Infinite Loss (Infinite Series, Book 3) Read online

  INFINITE LOSS

  The Third Book of the Infinite Series

  L.E. Waters

  Published by Rock Castle Publishing

  Copyright © L.E. Waters, 2013

  e-book formatting by Guido Henkel

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  “When along the pavement,

  Palpitating flames of life,

  People flicker around me,

  I forget my bereavement,

  The gap in the great constellation,

  The place where a star used to be”

  — D.H. Lawrence

  I dedicate this book to all stars, missing and present.

  Foreword

  I researched the time periods portrayed in my books and pulled many of my ideas from historic events. When I involve historical people in my books, I try to portray them accurately but take fictional liberty with conversations, timelines, and mysteries—filling in the details absent from written record. The reader must remember that this is, first and foremost, historical fantasy fiction. I maintained a sense of magical realism throughout and hope the reader will take such leaps of imagination with me, assured that there is fundamental support underneath this novel but keeping an open mind to enjoy the story envisioned.

  If there are any doubts as to the accuracy or plausibility of story lines, please visit my website, www.infiniteseries.net, where I dedicated a whole section to a bibliography, historical quotes and poems I included within my stories, and more detailed research behind this fictional piece just for those who might enjoy reading further about these cultures, events, and people.

  In regard to the spiritual/religious aspect of this book, it is not meant to come across as non-fiction. This is how I perceived heaven to be in an artistic sense and hope there are readers out there who will consider it enough for the simple enjoyment of storytelling.

  If at any time, you should find yourself confused with so many intricate character histories, I have provided a helpful chart that tracks each character’s traits and progression at the end of each life. It is there to use at any point to enhance the reader’s experience. I would love to take this moment to thank you for reading this novel, and if you could take a moment to review my book where you purchased it, I would be extremely appreciative. Reviews are essential to independent authors like me and even one or two comments can do wonders for my series’ exposure.

  Eighth Life

  Bad Medicine

  Chapter 1

  The warm light streams through the teepee opening, cutting my dreams short. Squinting against the glare of the sun appearing on the horizon, I search for the familiar image of my mother busy starting the fire. However, she is nowhere to be seen, and the fire is dark. I push off my buffalo blanket and jump through the teepee opening to find her. The spring ground is wet and cold on my bare feet. A sharp whistle pierces the air, and I spin to see father sitting on the grass beside the teepee. His red skin glows in the early sun, and his shiny hair is decorated with blue and white beads. He concentrates on the arrow he’s carving and slowly strips away splinters from the shaft.

  “Mother?” I ask.

  He pauses for a while, eyes set on his craft, and, without looking up at me, he says in his slow and low voice, “It is the baby’s time.”

  I glance toward the thickets where the mothers in camp go to have their babies. I can’t see her and know I will never hear her—Lakotas do not show pain. I spot her things by the outdoor fire and wish she would return soon. I look to all the teepees around us and see everyone is beginning their day. Squaws fetch water from the river with their daughters, boys run around the camp like playful puppies, and men get ready for hunts. The teepees glow in the yellow sunlight as the many horses graze calmly in the background. Father stays quiet, and I know not to bother him. I squat nearby and watch his movements.

  “Are you now six winters?”

  I nod.

  Bringing the arrow up to scrutinize the notches, he asks, “Have my arrows shrunk?”

  I notice they’re indeed half the size of his usual arrows.

  Father gives a long sigh. “Well, these are no good to me then. I wonder who would be so small to use them?”

  My shoulders straighten, and I gasp. “I am small!”

  He laughs calmly and sweeps his long, black hair out of his face, revealing two familiar black spots on his jaw. Reaching down behind him, he brings up five other arrows of the same size and a small bow. I jump to my feet and try to grab them, but he gives a half-smile and pulls them back. “A man must make his own arrows.” Father nods, and his dark-brown eyes give me a serious look. He hands me a small knife. “This is your knife. Every Lakota must carry their own knife. It makes good arrows.”

  I gaze at the beautiful, white bone knife and run my finger along the dull side to feel its smoothness.

  He then reaches for another stick. “Learn.”

  Father begins to shape the arrow, and I know I have to watch everything, since he will only show me once.

  “This bow is made of pine and will suit a boy of six winters well.” Carving the notches carefully, he continues. “The only wood for the bow of a great hunter or warrior must be ash. Many have to treat, dry, and cure the wood for five winters. But the Great Spirit led me past the river and into the woods for days, until I found what I had seen in my vision. In the center of a circle of the tallest ashes was a split and charred ash that had been hit by lightning. All Lakota know it is a rare wood to find, and many warriors hunt for years searching for this wood, which makes the strongest bows any man has seen. Since the lightning is sent by the Great Spirit, the wood is instantly cured. The greatest strain creates the greatest strength.”

  Father ties the piece of flint onto the notches. “You tie the flint or bone flat to pass through a four legged’s ribs, but you tie the other way if you need to pass a two legged’s.” He hands me the last arrow. “You cut barbs into war arrows so they cause great damage when removed. Hunting arrows need to pull out smooth.”

  He gifts me a small deerskin belt to hold my knife. I eagerly tie it around my bare waist and slip my knife into the pouch. I’m instantly older and stronger. Father goes inside the teepee and brings out the bow I know so well. He lovingly shows me the dark, firm wood, then holds it up and pretends to snap it, shooting the invisible prey in front of him. Father turns back to me. “If I should leave for the Happy Hunting Ground, do not send this bow with me. Leave me another, for this should be yours.”

  I now stare at the bow with even more respect, knowing it will be mine one day. Just then the thickets rustle, and I turn to see Mother. She has a proud smile on her beautiful spotted face and the papoose tied to her back. Father stands up as she comes to show us the little round face, surrounded by dark hair, poking out of the cradle hole. She says with great esteem, “Another son.”

  He looks deep into her eyes. “Winona, he is yours for the first few winters, but then he is mine.” He picks up his bow and arrows and walks off toward where the horses graze but then turns around to shout to me, “Don’t return until you have killed something for your mother to cook.” Father walks off to hunt.

  I begin to run after him but mother says with a smile, “Not until you eat
something, little hunter.” As she goes to get my breakfast, she sees my new knife and bow. “What fine things your father has made for you. Care for them well. He will not make you another. You must learn to make them yourself now.”

  I nod and, as she turns, see the little face deep within the papoose, all bundled up in rabbit furs and wrapped tight in deerskin. While she sits down on a log and wipes the dried blood off her legs, I eat the meat she gives me as quickly as I can. After stuffing in the last piece, I jump up, grab my weapons and run off to the grassy hills in search of small things hopping or flittering around.

  Mother shouts, “No bears now!”

  I try, until the sun is in the middle of the sky, to hit one of the prairie birds. The skin on my arm reddens and breaks from the bowstring’s sharp snapback. The birds are far too quick and small for me to hit. I decide to find a rabbit’s hole, and once I find its other exit hole, I roll a rock over it and wait by the entrance with my arrow ready. The sun turns orange on the western hills when finally the rabbit emerges. I wait until it’s within five paces and release my arrow as hard as I can.

  A hit! The poor thing kicks for a moment but then is still. I give it time for its spirit to leave and then I grab it up by the ears and run home as fast as I can.

  Mother sees me coming from the edge of camp and puts her arms out to embrace me. I run hard into her and hold my offering up for her to see. She gasps. “That is the largest rabbit I’ve seen. You are a great hunter to have learned so fast. Most boys bring their mothers a tiny bird to put in a broth, but this is a feast.”

  I can’t be more pleased with myself. She goes right to skinning the rabbit and preparing it for us. “Sit down, and I will tell you the story of how the rabbit lost its tail.”

  This story is one of my favorites.

  I watch her in the orange glow of the fire, as she repeats the story exactly the same way as she has done so many times. Halfway through the tale the baby starts to fuss and cry. Mother goes over quickly, pinches his tiny nose between her fingers, and gently shuts his mouth. The little thing turns red from having no breath and then mother releases him. He screams out in great protest, but she quickly does the trick again, and this time he just pants angrily.

  Mother takes him, still within the cradle, and brings him to her breast. I ask, “Why did you keep him from breath?”

  “We are all creatures of nature, and there are always things that will be drawn to a baby’s cry. It is best for him to learn this lesson early.”

  Father returns with a small deer on his horse. Upon seeing the rabbit turning on the spit, he gives me a nod of approval. “Then I will name you Kohana.”

  “Because I run so fast?” I ask, happy with my new name.

  “It is true, you are fast, but no. I name you Kohana because you learn quick.”

  With that he reaches into the teepee, takes his pipe and leaves to smoke with our grandfather, the medicine chief. All the squaws come to welcome the new baby to the tribe, and they bring gifts and food to us. Apawi, our tribe’s Heyota, comes and cries in great agony, yanking on the feathers hung from his pointed ears and singing mourning songs. As we all lay down together in our blankets, I ask Mother, “Why is the Heyota crying?”

  “He reminds us all how fleeting life is.”

  I think about this as my eyes grow heavy, and I fall asleep in the arms of my mother, in the arms of my father.

  Chapter 2

  I stand on the jagged cliffs at the prairie’s edge where the earth drops low to the river, and men stampede buffalo in great numbers over the edge to kill them all quickly. The wind, coming up from the water below blows in circles, causing my hair to lift and rise like fire. Suddenly five people are beside me, and I look around to see who these strangers are. They’re not Lakota and are all pale. One is an older boy with the same two dots my father has on his jaw. In his hand is my father’s lightning-ash bow. He turns to me and opens his mouth, to show me he has no tongue. Horrified at his mutilation, I look away and see a beautiful woman of mystical power. She has the pointed face of the trappers who visit our camps, but the same long, dark hair of our people. She stares at me with her large, honey-brown eyes and exposes a white line on her forehead.

  A whinny draws my attention, and the woman takes a few steps back to reveal a man seated on a pinto pony with three white feet. He looks down at me with beady eyes and gives me a slight nod. The pony moves even farther back so another shape beside him appears. A man stands there with no hair on his head, as though he has been scalped, but the shiny skin is still there. He stares back, and I notice strange red splotches on his face. I look away to my left again, to a man standing beside the boy with no tongue. He is a handsome paleface—tall and straight. He gazes at me with his green, sparkling eyes and smiles, revealing a small gap between his front teeth.

  Each one, having acknowledged me, faces back, in a trance, to watch the horizon. I stare down and see I’m not a boy any longer. I bring my strong arms up within my heavy clothes and see they’re white. I am white.

  I’m distracted by a shuffle to my left. The boy walks forward with his eyes fixed on the horizon.

  I scream, “Stop!”

  But he doesn’t hear me and takes a small step off the cliff. I run to look below. His body has vanished.

  I sit, staring up at the top of the teepee, studying its crisscrossing sticks, as I hear the soothing sound of mother already stacking wood for our fire. I try to think of what my dream means, for all dreams are dreamt for a reason. Even though the people were strangers, I feel in some odd way that I know them well. I tell no one of my dream but think of it all day long and still when I close my eyes for sleep.

  My eyes open again in pitch darkness to the vibrations of the ground. Frantic yelps erupt within the camp, and Father springs, yelping, from our teepee. Mother grabs for my little brother in the papoose and takes me by the hand to flee with the other women and children. Everyone runs and screams—all except for Apawi, who lies down on his buffalo blanket in the center of camp for us all to see and sleeps soundly.

  In the faint light of early dawn, the men grab their bows and lances, jump on their ponies and hurry to make the formation to protect the camp—the formation of wild geese. Father whoops and leads the group, taking the very top of the line. They all stand their horses still as the thundering sound comes closer, shaking every living thing awake and running for cover. The dark shapes charge toward us with a cloud of dust reaching high into the air above them. Mother holds my hand tight as she watches with worried eyes. We all know if they can’t divide the herd we will be stampeded, and everything we own will be destroyed. Many of the old people standing with us begin to chant and reach their arms to the sky in prayer.

  As the cloud of dust nears, the men give their loudest war cries and release arrow after arrow, trying to kill as many rushing buffalo as they can, since only by killing the ones in front can you split the herd. I watch proudly as Father stands strong ahead of the chief’s horse. Some of the dark shapes plummet to the ground, causing the shapes behind them to crash into the fallen, and chaos ensues. Some of the smarter ones on the sides split, but the ones coming in the center keep charging forward. The warriors, releasing their arrows as the cloud of dust seems to part, try to keep their ponies still—not an easy feat since a pony’s greatest fear is charging buffalo.

  Finally, the buffalo form two thundering rivers around our camp but, just as mother releases my hand in relief, a stray buffalo careens from the river and charges right toward father. He throws down his bow, reaches for his lance and holds it up as the beast crashes into him. He and his horse disappear in a rolling cloud of dust, and the other men on horses move out of the way, breaking the formation. Mother screams and drops to the ground, shaking the baby and causing him to cry. I start for Father as Grandfather tries to grab my shoulder, but I break free and run through the island amidst the churning sea of buffalo. The warriors have to regain the formation so the herd stays split and can’t come to Fa
ther’s aid.

  As the dust settles the buffalo rights itself, with the dripping lance impaled in its side, and staggers off, wide-eyed in shock. The horse spins its back legs, trying to get back up, although badly wounded. I can’t see Father until I get to the horse. He lies under his best hunting horse with his eyes closed, grimacing in great pain. I try to pull the horse off, but he screams louder at its movement and the horse seems too broken to get up. I kneel beside his head and, wincing, he opens his eyes.

  Father chokes out, “Find my bow.”

  I search around through the dusty air and see the bow by the horse’s back legs. I fetch it, and I’m shocked to see it remained intact under the great buffalo’s feet. I bring it back to Father’s fisted hand. He tries with all his might to lift the bow and says, “This is yours now. Remember, great strength…comes from great challenge.”

  Every time the horse tries to rise, it causes Father more pain, although he holds in his cries of pain by squeezing his eyes closed tighter. I take out my knife and slash the horse’s neck, causing it to relax and be still. Father looks at me proudly. “Take care of your mother and brother.” He holds his breath briefly and then lets it out. “And I will watch you…smiling.” He never takes another breath, and his eyes freeze in his last stare to the emerging dawn.

  The sun no longer causing him to blink, he now can see the sun.

  The last buffalo has run off, and the camp is safe. The men now gather around us as the sun rises. Grandfather puts his hands on my shoulders and pulls me up off the ground. He looks down upon his son and says, “Akecheta, my last son, has lived up to his name. A great fighter in battle and a fighter in his last stand for our tribe. I am proud.”

  The men place him on a scaffold to the sacred east outside of our camp. They bring his fallen pony to him and lay him underneath Father’s body. Father is dressed in his finest adornments: feathers and beads in his hair, beaded deerskin shirt and leggings. He is wrapped in his best buffalo robe, and all his weapons, except for his bow, are placed around him to have in the afterlife. The women, young and old, come with food and lament at his scaffold. As the whole tribe mourns, Apawi comes out in his celebration attire and dances around the wailing women, singing sacred songs of rebirth, and rejoicing in Father’s entrance to the Happy Hunting Ground.