Pathways - Jeri Taylor [10]
Vaguely, Chakotay tuned back in to the familiar story. “First Father had carried with him from the Otherworld a packet of maize seeds, which he scattered on the earth, and those became man. And thus was the earth created, and centered, and ordered.”
There was a moment’s silence, which Chakotay didn’t hurry to fill. He could feel his father’s awe and reverence rising like a mist, and he wished again that he had been allowed to stay behind and avoid this wearisome experience.
“Just think, Chakotay. We’re here, on the night of August thirteenth, the date of creation, watching the stars our ancestors watched, seeing the hours of the beginning play out once more.” Kolopak’s voice broke slightly, and Chakotay felt a twinge of embarrassment for him. “The crocodile tree and the sky canoe are nothing less than our galaxy, the Milky Way. First Father is represented by the constellation Orion, which our ancestors called the turtle. Its three belt stars—Alnitak, Mintaka, and Alnilam—are the three creation stones. And Seven-Macaw, who had to be knocked from the crocodile tree in order for the maize god to be reborn, is represented by the seven stars in the Big Dipper.”
Kolopak pointed up, gripped with passion. “Look, Chakotay—the Milky Way is turning from its north-south position, and the Big Dipper is falling, falling toward the horizon. In another hour Seven-Macaw will disappear, vanquished, readying the sky for creation.”
Chakotay stirred restlessly. They’d already been out here for two hours, and his muscles felt stiff, needing the relief of movement. He was also hungry, and pushed himself to his feet to search his knapsack for something to eat. He knew he wouldn’t find anything particularly tempting there; Kolopak had decreed that they would eat only the foods of their ancestors during this trek, so corn cakes, dried deer meat, and tubers were all he could look forward to. He rummaged in his pack and withdrew one of the corn cakes and a bottle of water. Yum.
“Would you like anything?” he asked his father politely. Maybe if he were the model child he could get out of this ordeal as quickly as possible.
“No, thank you,” replied Kolopak, still gazing upward in wonder. “I don’t have an appetite. I’m just overwhelmed by this.”
Chakotay sat and munched his corn cake and sipped cold water. The night was warm and humid, and the cool liquid was soothing. The buzz of a mosquito seeking its own dinner hummed around his ear, and he flailed at it in irritation.
Overhead, the skies continued their inexorable display, the Milky Way “canoe” appearing to tip toward the horizon, sinking to carry the maize god to the place of creation. By dawn, Chakotay knew, the turtle constellation, or Orion, would be at the zenith, signifying the rebirth of the First Father. He knew all this, having been shown the star maps since he was a child. There was no particular amazement to seeing it in person.
“How long are we going to stay?” he ventured mildly, expecting his father to say, “Just a little while longer.”
But Kolopak looked at him in astonishment. “We’ll stay the night, of course, until First Father is at the zenith, at dawn.”
Chakotay’s heart sank. Back at their lodgings were padds with books and games that would hold his interest. Out here, on this lonely, humid hilltop, there was nothing. He flopped back onto the ground and closed his eyes, disturbed by the annoying buzz of the mosquito, still hunting for blood.
He awoke at the gentle shaking of his father’s hand. Kolopak was looking down at him, face transfixed with joy. “Look, Chakotay—First Father is born again.”
Chakotay struggled to a sitting position, eyes gummy with sleep, limbs aching, mouth fetid. The first faint paling of the eastern sky had begun, and Kolopak was pointing upward. Chakotay followed the gesture. There, above them, Orion’s belt—the turtle constellation to the ancient