Old Mother of Salt Tribe stood and walked to her. She took the small blade and pricked her finger. She touched her blood to the staff, but it did not move. Her mouth tight with disappointment, she walked on. Old Mother of Works Flint Tribe was next. Again, the staff did not move. The blood of each of the Old Mothers around her fire were rejected by the staff, and they moved off to the side, waiting and bearing witness.
Each member of the next generation, according to rank and according to how many daughters they had given to the People, came next, the blade and the staff growing slick with the blood of the women. And the staff did not move.
The next generation came. And the next.
Woman after woman among the Women of the Womb who suckled young came, their blood on the staff until it was sticky. The blood of the People trickled and ran across the back of her hand where Old Mother of Winter Trees gripped her staff.
And Old Mother of Winter Trees despaired. Her staff accepted no one. Which meant the trees accepted no one. And the Moon was near to setting, only a quarter of the orb still above the horizon.
In desperation, Old Mother of Winter Trees called for the women who had not yet chosen a man, those old enough to have experienced their Moon-Blood, but too young to have mated.One by one, many hands of unmated women passed by her. And the staff remained still. Silence fell upon the land. In all the oral tales, this had never happened. Except for once. So long ago. In the most ancient oral tales. And then Old Mother understood.
Softly, she said, “In the oldest tales, when the People of the Trees were still searching for the westernmost lands, there was change. The Staff chose a special woman. One who had been . . . warrior and hunter and birther. A woman who had lived as both. The women of the hunters will pass by now, all those who still experience Moon-Blood.”
“No.” Old Mother of the Eastern Sea Tribe said, her face creased with worry and fear. “We have been here, on our island, for many and many tens of years. The hunter women have made their oaths to the Earth. They will not carry young unless they become oath breakers, and such a one may not become the Old Mother of the People of the Trees. Their oaths prevent this.”
“Our ways are changing,” Old Mother of Winter Trees murmured. “Death of the trees is upon us. Perhaps the Staff of my Tree is telling us that the hunter women and the Women of the Womb must be in harmony.”
There was murmuring and much discontent. As they talked, Old Mother of Winter Trees bowed her head. One of her women gave her warm bone broth and then wiped bear fat on her lips where the cold had chapped the flesh. The tribes’ Old Mothers’ argument subsided and they fell silent. Fortified, Old Mother of Winter Trees said, “Let each of the hunter women bleed upon the staff. The staff will decide. And if new oaths are to be taken, we will consult the oldest stories to tell us the way forward. But we must hurry. The Moon is almost gone.”
The Old Mothers of the tribes faced her and Old Mother of Salt Tribe said, “Let it be as you have said.”
Uncertain, apprehensive, the hunter women crossed from the hunter’s side of the hill to the Womb side and gathered in aline. They were agitated, but it was an internal distress, clear on their faces and in the set of their shoulders, leaving them silent and still, as only hunters can be. One by one, they pricked their fingers with their own blades, and added their blood to the staff. Her own daughter was first among them, leading the way, as she had always done. Warrior Woman of Blood and Battle was not chosen. Woman Who Left Her Children to Make War was not chosen. Woman after woman followed, and the staff still did not move.
But . . . as the hard edge of Cold Wolf Howls Moon slipped behind the horizon, a woman limped to the staff. Her left knee was stiff and swollen beneath the hides that covered her. Her hair of vines and leaves was woven with the white feathers of mourning. Her belly was bare and marked with the wrinkles of childbirth, her breasts long and hanging from suckling children. Her hands and her face were etched with lines grooved into the chalk that marked the Ceremony of Change of Status. She was not young, but was not old. Her face wore grief and wisdom and hard-won peace. And around her waist she wore the garment for Moon-Blood. She was still fertile. This woman spanned all the women who now lived and who were to come.
She pricked her finger. Touched it to the staff.
The staffmoved. It slammed into her hand, ripping itself from the hand of Old Mother of Winter Trees. The full moon dipped below the horizon in a final flash of silver light.
All that witnessed the Choosing of the Staff drew shocked breaths.
When the sound quieted, Old Mother of Winter Trees said, “You wear the Moon-Blood garment. And you wear the white of change and grief. Tell your story.”
“I was Blossom of the Crocus. I bore two daughters with my mate, Kills the Great Seal. He died of a fever and I gave mydaughters to my sister to raise and turned from the life of the Womb to the life of the Hunt.”
Shouts came from down the hill to speak louder. The woman shook her head. She had no great voice. Wise with Herbs shouted her words to the dawn winds, sharing her story.
The woman continued. “I became She Who Loves the Moon. For two hands of years, I hunted with my new partner, Moon Hunter, at my side. She died in the hunt at the last gather, when the great boar attacked her and tore her open. Her life blood was sacrificed to the land and all my soul bled onto the ground with her. And she died.”
The new Old Mother of the Womb raised her head, tears leaving trails in the chalk on her face, carving through the hematite like trails of blood. “I killed the boar with my own spear. As it died, it gored my leg and the wounds are now forever with me—the wound of my heart and the wound of my leg and the end of my time as hunter. I may not hunt . . .” She took a breath that shuddered with tears. “The hunters tell of the Hunt of the Great Boar and the Death of Moon Hunter. It is a great tale of valor and blood.
“Now I am nameless.” She raised her face to the moonless sky and howled, “I can no longer hunt. I do not desire to lie with another and birth more daughters.” She looked at the staff in her hand, bloody and sticky with the blood of all the tribes. Her face drew down hard as the import steeped into her. “My Ceremony of Change showed no new path. But tonight I understand. My path is the path of war. My previous oaths no longer bind me.”
“The staff has chosen you,” the former Old Mother of Winter Trees said. “You will carry me to my tree and place me there among the roots. You will bury my staff in the outermost parts of the Womb Passage. Each morning after I am beneath my tree, you will walk among the trees. The trees will give a staff to you. The tree that speaks its gift will be your tree from that dayforward. Upon that day, you will enter the Passage of the Womb Circle and take your place there. You will lead the People of the Trees.”
“She will lead the People of the Trees,” the Women of the Womb murmured.
“What will your name be?” Old Mother asked.
“I will be Old Mother of the Blood of Women and the Blood of War.”
“It is a name fitting to your story. Take my staff now. Bury it at the opening, so that it is the first staff seen when any enter the most sacred place. Then carry me to my tree, for I am old and worn and my heart beats its last. My tree calls me.” She fell to her knees. Her breath was short and harsh. She coughed and blood came once more to her lips.
Old Mother of the Blood of Women and the Blood of War turned to the women who served. “Take me to the Passage.”
Silent, grieving, the three of them led the way to the opening of the Passage. The sounds of digging and grunting followed. No one among the gathered moved. No one spoke. All waited.
Old Mother, once called Old Mother of Winter Trees, coughed and gagged and spilled her blood upon the earth. Leaves unfurled in the vines of her head, rustled, took on the brightness of autumn, wrinkled, went brown, and fell upon the ground.
