The Murdered Sun - Christie Golden [50]
"That is my hope as well," said Chakotay, puffing slightly in the thick air.
It was a sobering trip. Time after time, they would have to step over the bones of some creature or another. Trees festered, oozed, and occasionally there came a loud boom as one of them fell to the earth to facilitate its decomposition.
Once, the wind shifted, bringing with it so nauseating a scent that Chakotay's dark face went pale. He swallowed rapidly, trying to keep his meal in his stomach, where it belonged.
Beside him, Nata paused, and as he recovered himself, she did something that struck him as odd at first. She rose to her full height, extended her long neck, and began to sing.
I mourn, Sun who shall be no more; I mourn, Stars who gleam in the night; I mourn, Waters who breed death; I mourn, Earth that cannot grow.
Sun-Eater has claimed you, Sun-Eater has claimed me, Sun-Eater has claimed us all.
Chakotay listened, then on impulse, he removed his comm badge and temporarily deactivated the translation device. Suddenly, Viha Nata's true voice, unencumbered by English words, came to his ears full force.
The song was beautiful--lilting, sweet, pure.
Her voice was a crooning, gentle sound that would put any child easily to sleep as though by a lullaby. She finished her song, bowed her head in silent mourning to all that was lost, that would be lost.
Chakotay hesitated, then, replacing his comm badge, he began to sing a Navajo chant called "Song of the Young War God."
I have been to the end of the earth.
I have been to the end of the waters.
I have been to the end of the sky.
I have been to the end of the mountains.
I have found none that were not my friends.
Startled, Nata whipped her head around to look at him. The beads in her long, soft, white hair bounced. She was utterly shocked but terribly pleased. An understanding silence passed between them as they continued walking.
The path took a sharp upward turn after about a half a kilometer.
Chakotay began to pant with exertion, but his mind was not on his working muscles. He thought about the tales, about the song she'd just sung and his own response. And he thought about the Akerians.
"There is a legend among one branch of my people, the Cherokee," he said at length. "It tells of the Gentle People, the Nunnehi, who lived beneath the Earth's surface. One day, they appeared to the Cherokee and warned them that a great, terrible disaster was about to befall them."
Now realizing that Chakotay was telling a tale of his own, Nata turned to look at him, her mottled face alight with interest.
"The Nunnehi offered to let the Cherokee come and live with them in the caverns beneath the Earth," Chakotay continued. "They rolled away a stone, and the place below was so beautiful, so kind and welcoming, that the Cherokee people were eager to dwell with the Nunnehi. But one group held back. The chief asked them why. The old people replied, `This is our home. This is where we wish to die." The young people replied, `This is where we wish to bear our children. We want them to live as we did." So the chief, knowing that the rest of his people would be safe with the Nunnehi, decided to stay with those who lingered behind."
"And did the disaster come?" asked Nata.
Chakotay nodded his dark head. "Another race of people came.
They decided that the Cherokee could not live where they had lived since the world began. These people marched the Cherokee, on foot, over a distance of hundreds of miles and relocated them far from their homes." His dark eyes were somber but not vengeful. He had forgiven, as most of his people had forgiven.
But he could not--and knew that he should not--forget. Those who fail to learn from history are condemned to repeat it, he thought to himself, then he continued.
"Many people died on that long march. Women, children, the old, the sick. There was barely enough time to bury the dead. The Cherokee call