Crow Moon

Blood. It was everywhere. Where was he? Was he safe? No, now she remembered. The memories were in bits like broken beads. They were bright colors, but not in any order. Today was mixed with yesterday and last week and she couldn’t tell what had happened first or last. They were just broken beads of memory, scattered about in the dust at her feet.

Her legs were bare, her feet splattered with bits of blood. Her face felt tight and stiff, when she reached a hand up to touch it she could tell it was also covered with thick splashes of dry blood.

Her right hand felt swollen, and when she looked directly at it she could see a large gash in the palm sealed over with dark dry blood.

She lay on her side awhile longer, not able to plan what to do. She was directionless as a fallen leaf, and without life or the ability to think.

What had happened? Where was he? Oh, now she remembered, he was dead. The children were dead too.

Her body felt stiff as if it would take an unnatural amount of energy to sit up. She had to find the children. She managed a sort of crouching stance and looked about her in the red sunset.

The Crow warriors had attacked their camp at the river. He was killed. She could see his body over by the wagon. Out of bullets, he had been using his rifle as a club. But there were too many. The Crow had taken his clothing and had stripped anything they wanted from the campsite. She could see two of the children near him, also dead, also naked in the dust. The one boy’s body had been tossed into the ashes near the cook fire.

The youngest child, the girl baby, had been stripped of her blanket and her body had been tossed against the body of their lead mule. The mule must have been caught by a stray bullet; the Crow would not have wanted him to die. He was of value.

She couldn’t make her body walk, but she half crawled over to the body of the baby girl. The baby’s eyes were open, but her body was cold, stiff and lifeless.

She couldn’t keep her mind steady, darting back and forth in time. She should be making the evening meal, she needed to feed and water the mules – no, wait, there were no more mules. There was nothing to make for the meal. There was no one to make the meal for. Her face felt tight under the mask of dry blood. Maybe she could crawl to the river. She wanted to be in the water.

The evening clouds reflected the red glow of the setting sun, the dust beneath her reflected the bronze glow from above.

The crawl was becoming easier, there was no pain yet, but she knew there would be later. She needed to get to the water. The Crow had let her live. They would not be back. There was nothing left of value to them. As she crawled forward the dirt beneath her pushed itself into the deep cuts on her bare legs and side. It didn’t matter. Nothing hurt yet.

She dragged her body into the shallows of the river. The water should have felt cool against her skin, but she did not feel anything. She lay there, naked to the sky, face to the campsite, and let the shallow water lap over her body.

The memories were fresh. She saw the boys stacking the firewood by the fire. No, they were dead.

She could hear the baby crying and started to try to rise from the water, but then everything was quiet again, just the wind through the cottonwood trees. The baby was cold, still and dead.

Was that her husband’s voice calling her? Yes. No. The dead don’t call out.

She lost consciousness again, when she awoke the red sun had set, and she was very cold in the river. Now, she was starting to hurt. The water had washed away most of the blood. The stiffness had turned into searing pain. Her dark hair hung straight down her back. It was a wet blanket atop the deep gashes.

There was nothing left at camp, the broken wagon. The Crow had taken all the blankets. But there was still some torn canvas left on top of the wagon. She could half stand now, and painfully moved in the direction of the wagon. Pulling herself up against the broken axel and wheel she tugged down the canvas. It was enough to wrap her body in for the night.

By habit she headed towards the ashes of the cook fire. Some of the deep coals were still warm to the touch. With bits of dry leaves and twigs she nursed up a small fire and lay on the ground next to it. The pain was strong now; she could tell the cuts were bleeding freely under the piece of canvas. The canvas was wet and red by the firelight.

The flicker of the fire played tricks on her eyes and mind, as she felt that she could see her husband and children move about with the moving light. But she knew they would not move any more, never again in this life.

The flickering fire revealed more, much more. Six Crow warriors stood watching. One had his head thrown back in an odd position, with his mouth fully open in silence. His tongue was gone. Part of her memory told her that she had cut it out after he had fallen dead before her. Part of her did not want to think about any of it.

His eyes had turned glassy, and he watched her as she watched him by the fire light. His tongue lay in the dirt a little distance away. It looked small, laying there by itself in the dirt and dark.

Tomorrow maybe she would bury her family. She would never bury the Crow, but she would want to drag their bodies down wind. And, there was the mule to skin and dry the meat. She would need food to sustain here until she was well enough to travel.

Travel. She had no reason to travel further on. They had been traveling as a family, part of the wagon train from St. Joe Missouri, heading West. They should never have left the wagon train. They should never have left home. Frank had wanted to head West to fresh land and a chance for a better life for their children. She looked over to where the boys’ bodies were laying still in the darkness.

The boys had piled up plenty of firewood the day before. She would need to make it last. She was not going to be able to find more dry wood for awhile. The Crow had probably taken the ax.

Part of her wanted to live on. Making plans to live on had become a habit. Since they had left home much of her waking time had been spent planning on how much water was in the barrels, how much food was in the supply boxes. Part of her did not care if she lived on. It all looked unlikely, and without purpose.

Frank had always pointed the wagon tongue to the northern star when making camp. He had been the pathfinder and had planned the next days travel. She would have stayed in Maryland. That was where her family had their farm. That was the life she had known. She could harvest and preserve food from the vegetable plot. She could milk cows, and she could churn. But here, on the raw edge of the frontier there was no vegetable plot, no milk house, no cows, there was nothing left of what she had brought with her. There was no reason to go on now. There was no way to remain where she was. But with a ragged piece of canvas between her and the autumn night, it seemed like an unlikely thing to worry over. Chances were slim that she would survive once the mule was eaten, and autumn gave way to winter.

She lay there, staring at the fire, feeling the pain grow and then fade from her body as she slowly bled to death. The fire burned low, as she fell into a dreamless sleep and the pains and earthbound cares seemed to lift and fly away.

The moon rose bright and clear over the tree line, in its silver shading it seemed to bring a level of peaceful order to the river bend once more.

Future immigrants would see the bits of wagon and bone and would return there, ever wondering what had happened. But the Crow never needed to return. Life was for the living. Land was for the keeping. Nothing of value to them had been left behind.

Title: Crow Moon

Literary Fiction

Adult level

1,500 words

Author: Lisa Schott

Background: B.A. from UCLA, write mystery novels, currently five self published