Ghosts.

She is laughing as she wrings out her skirts, looking up through her lashes at him, so careless and confident as he stands in the powerful current. He likes her wet, his grin makes this clear, he is turning his spear in his hands and wishing they were alone.

She makes him promises only he can feel, like a scent she leaves for him alone, marking her passing, so he can follow. And so he would, but family waits, hungry for fresh fish, things must have their time.

He faces the current, spear poised and ready, eyes like the hawk he is named for.

He claimed that anyone could take a fish in still waters, offering his spear to Grandmother who blushed like a girl and swatted it away.

Does his brother-in-law take the bait?

Yes. He was the man in this family before his sister found one, the newcomer is hated with the intensity of a child. For all that he does so well, so easily, for what he kills, oh- this worst fault of all, his ability to hunt, to provide. He is hated for the sensitivity in him that never forgets a prayer or gift, the care he takes of his new family. His women. How they love him. He is nothing to look at, just tall and well formed, scars standing out like tattoos. Not so much a man as an animal, this is what he is thinking as he stares into the rushing water. How can anyone see a fish in all that tumbling?

He focuses extra hard, knowing it is useless, he doesn’t want to see and kill a fish, so he won’t. Do they know? The women do, they take the little he brings with gratitude and love. And mild contempt. Or is that just what he imagines he sees in their eyes?

The children love him, of this he is certain, no one is more patient with them. His little nephew, already more of a hunter than he is, at six he can catch fish in still water, with ease and pleasure. He taught him to catch with a net and club them quickly, but the boy could get one in any way he wants. His niece, just four and learning the plants, taking to them like her mother, naturally. She had always been his favourite, she knew it and uncle was the man for her. He blessed her every time he prayed. Let the Great Spirit keep her safe, keep her open to him and what he could teach her.

This was his great secret, that he knew the songs and stories. That his hours by the fire, listening with solemn eyes and small hairs raised, had stayed with him. How could he forget them? Over and over they transported him beyond himself, showed him his ancestors in their flesh and blood, weeping, laughing, fighting, dying. Long lives lived along long lines, a thread that ran to his hand and begged to be followed.

When the girl was a baby they left her with him when they went off hunting, or into the woods foraging. The boy they sometimes took along, and grandmother always insisted on going, even if only to sit and supervise. The fire damped, why waste wood? Even in the woods there was no wasting of it. In the shelter, Great-Grandmother slept like she was heading west.

They walked off into the forest, laughter and voices slowly dwindling, until he was left with the river, and the silent baby. Oh, how he loved it!

He would carry her carefully, wrapped in a fur, and prop her sitting against the rocks, so she could watch the river. This delighted her, she rarely took her eyes off it. When she did, it was to look at him with early wonder in her tiny face, a kind of shock in the dark depths of her eyes.

So he started telling her the stories, long before she understood a word, and when she learned to talk she would find him and climb on his lap, ‘sing again, Uncle’. He would whisper that they must wait for river time, and she understood, so smart she was.

Water, rushing at him, there his brother-in-law, so focused he doesn’t blink. Everything tensed, muscles rippling like sands, crouching in his mighty arm, a spring, a thrust, a fish there on the end of his spear. A quick glance at him, the fish slammed hard on the nearest rock, does he know even this? Hatred in him like a snake, winding up and around inside him, choking off his heart, his mind, his reason.

So when he sees his young nephew start out into hard waters to come and help his father, he says nothing. The boy is strong, he pushes on, a slight look of fear in his eyes. His father is busy with the fish, he is the only one who sees him stumble on the slippery rocks. A fraction of a second too late, he shouts and shoves his enemy’s shoulder to alert him. His enemy? Is that how he feels about his sister’s husband?

The boy goes down and the water takes him, arms flailing, legs thrashing, but utterly silent. His face above water, he doesn’t even panic, makes his uncle both proud and sick. He starts to go after the boy but his father holds him back.

“He will learn or he will go, it is in the hands of the River.”

On the bank an anguished mother, grandmother and even great grandmother, held up by her women, her face a stony mask. As eldest, you will never see emotion or affection from her, but while all eyes on are on the river, his eyes are on them and he sees the tremor in her ancient hands. This moves him like nothing else, he speaks.

“I have been teaching him to swim in the currents since he was old enough to walk. He has been down this river before, he will land where he must, rest briefly, and make his way back to us, as I taught him.”

All eyes turn to him, hope, disbelief, a hint of retribution to come from his sister, her reluctant respect for him rising, despite herself. How can she be angry at what might save her son?

Great Grandmother is not surprised, she has known, her clawed hands reach out and demand his, he hardly knows what to do. He clutches them, is this the first time he has held her hands? No, she had always nursed him when he was sick, letting no one touch him, even his mother.

Great Grandmother knows him, suddenly he understands it and something ugly in him simply picks up and leaves.

He lets her hands go reluctantly, mustn’t make too much of it. Eyes are back down the river now. He tells them to build a fire and prepare food, the boy will need both, but he will be a while yet.

“The walk back upriver is long and grueling. He will take shortcuts and climb, I have never been able to cure him of it.”

He picks up his spear and heads to the shallows, fish will be caught and clubbed. He moves without thinking, his heart a closed fist. He uses his eyes to see and do one thing, his ears and other senses are locked up. He doesn’t hear the sounds of joy, the whoops and tears.

But he hears the sound of young feet running and thrashing excitedly, noisily, through the scrub.

“Did you see me Uncle?! Did you see my head? I hardly got my face wet! How long was I? Was I faster? Did my father see? Was he surprised? Oh- I just wanted to help him! I am sorry for causing so much trouble. Uncle, mother had tears in her eyes. Grandmother hugged me. Great grandmother smiled, she really has no teeth, it looks funny. Come back with me now, I’ll help you carry your fish, so many Uncle! Grandmother will be pleased.”

A big fire, fish roasting, a rabbit caught by the golden boy, stewing in a pot for Great Grandmother. Her favourite food. He is happy when she gets spoiled, this is as it should be, the Elders are valuable.

He sits across from her, trying to read her face in the flickering light, does she have stories in her? Should he ask her now? Since she knows him better, and he knows her better. How could she? Why would she never tell them if she does? A mystery he must solve now, since he has become what he is. If he is never seen the same way again, it is the price he will pay.

They are gathered by the river, the fire on the small beach, deadwood looming like giants in the shadows. The skies clear and reveal a forest of light, calling to him from out of the black night. Endless, beyond thought and reason, dizzy now, look down and find Great grandmother’s eyes on him. Suddenly he knows, so simple.

“Great Grandmother, tell us a story.”

And just like that the light blooms in her eyes. The winds silence themselves and she becomes the Voice of night and time and mystery. His heart fills, will it burst through his chest? He listens.