The Drum of My Death by Bill DeWitt (baerdric)

The Drum of My Death

The pain was less now. Before it had been more, but now it was less. The Sun was still strong, I could feel the rock beneath me quiver in her heat. The drum skin was nearly dry, and made a “chom chom” sound as the bones rolled in the bowl. It was almost time.

Before, it was not time. There were days of peace and work. I brought home food for my family, food that I was drawn to when it was time. I could smell their warm earth and their wet breath and hear the grasses, as they chewed and in their bellies. I followed the food in the hot day until he would look me in the eyes and ask for his death. I would open his belly with a sharp, hot rock and his pain would bleed into the ground. When it is time, death is a friend and a gift. I made pouches of the skin to carry the food and the spirit of the food came with me to feed my family and to live again. His spirit did not need to walk into the sky like the old ones of my family.

It was hard to bring the food home. Some paths were long. The women were always ready, to take the food, to cook it and share it, as was proper. They knew the needs and gave the heart or the brains as was best, or the fat or the muscle. The men prepared the skins as a gift to the women, for blankets or drum skins. The children were happy and their furs were clean. Those days are gone - not finished, as the Sun ends her day by going home to the Mountain of the Spirits, or as the food waits for his death to share his life - but fallen from the sky and torn from life.

I had smelled the new men hunting. They did not follow the food but crept in the forest and lay in wait. The new men did not smell me. They leapt out at the Long Noses and drove them off a cliff. The whole family of Long Noses fell from the sky and were torn from life.

The new men did not take the food to their families but took the hearts and the liver and ate them while walking, leaving the Long Noses on the ground like empty pouches, full of death. When the new men were gone I looked into the eyes, but the Long Noses could not speak to me. Their pain was in my belly and their blood was red mud in their fur and on mine. It was not time for them and there was no food for my family. I must go home without a pouch, leaving their spirits in the air.

I smell the rain now but it has not come for me. It will not come to this mountain but waits for me in the sky. The spirit thunder of the Long Noses is in the sky, the drum of my death has called them to greet the spirits of their family, who were torn from life.

Before, I could smell death and the new men. I smelled them down the valley and across the grass as I went home. In the forest, where I learned to follow the food with my father, I smelled the new men, and death. When I was in the stream I could smell my family, and the new men, and death. I found my family on the ground, like empty pouches, full of death. Their fur was in the red mud, their hearts and livers were gone. Their pain was in my heart and my eyes. Their spirits waited in the air for the bones and the drum.

The new men were close but they did not smell me. I crept in the forest and lay in wait. I took a finger bone from each as I tore them from their life with my sharp, hot stone. I left their spirits on the ground with their blood. The last new man I followed like food, but he did not ask for his death. I looked at his eyes and heard his noises and smelled the foulness of his death, but he did not ask for it. There was no food in the new man, but I took his skin and his fingerbone for the drum of my death.

The last woven bowl of the women held the bones, and the long hair of their heads tied the skin. The bloody mud sealed the drum. It was a long path to the Mountain, and my death was in my eyes every day. My need for food passed, and the last stream I left undrunk. I asked my death to wait and she let me climb the Mountain.

As I climbed the Mountain of the Spirits I smelled the stones burning in the Sun and the skin drying. The drum began to rumble, “Choom choom” as the bones rattled under the drying skin. The spirits of the Long Noses heard the sound and knew the bones and the skin of the new men, the spirits of my family knew the bowl and the skin and they followed me. I left my blood on the sharp, hot rocks and my skin became an empty pouch, full of pain. But my death was not yet full.

The pain is gone now, bled into the ground. I lie on the burning stone in the highest place, looking into the eye of the sky, asking for my death. I place the drum of my death on my belly to count the breaths. The skin of the new man dries and makes a “chan chan” sound as the bones roll. My chest is a drum for my slow, slow heart. The Sun will cook me for food, giving the heart and the brain as is proper, sharing my life with her family. The spirits of the Long Noses thunder into the clouds with their family. The drum makes a “chan” sound and is quiet. The Mountain brings me a gift, my friend, my death. My family takes my spirit with them into the sky.