The following day, Enoli wakens to traditional Cherokee grieving.
     He rolls on his sleeping pallet and discovers Mohi. 
     “Youngster, on your feet. We practice seven days of mourning.” The shaman’s tone rings forceful and commandeering. “Each rise of the sun follows Paint Clan custom.”
     The boy struggles to a seated position. “She was my mother. I grieve my own way.”
     “Tradition says bury the dead as soon as possible. She had the pox, so we don’t dig under your hearth. We’ll build a place.” The healer grabs an arm and pulls the youth to his feet.
     Outside, Enoli points at a hilltop. “Under that tree, the one that stands alone and whispers in the wind.”
     “Not proper.” The older man shakes his head.
     The boy, with moist eyes, turns to the healer. “I know of a stream near blueberry vines. We went often, and she sang songs to the water.”
     Near the dwelling, the healer indicates a waist-high sandstone abutment. “There, close. Far enough for protection from the illness, with plenty of rock. It offers a perfect and traditional burial site.”
     “But is nothing like my mother.”
     “She won’t sing to streams ever again.” Mohi turns and walks toward the cabin where Ahyoka’s body waits. “Come with me. Face duty as a grown person.”
     Enoli watches Saloli scurry from the trees and join his breakfast source. “Have any corn this morning?”
     The boy jerks his head at the village. “I’ll get you some.”
     The medicine man hears, “What?”
     “I said I’m coming to help you.”
     At the place where he slept, the young man retrieves a pouch of corn. He munches kernels as he follows Mohi and pitches several to the furry eater that follows.
     “Feed that squirrel.” The healer opens the flap of the sweat lodge. “Fatten him for somebody’s dinner.”
     The little animal stops. “I dislike this man.”
     Trailed by Saloli, the youngster and the adult carry Ahyoka, encased in blankets, to the rock outcrop.
     With more slabs of sediment, the two labor in silence and encase the deceased within an eighteen-inch layered wall.
     A rocky cover prevents human or animal disturbance.
     The medicine man places the last stone on top of the entombment. “Gather her things. With a pox death, they are unclean. Burn them at this gravesite. After seven days, I return and build a new fire in your lodge to purify your home. Then we go to the river and cleanse our bodies.”
     “Mohi, I must thank you for what you have done, but I question your…” the pre-teen squints at the older man who stands in front of the sun “… qualifications.”
     The shaman tolerates the boy’s impudence but shifts his body language. “What are you implying?”
     Saloli hustles along the sandstone abutment’s top and sits upon its haunches several yards from his young friend. “Careful. Your words anger.”
     “I remember the years that I have been alive.” Enoli hoists a last rock to the pile.           “The animals and the birds walk and talk to me. I hear the trees as they support each other. The clouds tell me stories of when our people owned this earth.”
     “They don’t communicate with me, and I am a shaman.” Mohi kicks at Saloli. “I notice this rodent follows you.”
     “Who’s he calling rodent?” Quick paws on the ground avoid the attack. “Did I call him Injun or Quack?”
     “I believe the Unetlanvhi has chosen me to be a Dideyohvsgi (ᏗᏕᏲᎱᏍᎩ di-de-yo-huh-ss-gi, medicine man teacher.) My mother bore me to bring new worlds to my people. She knew of my talents and told me. I think training is necessary, perhaps an apprenticeship with you?”
     The flattering proposal pacifies Mohi, and he drops to heels. “I will consider your thoughts.”
     “Thank you.”
     “I have known you since you fed at your mother’s breast. Never have I seen any inclination or interest in my profession.”
     “Ahyoka loved me and believed my heart was a healer’s.”
     “Your mother is not here to champion you. How do I believe you?”
     The little animal hisses as he paws his front teeth, “This ego-centric charlatan is only interested in control.”
     The boy stands before the medicine man. “Did you hear what Saloli said?”
     “You speak to rodents?” The shaman jumps and flays his hands. “Disgusting!”
     The fuzzy one retreats several paces, and its fur bristles.
     “Yes. And they to me.” Enoli surrenders no ground.
     “Those who talk to lowly animals are not apprentice material.”
     “Why not?”
     “I want apprentices that communicate with wolves or bears. Now that your mother lies under those stones, who’s going to suckle you and tell you to listen to squirrels?” Mohi spits at the boy’s feet and stalks away.
     “That hazelnut talks to snakes, maybe buzzards?” Saloli watches the exit and turns to Enoli. “Got more fresh corn?”
                                                                     ***
     The following days blend in a subdued blur of grief and ceremony that parade across Enoli’s mind.
     By Cherokee tradition, no family voice raises in anger, and relatives speak lightly as they eat and drink less in memory of the deceased.
     The morning of the fifth day after Ahyoka’s death, the relatives gather around Mohi as they continue traditions.
     The boy lurks behind uncles and avoids contact with the Paint Clan’s shaman, who directs the rituals.
     “I shot this bird with an arrow.” The hunter holds a carcass above his head for the group to see. He plucks feathers from the right breast and withdraws a knife from his belt. The man slices a small meat chunk.
     Several of the women family members chant the deceased’s name, “Ahyoka, Ahyoka, Ahyoka, Ahyoka.”
     The shaman steps to the fire inside Enoli’s mother’s open-sided log home. “We have purified this lodge and placed iron it its medicine pot. We have prepared willow root tea, and you have drunk and are pure. This woman died of the pox. We now roast this ceremonial food. If it pops and throws pieces onto the family, her sons and theirs will soon die of the sickness. If it does not pop, we are safe.”
     The man pitches the breast slice into the flames.
     The members crowd closer as the meat heats.
     Several adults hold their breath in anticipation.
     The bird chunk splatters and small bits sprinkle near feet.
     The family stands frozen and silent, but stare at a smoking morsel on Enoli’s moccasin.
     Everyone steps away from the boy.
     “The Unetlanvhi speaks.” Mohi presses his palms against each other.
                                                                    ***
     Mourning continues for two more days.
     Enoli takes part in a mental fog, quarantined by his relatives and included in his mother’s ceremonies only on the periphery.
     Each daybreak of the remaining mornings, mourners immerse themselves in water for purification before they visit the grave site.
     Ahyoka’s sisters, supported by tribal women, wail and gnash their teeth in grief but eye her son and keep distance.
     On the seventh and final grieving night, family and relatives prepare food for a feast in the council lodge.
     That evening, Enoli skips the festivities and escapes with chills to a pallet in his mother’s cabin.
     High fever, headache, back pain and tremors rack his body as he rolls off his mat to vomit. Daylight and darkness blend in the young man’s eyes as he battles the onset of smallpox.
     The heat within his head, ratcheted higher by Mohi’s sweat treatment, rages.
     The boy’s consciousness walks in other worlds.
     Unaware the medicine man dances with rattles, chants, and splatters sacred potions, his youthful mind explores adventurous things.
     The shaman’s apprentice douses spring water over a shivering body, unnoticed and without dream disruption.
                                                                    ***
     Enoli and Saloli sit upon clouds and view the world. “Where do you go after you die, my furry friend?”
     “Depends on who or what you believe and the power who created and rules.” The little one wags his tail. “Sun worshipers assume a soul lingers where the person died. The essence moves to the distant and miserable west.”
     “That sounds too lonely for me. Our kind retreated over the mountains from the French, the British, and now the White colonists. We go no farther.”
     The squirrel cleans his whiskers. “Many believe when you die you become part of a larger or smaller form. You grow tiny with time and vanish. A soul ceases. You shrink in proportion to how well you endured.”
     “My life is only ten years. I have not lived poorly.” The boy rubs sweat off his brow.
     “Other Cherokees pray to three souls who rule distinct but connected levels.” The little rodent spreads four paws on the coolness of the cloud. “One reigns over the predictable upper world of the past represented by fire, another an underworld of changes in the future symbolized by water.”
     Enoli wipes sweat from his eyes.
     The fuzzy preacher whizzes for consideration. “Pay attention. The third domain is the present, where humans mediate between the other two. Those who die free of specific sins and vices dwell with the spirits forever. People with grievous transgressions leave with evil hosts and scream in torment.”
     “That sounds written in the White man’s black book.” The youngster rolls in physical discomfort, unmitigated by the words.
     “That God had a Son who rescued the dying.” The little animal struggles to his feet. “We must talk later. Your family is here.”
     “How do you know, Saloli?” The youth peers at the clouds.
     “Because I am not ill. I watch them look at your skin rashes in their world.”
     “I am self-conscious. Are they ugly?” The youngster reaches for his pet.
     “You reach out, and your aunts and uncles touch. Many shall suffer from your pox.”
     “Don’t let them!” Enoli pleads with his companion.
     “They are human. I am only a squirrel.”
                                                                    ***
     The ill boy tosses and thrashes on his mat, and his body, racked with fever, commands his mind. His spirit travels in the mists and searches the puffy white tops for his furry friend.
                                                                    ***
     The small wiggler rides the next cloud. “The Great One asked me to offer you company and wise counsel.”
     As the two soar in the heavens toward distant mountains, night darkens, and clouds gather to cover the stars.
     They fill the boy’s dreams.
     Ominous threat rumbles, and an occasional strike of lightning punctuates the horizon.
     The young man opens his eyes.
     Wind from the approaching storm sways the grasses’ crowns, and they bend in the unison of waves that sweep the land. The boy sits and gazes across the grass sea.
     “Where are we Saloli?” Enoli looks at his friend.
     “Still west of the mountains, but they approach.” The small one jumps from his cloud to join the youth.
     A darkness ahead erupts, and light with thunder shatters the youngster’s ears.
     Two figures stalk in narrowing circles. The female form glows a ripe chestnut burr hue covered with fine prickles. The male creeps behind her, a shadow of chokeberry color.
     “I am afraid.” Saloli seeks comfort and presses closer.
     “They are Kosvkvskini. I have seen them.” The boy’s voice trembles with intimidation.
The spiny woman approaches, and her circle tightens. This evil draws close, and in a porcupine move, she brandishes pricks. Her male follows, and his red, feverish eyes glow in the night.
     “They appear because we violate the old laws and ignore traditional treatment for the pox.” The furry one scrambles to the boy’s neck and peeps over his shoulder.
     “Kosvkvskini! I have your evil curse, and my friend is a squirrel. He is not your prey! Why do you come with the storm?”
     The woman, half-wraith and part pustule-scarred abomination, extends skeletal fingers and points an extended nail. “You abandon the ways of old and follow paths forged by false teachers. For sins such as these, we visit you and your clans.”
     Enoli stands his ground. “My shaman is Mohi of the Paint Clan.”
     “Is he the Unetlanvhi (Creator God’s) child?” The woman drops her hand.
     “No, his father was a warrior.”
     “You real people are not the only ones we attack.” The pustule person watches the storm on the horizon. “We hit the White man who follows the Son of his God. The settlers ignore their gods from before and worship that deity.”
     “I am interested in the real people.” The boy clutches his animal near his chest.
     “Kosvkvskini come from before those days. Real people and others lived over the oceans. The Cherokee existed by favor of the water beetle. Others, by the serpent.”
     “Leave us. Take your diseased creeper with you. Times change. I no longer believe in you. This must be a dream.” The boy attempts to vanquish the wraith with a wave of his hand.
     “I have the power to hurt you,” the woman crosses her prickled wrists, “and many of your people, along with the White settlers, have not experienced my embrace. I have much to do.”
     “Go! Do your work, and leave me and my animal alone.” Enoli grasps his furry friend.
     The threat opens her arms, wide bat wings, and rises to find and engulf new victims.
The gusts of air from massive uplifts dislodge Ahyoka’s son from the safety of his cloud.
With Saloli, he plummets toward the earth.
     “Boy! This is unsafe! I have a cousin that flies. I do not!” The little one flaps its tail for lift.
     Enoli, twisted in mind by fever, watches the darkness of the Kosvkvskini recede above him and braces his body for impact.
     With a massive whoosh, a giant eagle snatches the two from their death fall.
     With wind whipping through twenty-foot feathers and huge talons gripped around the youth and squirrel, the majestic bird soars above the Appalachian Mountains. “I am the Creator God’s wings. It has designs for you, young man.”
     The boy looks under their flight and watches mountain crests flow as ocean waves. “What plans are those, Great One?”
     “Without black pustule death. I return you to your sweat lodge.”