  “Dancing Cat, the entire point of a spirit quest is to be alone with the spirits. It’s been difficult doing that when you’re around all of the time. Why are you still with me?” he shouted, his breath visible in the cool, morning air.

  The startled look on his face said that he had not meant to shout. However, he did not apologize for it, so to her, it was even worse than meaning to. She blinked, surprised by the question. “I could ask you the same thing.”

  Bearclaw clenched his fists. “You argue like a woman.”

  “That’s because I am a wom—” she caught the words, but too many had already tumbled out.

  He stepped towards her, forcing her to stumble backwards. “What did you say?”

  A mixture of anger and fear flared inside her. She stormed over to the fur blanket and grabbed the sacred bundle, ignoring the stabbing pain in her side. Turning on her heel, she started walking in the opposite direction from the man who had saved her life, the frozen ground crunched under her moccasins. She’d rather leave him now than have him reject her once he discovered her lies.

  “Dancing Cat, stop!” Bearclaw growled.

  She kept walking, refusing to look back at him. Her heart tore into pieces but she pushed on. Behind her, she could hear his approaching footsteps, gaining in speed, so she tried to run. Tears burned in her eyes from the pain, but she pushed herself, pressing the bundle against her ribs for support.

  His hand grabbed her bicep so forcefully that it spun her around to face him. “What is wrong with you?”

  Her chin trembled as she held back the stinging tears. She looked away. “Let me go.”

  “No. You’re keeping something from me. What is it?” He glared at her, his large fingers digging into her skin. She wriggled against him, squealing for him to let go of her.