Upon This Waste

Chapter 8

Someone had died in the village. Isaiah hadn't known them well. They were much older than he was, much older than Red-Owl. But he did know the man who died was a good friend of Running-Bird, that the two of them had grown up together and had stayed friends ever since.

It had happened the day before. Since Running-Bird had found out, he had almost entirely stayed in his home, mourning. Most of the rest of the village was preparing for the ceremonial dance of the dead that would take place that night. Red-Owl had helped cook the traditional meals given as a departing gift and sustenance to the passing winds and feasted on by the bereaved villagers. Isaiah and Little-Cub had gone out with others around their age into the nearby forests to collect extra firewood for the event.

"Are you excited for tonight?" Isaiah asked Little-Cub as they examined logs to see if they were dry.

"Yes!" Little-Cub answered with excitement, and then he mellowed before saying, "a little nervous though."

"You'll do fine," Isaiah replied. "And besides, remember two years ago when Fox-in-Shadows was voted in and he fell down and nearly caught himself on fire? Nobody even said anything to him about it."

Little-Cub laughed. "That's true," he said. "But still, it makes me a little nervous. You only get to do this once." He stopped for a moment before adding, "And I don't know about nobody saying anything. I think I could probably name someone who said at least something to Fox-in-Shadows. Just a joke or two of course," he said and they both laughed. "Fox-on-Fire," he said, chuckling.

Running-Bird's friend had been a member of the Tribal Table, a group of tribal members who were given voices in the tribal council. Traditionally, members of the Table did not force their individual or collective will on the tribe or any tribal member except in the most extreme circumstances. Usually, they were tasked with marshalling the wisdom of the tribe, both in matters large and small.

Whenever one of the villagers of the Tribal Table died, the people feasted with the passing winds, ushering their journey on in the strength of food and drink. The feast was also a time of great sadness, but it was a cleansing, cathartic sadness. It was a time of respect and dignity for the dead and their family and friends, a time of remembrance, a time of story and song. In that way, it was a time of great tradition, passing in long succession from the ancient dead.

Moreover, the tribe had long held that when the winds of a person passed from their body, they flew in search of another residence. Out into a tree of the forest perhaps, or a hatching bird, or a roaring river near the tribal lands, members of the tribe would stay to keep watch over the people and the land, even in death. Really, this was no death, simply the passing of the winds. In that way, just as new life sprang up around the village in the passing of the winds, new life invigorated the activity and polity of the villagers. It was a time of death and grieving, a time of life and new breath. Such times were akin to the changing of the seasons, the first faint smells of spring.

After the feast, it was tradition for a member of the tribe to be officially chosen and initiated into the Tribal Table to replace the dead. Members of the Tribal Table voted on a new member shortly after deaths. Often, the new member was an elder among the men, or less commonly, the women. Occasionally, a younger person, almost always a man, was added, often for familial reasons, under the threat of war, because of particular personal promise, or through the influence of respected or powerful members of the Table.

Little-Cub had been chosen by the Table after the passing of Running-Bird's friend. Many who knew Little-Cub were surprised by the choice, both because of his age and disposition, but Little-Cub had several family members among the Table. Though such an honor would have normally been bestowed on his father in such instances, his father had been dead for many years, or so some said. Though all could agree that he had gone to seek medical care near the coast not all could agree that he actually required any medical care to begin with. Firstly, many pointed out that he would have had to have found a special and hospitable clinic to allow him to seek care and residence there. And secondly, his forlorn and ashen face in the months before his departure, the months following Little-Cub's birth, were used by villagers as evidence of either the genuineness of his illness or the genuineness of his desperation to escape his marriage, his family obligations, and life on the reservation. Rumors occasionally reached the village or circled around its homes about a sighting of Little-Cub's father living away in a city near the coast.