We supped on pemmican, just as I had done countless times when I was no older than Eagle or Bear. It was good and comfortable. After scouring the eating tins with sand and rinsing them with water from a canteen, we settled down around a small fire. Too restless to go to their blankets, the boys demanded a story. Both were still in loincloths; they had put off becoming John and Matthew until the morrow.
After weakly protesting the old stories should be recited around a winter campfire, I surrendered and told them of Inyan, the creator of the universe. I spoke of Maka, Mother Earth, whose blood is molten stone, and of Skan, the sky, made of steam and clouds from Earth’s cooling blood when it erupted into open wounds upon her breast. Together, they created the water cycle.
I described Tate,
