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Authors: Danielle Sosin
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another stone, and again hit the watergirl in the head. The second rock stunned her and she sunk below the surface, where she lay floating motionless.
Hole-in-the-Rain began to cry. “You’ve killed her, Mother. You’ve killed my new friend.” But just then the beautiful girl came to. She rolled and slapped her tail angrily, then sped away beneath the waves. She had lost her chance to steal Hole-in-the-Rain down to the watery underworld.
Little Cedar is wide eyed. “Would she have died?”
Night Cloud shakes his head. “No. She would have adapted to their world. She would not be dead, but not alive either.”
“But how could she breathe underwater?”
“She would learn to breathe as the water creatures do.”
“But what about the cold? She would be so cold.”
Standing Bird looks up from his flame, which is now flicking like a snake’s tongue. “They can’t feel hot or cold, Little-Know-Nothing.”
Grey Rabbit lets out a long sigh, and both of her sons turn to look at her. She smiles faintly and looks at her hands. She wishes Bullhead had not told that story. Things can happen so easily. Little Cedar would have reached for the watergirl’s hand.
They’ve packed most of their belongings and buried the others, leaving only the bent skeleton of their wigwam standing in the morning light. Grey Rabbit steadies the canoe, neatly loaded with rolls and bundles and everyone in their place. Never has she been so happy to move on.
Tobacco falls from Night Cloud’s hand in offering and floats over the water’s surface. He nods. Grey Rabbit shoves off and climbs in as the boat glides away from shore. No one speaks as they start their journey, each getting used to the feel of the shifting water, an unsteadying sensation after a long season on land. It’s quiet except for the chop of the waves and the sound of Bullhead humming softly beneath her breath.
Grey Rabbit dips her paddle into the clear water, feels its resistance against her stroke, watches the drops fall in a long arc as she lifts the paddle forward again. There are icicles hanging in the mouths of rock caves, where the water thunks with a hollow sound, and a place along shore where the lake has piled ice, one sheet into the next, like giant fish scales in the sun.
Grey Rabbit looks back at their wake as the water closes over the disturbance of their passing. It is possible for things to return to calm. On the cliff near her offering place, the oldest pine stands taller than the rest, its windswept arms, its guardian spirit, bathed in the yellow light of morning.
1902
Gunnar rows away from land, feeling the extra weight—John, the anchor rocks, the buoys, and all the rope—force him low in the water. The water has a blue-black chop, but it’s calm enough to get the boulders overboard. He points up the shore with his oar. “It’s a new spot, further out. See the cliff face near the double hump? About a mile, a mile and a half.”
John lets out a long breath, conscious of the offering he’d made before getting into the boat. He’s never been comfortable on the big water, and this time he feels worse than ever. He hasn’t seen Gunnar since Swing Dingle, and now, on top of the unpredictable water spirits, he has thoughts of Gunnar’s drowned man to contend with. Still, the day of work is worth the salt fish to him, and he trusts Gunnar, and Gunnar trusts the boat. It’s a good design, pointed at both ends, and constructed with strong cedar ribs. Not an improvement on the canoe, though it has its similarities. The land slides by—the slanting rock shore and the shaded forest floor where the snow is still holding.
Gunnar angles them toward the horizon, and John feels the growing distance from land like a low vibration throughout his body. It’s as clear looking down at the boulders underwater as it is looking up through the air, causing him to feel slightly disoriented about the relative size of things, his place in the world, and
Hole-in-the-Rain began to cry. “You’ve killed her, Mother. You’ve killed my new friend.” But just then the beautiful girl came to. She rolled and slapped her tail angrily, then sped away beneath the waves. She had lost her chance to steal Hole-in-the-Rain down to the watery underworld.
Little Cedar is wide eyed. “Would she have died?”
Night Cloud shakes his head. “No. She would have adapted to their world. She would not be dead, but not alive either.”
“But how could she breathe underwater?”
“She would learn to breathe as the water creatures do.”
“But what about the cold? She would be so cold.”
Standing Bird looks up from his flame, which is now flicking like a snake’s tongue. “They can’t feel hot or cold, Little-Know-Nothing.”
Grey Rabbit lets out a long sigh, and both of her sons turn to look at her. She smiles faintly and looks at her hands. She wishes Bullhead had not told that story. Things can happen so easily. Little Cedar would have reached for the watergirl’s hand.
They’ve packed most of their belongings and buried the others, leaving only the bent skeleton of their wigwam standing in the morning light. Grey Rabbit steadies the canoe, neatly loaded with rolls and bundles and everyone in their place. Never has she been so happy to move on.
Tobacco falls from Night Cloud’s hand in offering and floats over the water’s surface. He nods. Grey Rabbit shoves off and climbs in as the boat glides away from shore. No one speaks as they start their journey, each getting used to the feel of the shifting water, an unsteadying sensation after a long season on land. It’s quiet except for the chop of the waves and the sound of Bullhead humming softly beneath her breath.
Grey Rabbit dips her paddle into the clear water, feels its resistance against her stroke, watches the drops fall in a long arc as she lifts the paddle forward again. There are icicles hanging in the mouths of rock caves, where the water thunks with a hollow sound, and a place along shore where the lake has piled ice, one sheet into the next, like giant fish scales in the sun.
Grey Rabbit looks back at their wake as the water closes over the disturbance of their passing. It is possible for things to return to calm. On the cliff near her offering place, the oldest pine stands taller than the rest, its windswept arms, its guardian spirit, bathed in the yellow light of morning.
1902
Gunnar rows away from land, feeling the extra weight—John, the anchor rocks, the buoys, and all the rope—force him low in the water. The water has a blue-black chop, but it’s calm enough to get the boulders overboard. He points up the shore with his oar. “It’s a new spot, further out. See the cliff face near the double hump? About a mile, a mile and a half.”
John lets out a long breath, conscious of the offering he’d made before getting into the boat. He’s never been comfortable on the big water, and this time he feels worse than ever. He hasn’t seen Gunnar since Swing Dingle, and now, on top of the unpredictable water spirits, he has thoughts of Gunnar’s drowned man to contend with. Still, the day of work is worth the salt fish to him, and he trusts Gunnar, and Gunnar trusts the boat. It’s a good design, pointed at both ends, and constructed with strong cedar ribs. Not an improvement on the canoe, though it has its similarities. The land slides by—the slanting rock shore and the shaded forest floor where the snow is still holding.
Gunnar angles them toward the horizon, and John feels the growing distance from land like a low vibration throughout his body. It’s as clear looking down at the boulders underwater as it is looking up through the air, causing him to feel slightly disoriented about the relative size of things, his place in the world, and
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