Excerpt
from Water Witch
by Deborah LeBlanc
Water Witch
Skin and thin layers of fat slipped away from bone, the flames
licking across the scaffolding that held his father's body, and Olm
hoped the wooden beams would hold until the ritual was completed. So
much work had gone into making this happen. He'd cut thick cypress
branches to just the right length, soaked them in water, hoisted the
weighted logs by himself into a wobbly skiff, then transported them
through the dead of too many nights. Through sloughs and flats clotted
with water lilies that eventually led to a u-shaped, ten-acre knoll in
the farthest corner of the Atchafalaya swamp, far away from prying
eyes. Although it had been difficult to lift, hammer, and construct the
burial shelf without any help, Olm's greatest challenge had been to
steal his father's body from Sasaint's Funeral Home before it was
embalmed, and to do it without getting caught. The struggle and hard
work had been worth it, though, for now that everything was in place,
Olm's life could truly begin.
Although this wasn't the traditional Pawnee burial his father had requested before he died, it was the fastest way for Olm to be rid of the body, which he needed to do if he was to follow through with a crucial, albeit extinct, Pawnee custom. One his father never embraced.
As legend had it, in order for a son to acquire the knowledge of all
the leaders in his ancestral line, he had to offer his father's body to
the elements at the time of his passing. When only bleached bones
remained, the father's spirit would then be released, and all a son had
to do was call upon what was rightfully his. To Olm, acquiring that
knowledge meant ultimate power. For surely in the roll call of his
ancestors, there had to have been medicine men, chiefs, warriors, and
mighty hunters, those whose dance offerings and sacrifices, human and
animal, changed weather patterns, and produced bountiful harvests. Olm
had no intention of planting anything. He figured the same wisdom that
created abundance in fields and swamps throughout past generations
would adapt and supply the needs of a leader in the twenty-first
century. Waiting for his father's bones to bleach might take weeks,
though, even in the ruthless Louisiana heat.
He'd already spent thirty-seven years waiting for this moment, and Olm didn't want to wait a second longer than was necessary. Since his father was only one-third Pawnee, and from the Skidi tribe, Olm didn't think the alterations he'd made in the burial custom would make a difference. As far as he was concerned, he'd followed more than half the custom by bringing his father's body to the swamp and building the burial shelf. How the bones were exposed shouldn't matter.
Copyright 2008 Deborah LeBlanc