OPEN
Please PM me beforehand about anything NSFW.
The Interim
It has been a day since the burning, and they are still recovering bodies.
It takes three of the clan’s strongest warriors to lift the timber off Mother. The fire has not touched her like it has others – her skin is marked only by soot, the air having scorched her lungs.
Ratonhnhaké:ton stands rooted to the spot, his feet leaden and mind blank. It is only when she falls limp in their arms that he collapses to his knees.
It has been a year since the burning, and they have finished rebuilding.
Their longhouse has been removed, and Kanen’tó:kon’s family has taken him in. They whisper about him when they think he is not listening – of his father, of his mother, how best to let him cope.
Nothing ever comes of it.
It has been four years since the burning, and the forest becomes a refuge for him once more.
It is where he can gather his thoughts as he climbs through the treetops and runs along the branches, away from the others. He begins to carry a knife, ostensibly for animals, but he is constantly on the lookout for the men beyond the valley that came here on that day so long ago.
It has been seven years since the burning, and it is the winter of his first hunt.
He stalks the deer as instructed by the warriors, his every footstep silent in the snow, his breath fogging in the early morning mist.
Except when he draws back his bow and aims, he murmurs “nia:wen”, and the deer bolts before he can loose his arrow.
It is only the first of many lessons.
It has been ten years since the burning, and Clan Mother is already in talks with many other clans to send him away to be married. He is an attractive prospect – lean, agile, an excellent hunter and fighter, and of striking features.
But he has no interest in any of these things. There is something burning in him, a desire for him, for them, to do something about those beyond the valley. The reminder that they are the valley’s protectors falls upon stubborn ears – all the more reason, he says, for them to venture beyond it, that they might foil the plots of those attempting to seize it.
He is pushing her towards her wit’s end. She can only hope that his brashness is not the equal of his stubbornness.
It takes three of the clan’s strongest warriors to lift the timber off Mother. The fire has not touched her like it has others – her skin is marked only by soot, the air having scorched her lungs.
Ratonhnhaké:ton stands rooted to the spot, his feet leaden and mind blank. It is only when she falls limp in their arms that he collapses to his knees.
It has been a year since the burning, and they have finished rebuilding.
Their longhouse has been removed, and Kanen’tó:kon’s family has taken him in. They whisper about him when they think he is not listening – of his father, of his mother, how best to let him cope.
Nothing ever comes of it.
It has been four years since the burning, and the forest becomes a refuge for him once more.
It is where he can gather his thoughts as he climbs through the treetops and runs along the branches, away from the others. He begins to carry a knife, ostensibly for animals, but he is constantly on the lookout for the men beyond the valley that came here on that day so long ago.
It has been seven years since the burning, and it is the winter of his first hunt.
He stalks the deer as instructed by the warriors, his every footstep silent in the snow, his breath fogging in the early morning mist.
Except when he draws back his bow and aims, he murmurs “nia:wen”, and the deer bolts before he can loose his arrow.
It is only the first of many lessons.
It has been ten years since the burning, and Clan Mother is already in talks with many other clans to send him away to be married. He is an attractive prospect – lean, agile, an excellent hunter and fighter, and of striking features.
But he has no interest in any of these things. There is something burning in him, a desire for him, for them, to do something about those beyond the valley. The reminder that they are the valley’s protectors falls upon stubborn ears – all the more reason, he says, for them to venture beyond it, that they might foil the plots of those attempting to seize it.
He is pushing her towards her wit’s end. She can only hope that his brashness is not the equal of his stubbornness.
The Garage
The garage is quiet, save for the occasional clatter as Asami works on a giant metal beast of her choosing. She speaks to him when she can, tries to engage him in conversation, but all his words are gone and the ones she offers are muffled, distorted. The translation field lets him hear ista from her lips, and he remembers how the smoke burned his throat, how the ash tasted on his tongue.
She stops her work, crouches down, and rests a hand on his shoulder, her eyes sad and her words sympathetic. But he has nothing to say, and so she searches his eyes for a moment before shaking her head and resuming work on the beast.
Yet even now he is restless, his mind fixed on the flames.
He remembers, in the Bar. There is a pit built into the wall, and the fire in there goes on and on and never stops.
And so, as though it is not of his volition, he stands and pads away, his moccasins soundless on the concrete.
When Asami next looks up, he is already gone.
She stops her work, crouches down, and rests a hand on his shoulder, her eyes sad and her words sympathetic. But he has nothing to say, and so she searches his eyes for a moment before shaking her head and resuming work on the beast.
Yet even now he is restless, his mind fixed on the flames.
He remembers, in the Bar. There is a pit built into the wall, and the fire in there goes on and on and never stops.
And so, as though it is not of his volition, he stands and pads away, his moccasins soundless on the concrete.
When Asami next looks up, he is already gone.
The Burning
When he comes to, it is dark, and a haze has taken over the forest, thick and gray. The world is still a blur, and he holds his forehead as he gets to his feet – blood trickles down from a gash, and he wipes it off onto his arm. A deer bounds past him as he stumbles down the hill, and the haze suddenly takes on a stench, acrid and ashy.
Smoke – from down the valley.
He straightens and runs, unable to stop the stumbles that come from his concussion and not caring that he can’t – he has to get down there, has to check on Mother.
A part of him grows louder with each step, a part that says it’s already too late.
Everything is alight.
Flames lick at the palisades, longhouses crack and collapse in the heat, and smoke blackens the air.
The stars are nowhere to be seen.
His legs are pumping of their own accord, racing from longhouse to longhouse, dashing past those who are racing for the safety of the forest.
“Mother!”
The smoke fills his throat and waters his eyes, and he coughs, holding his arm over his mouth, but he does not slacken. He grabs at the leggings of someone passing by.
“Have you seen my mother?”
They shout something in reply and grab his shoulder, but he bats their hand away and races deeper into the inferno. With each step, the flames are hotter, the smoke more dense, and still he presses on.
He finds her in a longhouse near the center of the village, trapped under debris. She urges him to leave her, to escape while he still can, but he refuses, trying to heave the logs off her to no avail. The flames creep closer, the wood crackling and breaking under them, and the smoke grows denser, turning his breaths into hacking coughs.
It is too late.
She takes off her necklace, reaching through the debris to press it into his hands as she looks into his eyes.
“[You must be strong, Ratonhnhaké:ton,]” she rasps. “[You must be brave.]”
(“[Stop it, stop it!]” he yells, face scrunching up even as his hands encase the piece in a death grip.)
“[You will think yourself alone,]” she says. “[But know that I will be at your side.]”
Her eyes tilt upward to look at the timber stored in the rafters above her – flames are licking at the supports, and soon it will collapse.
“[Always and forever.]”
His tears blur his vision, and time slows as her face is seared into his memory.
Bloodied forehead.
Ashen cheeks.
Eyes trying not to show her fear.
And then he is grabbed around his waist, sweeping him off his feet as he is taken away, his limbs flailing as he screams in protest.
(“No, stop!”)
He can do it, he can get her out, he can-
(“Let me go!”)
She becomes smaller and smaller, the longhouse becoming further and further away as he continues to flail in his rescuer’s grip, using every ounce of breath he can.
(“LET ME SAVE HER!”)
One final plea.
The longhouse collapses, and there is only flame and timber.
The burning of Kanatahséton would be told of for generations to come. The Kanien'kehá:ka would remember how their crops perished, how their longhouses charred and crumpled under the vicious flames, how the smoke choked those who could not escape in time. Some things were lost and gained with each retelling, but what was never omitted was how little Ratonhnhaké:ton called for Kaniehtí:io long into the night, shouting himself hoarse as he tried to fight off those who would keep him from running back into the flames.
The stories would never again mention little Ratonhnhaké:ton.
Perhaps it was for the best.
Smoke – from down the valley.
He straightens and runs, unable to stop the stumbles that come from his concussion and not caring that he can’t – he has to get down there, has to check on Mother.
A part of him grows louder with each step, a part that says it’s already too late.
Everything is alight.
Flames lick at the palisades, longhouses crack and collapse in the heat, and smoke blackens the air.
The stars are nowhere to be seen.
His legs are pumping of their own accord, racing from longhouse to longhouse, dashing past those who are racing for the safety of the forest.
“Mother!”
The smoke fills his throat and waters his eyes, and he coughs, holding his arm over his mouth, but he does not slacken. He grabs at the leggings of someone passing by.
“Have you seen my mother?”
They shout something in reply and grab his shoulder, but he bats their hand away and races deeper into the inferno. With each step, the flames are hotter, the smoke more dense, and still he presses on.
He finds her in a longhouse near the center of the village, trapped under debris. She urges him to leave her, to escape while he still can, but he refuses, trying to heave the logs off her to no avail. The flames creep closer, the wood crackling and breaking under them, and the smoke grows denser, turning his breaths into hacking coughs.
It is too late.
She takes off her necklace, reaching through the debris to press it into his hands as she looks into his eyes.
“[You must be strong, Ratonhnhaké:ton,]” she rasps. “[You must be brave.]”
(“[Stop it, stop it!]” he yells, face scrunching up even as his hands encase the piece in a death grip.)
“[You will think yourself alone,]” she says. “[But know that I will be at your side.]”
Her eyes tilt upward to look at the timber stored in the rafters above her – flames are licking at the supports, and soon it will collapse.
“[Always and forever.]”
His tears blur his vision, and time slows as her face is seared into his memory.
Bloodied forehead.
Ashen cheeks.
Eyes trying not to show her fear.
And then he is grabbed around his waist, sweeping him off his feet as he is taken away, his limbs flailing as he screams in protest.
(“No, stop!”)
He can do it, he can get her out, he can-
(“Let me go!”)
She becomes smaller and smaller, the longhouse becoming further and further away as he continues to flail in his rescuer’s grip, using every ounce of breath he can.
(“LET ME SAVE HER!”)
One final plea.
The longhouse collapses, and there is only flame and timber.
The burning of Kanatahséton would be told of for generations to come. The Kanien'kehá:ka would remember how their crops perished, how their longhouses charred and crumpled under the vicious flames, how the smoke choked those who could not escape in time. Some things were lost and gained with each retelling, but what was never omitted was how little Ratonhnhaké:ton called for Kaniehtí:io long into the night, shouting himself hoarse as he tried to fight off those who would keep him from running back into the flames.
The stories would never again mention little Ratonhnhaké:ton.
Perhaps it was for the best.
The Men
It’s quiet here, in the undergrowth. The autumn air, cool and thick, settles upon the foliage, and birdsong comes from somewhere up above him. The other children’s voices went off the other way some time ago – no doubt searching the gauntlet of Ratonhnhaké:ton’s usual hiding places. They’ll not think to look in the leaf piles for quite some time. Mother will be upset, perhaps, if they have to call the warriors out to look for him again, but there is no need – it is light yet.
He stays still, and allows himself a smile.
Suddenly, to his side – footsteps, heavy and plodding, and then, as he turns, a pale hand shoots into the leaf pile, tossing him out onto his side. The impact knocks the breath from his lungs, and he grunts, getting to his hands and knees.
When he looks up, he is staring down the length of a spear, long and hollowed in the middle, with a piece of flint at its end and a blade inches from his cheek.
The man holding it is stout, round in the middle and chubby in the cheeks. His eyes are small, narrowed things, unkind and full of scorn.
“What have we here?”
He scrambles to his feet, running down the hill – he has to warn Mother, has to warn the village–
- except a foot shoots out from nowhere, tripping him and sending him tumbling downhill to rest against a rock.
His breaths come quickly, now, and he strains to listen as he stills himself. The men from beyond the valley – they’re here. More than one of them – beyond that, he’s not sure.
More footsteps, coming closer. A clammy hand touches his shoulder, rolling him over onto his back to face another one of them. This one is different, younger – his hair is black and wild, and a bush sits atop his upper lip. He squints.
“You look…familiar. Where have I seen you before?”
Ratonhnhaké:ton clenches his fists, puckers his lips, and spits – the saliva splatters onto the man’s cheek, and he flinches for a moment, holding a hand to the glob.
He locks eyes with Ratonhnhaké:ton. They are narrow with fury, and his mouth is set in a hard line.
“That wasn’t very nice.”
He lunges out, seizing Ratonhnhaké:ton by the arm and dragging him across the forest floor. His grip is strong and unyielding, no matter how Ratonhnhaké:ton flails.
“Let me go!” he shouts, trying to tug his arm out of the man’s grasp – the others laugh.
“Listen to that! He knows English!” one says.
“Smart for a savage,” another remarks.
“Spirited, too!”
The man picks him up, slamming him against a tree, and his hands go to Ratonhnhaké:ton’s throat, fingers wrapping around his neck like tightly wound twine.
“We have questions for your elders.”
He tries to squirm, tries to gasp for air, but his feet kick uselessly at thin air as the man holds him against the tree.
“Only tell us where your village is, boy, and you can go.”
One of the others – an older man in red, his forehead high and jaw hairy – steps in closer. “Best do as he asks, child.”
The man holding him leans in closer, his breath hot and foul on Ratonhnhaké:ton’s skin. “I could snap your neck, you know,” he rasps. “A little more pressure, and pop. The sad little flame of your life, extinguished.”
Memories flash before his eyes – his first spring in the valley, the first time he saw the full moon over the lake, its light glistening across the water – the Bar, Miss Kate and her peaches.
The man’s grip grows tighter, and he wishes he told Mother he loved her.
“You are a nothing. A speck of dust. You – and all your ilk. Living in the dirt like animals, oblivious to the true ways of the world. The wiser among you recognize the shape of the future. They throw themselves at our feet and beg mercy.”
The man’s grip grows tighter still, and spots flash across his eyes. His gasps go higher and higher in pitch as his throat narrows, and he thrashes harder against the tree, desperate to find purchase.
“But not you, it seems. No – you cling desperately to your old ways. Too ignorant to know your folly.”
The man’s grip is crushing, now. He closes his eyes, and hopes what Clan Mother says about death is true.
“But I am not unkind.”
The man releases his grip, and Ratonhnhaké:ton drops to the ground, rubbing his throat as the man turns his back to him.
“And so I spare you,” the man says, “that you may carry word to your people. Let them know the sooner we are given what we seek, the sooner you can return to your pathetic, empty lives.” The man looks over his shoulder. “A fair trade, is it not?”
He looks up, glancing from man to man, memorizing their faces. One of them – the youngest of them all, it would appear – has a narrow jaw, small and beady eyes, and a three-cornered cover on his head.
He grunts, rubbing his throat as he looks up at the leader. “What – is your name?”
The man leans down, putting his hands on his knees and issuing a deep chuckle. “Charles Lee. Why do you ask?”
Ratonhnhaké:ton narrows his eyes.
“So I can find you.”
The man straightens, looks to the others, and laughs.
“I look forward to it.”
The man in red slams the butt of his spear against Ratonhnhaké:ton’s forehead, and everything goes dark.
He stays still, and allows himself a smile.
Suddenly, to his side – footsteps, heavy and plodding, and then, as he turns, a pale hand shoots into the leaf pile, tossing him out onto his side. The impact knocks the breath from his lungs, and he grunts, getting to his hands and knees.
When he looks up, he is staring down the length of a spear, long and hollowed in the middle, with a piece of flint at its end and a blade inches from his cheek.
The man holding it is stout, round in the middle and chubby in the cheeks. His eyes are small, narrowed things, unkind and full of scorn.
“What have we here?”
He scrambles to his feet, running down the hill – he has to warn Mother, has to warn the village–
- except a foot shoots out from nowhere, tripping him and sending him tumbling downhill to rest against a rock.
His breaths come quickly, now, and he strains to listen as he stills himself. The men from beyond the valley – they’re here. More than one of them – beyond that, he’s not sure.
More footsteps, coming closer. A clammy hand touches his shoulder, rolling him over onto his back to face another one of them. This one is different, younger – his hair is black and wild, and a bush sits atop his upper lip. He squints.
“You look…familiar. Where have I seen you before?”
Ratonhnhaké:ton clenches his fists, puckers his lips, and spits – the saliva splatters onto the man’s cheek, and he flinches for a moment, holding a hand to the glob.
He locks eyes with Ratonhnhaké:ton. They are narrow with fury, and his mouth is set in a hard line.
“That wasn’t very nice.”
He lunges out, seizing Ratonhnhaké:ton by the arm and dragging him across the forest floor. His grip is strong and unyielding, no matter how Ratonhnhaké:ton flails.
“Let me go!” he shouts, trying to tug his arm out of the man’s grasp – the others laugh.
“Listen to that! He knows English!” one says.
“Smart for a savage,” another remarks.
“Spirited, too!”
The man picks him up, slamming him against a tree, and his hands go to Ratonhnhaké:ton’s throat, fingers wrapping around his neck like tightly wound twine.
“We have questions for your elders.”
He tries to squirm, tries to gasp for air, but his feet kick uselessly at thin air as the man holds him against the tree.
“Only tell us where your village is, boy, and you can go.”
One of the others – an older man in red, his forehead high and jaw hairy – steps in closer. “Best do as he asks, child.”
The man holding him leans in closer, his breath hot and foul on Ratonhnhaké:ton’s skin. “I could snap your neck, you know,” he rasps. “A little more pressure, and pop. The sad little flame of your life, extinguished.”
Memories flash before his eyes – his first spring in the valley, the first time he saw the full moon over the lake, its light glistening across the water – the Bar, Miss Kate and her peaches.
The man’s grip grows tighter, and he wishes he told Mother he loved her.
“You are a nothing. A speck of dust. You – and all your ilk. Living in the dirt like animals, oblivious to the true ways of the world. The wiser among you recognize the shape of the future. They throw themselves at our feet and beg mercy.”
The man’s grip grows tighter still, and spots flash across his eyes. His gasps go higher and higher in pitch as his throat narrows, and he thrashes harder against the tree, desperate to find purchase.
“But not you, it seems. No – you cling desperately to your old ways. Too ignorant to know your folly.”
The man’s grip is crushing, now. He closes his eyes, and hopes what Clan Mother says about death is true.
“But I am not unkind.”
The man releases his grip, and Ratonhnhaké:ton drops to the ground, rubbing his throat as the man turns his back to him.
“And so I spare you,” the man says, “that you may carry word to your people. Let them know the sooner we are given what we seek, the sooner you can return to your pathetic, empty lives.” The man looks over his shoulder. “A fair trade, is it not?”
He looks up, glancing from man to man, memorizing their faces. One of them – the youngest of them all, it would appear – has a narrow jaw, small and beady eyes, and a three-cornered cover on his head.
He grunts, rubbing his throat as he looks up at the leader. “What – is your name?”
The man leans down, putting his hands on his knees and issuing a deep chuckle. “Charles Lee. Why do you ask?”
Ratonhnhaké:ton narrows his eyes.
“So I can find you.”
The man straightens, looks to the others, and laughs.
“I look forward to it.”
The man in red slams the butt of his spear against Ratonhnhaké:ton’s forehead, and everything goes dark.
The Game
Either the book really is that interesting, or Mother really is that quiet – he doesn’t know which, but suddenly he gets a sense of her presence behind him in the longhouse. Quickly, he drops the tome, turning around to face her as he pushes it away with his foot. It’s not discreet enough – her eyes follow it, mouth set in a hard line.
“[Good morning, Mother.]”
His attempt at a cheerful tone turns it into sing-song – either way, she does not react.
“[Hm. And what are you up to?]”
He blinks, glancing behind her as he twiddles his thumbs.
“[Nothing. I, uh…I was only-]”
It’s Kanen'tó:kon who saves him this time. “[Ratonhnhakeé:ton, come play with us! The others have gone hunting and we’re bored.]”
He looks to Mother, a pleading look in his eyes – and she sighs, acquiescing.
“[Go on. But do not venture beyond the valley.]”
And that, he thinks as he jogs away, joining the others, is plenty big a boundary.
“[Good morning, Mother.]”
His attempt at a cheerful tone turns it into sing-song – either way, she does not react.
“[Hm. And what are you up to?]”
He blinks, glancing behind her as he twiddles his thumbs.
“[Nothing. I, uh…I was only-]”
It’s Kanen'tó:kon who saves him this time. “[Ratonhnhakeé:ton, come play with us! The others have gone hunting and we’re bored.]”
He looks to Mother, a pleading look in his eyes – and she sighs, acquiescing.
“[Go on. But do not venture beyond the valley.]”
And that, he thinks as he jogs away, joining the others, is plenty big a boundary.
The Night
He hears her, sometimes.
Late at night, when she thinks he’s asleep in their longhouse, his mother will stamp and shout with Clan Mother, words flying off her tongue like so many daggers. The meaning of some of them escapes him, but he is no fool. To Clan Mother, their people’s neutrality is non-negotiable – that the land they are on, the land they have sworn to protect, must never see them fall to the strife and grief of war. To his own, Clan Mother is a fool, one that is only giving the men from beyond the valley more time to refine their machinations. More words roll off her tongue – Lancaster, Logstown, Easton – and just as their argument threatens to wake the whole village, his mother will exit Clan Mother’s longhouse in a huff, hands clenched into fists and muttering things under her breath.
(One day, he asks Kanen'tó:kon about the meaning of some of those things, and his friend’s eyes go wide and his mouth forms an O, and that, Ratonhnhaké:ton thinks, is all he needs to know.)
Except tonight, she is a little too fast coming back to their longhouse, and he is a little too slow dashing away from the opening and settling down onto the bedroll.
“Ratonhnhaké:ton?”
He freezes, not daring even to blink. Moonlight seeps through the roof, reflecting off his pupils, and Kaniehtí:io takes a step forward, crouching down to run her fingers through his hair.
“[Did I wake you?]”
Slowly, he regains his nerve and shakes his head. “[I was listening.]”
She sighs, letting the pad of her thumb trace over his cheek. “[You know you shouldn’t do that.]”
“[I can’t help it,]” he protests. “[You’re loud.]”
“[I suppose I am,]” she concedes. “[But that doesn’t mean you should listen in.]”
He huffs, but relents.
“[Why don’t you go to sleep?]” she suggests. “[We can talk about it in the morning.]”
“[I can’t sleep.]”
“[You can’t sleep?]” she repeats, stilling her fingers. He nods.
“[How about a song? Would that help?]”
He nods again, his lips curling into a smile. For a moment, he thinks he sees Mother share it before she starts, the words quietly curling around him as she sings, just loud enough to be heard over the lap of the basinwater on the shore and the crickets chirping in the brush and the midsummer night wind whispering through the village.
The words are like magic, and as she sings, his eyelids become heavier and heavier until they finally droop closed, his arms and legs curled by his side. His breathing is soft, but regular. Satisfied, Kaniehtí:io withdraws her hand from his hair, pulling a blanket over his small frame.
“[Sleep well, my son.]”
She rests the back of one hand on his cheek, smiling despite herself.
“[I love you.]”
Late at night, when she thinks he’s asleep in their longhouse, his mother will stamp and shout with Clan Mother, words flying off her tongue like so many daggers. The meaning of some of them escapes him, but he is no fool. To Clan Mother, their people’s neutrality is non-negotiable – that the land they are on, the land they have sworn to protect, must never see them fall to the strife and grief of war. To his own, Clan Mother is a fool, one that is only giving the men from beyond the valley more time to refine their machinations. More words roll off her tongue – Lancaster, Logstown, Easton – and just as their argument threatens to wake the whole village, his mother will exit Clan Mother’s longhouse in a huff, hands clenched into fists and muttering things under her breath.
(One day, he asks Kanen'tó:kon about the meaning of some of those things, and his friend’s eyes go wide and his mouth forms an O, and that, Ratonhnhaké:ton thinks, is all he needs to know.)
Except tonight, she is a little too fast coming back to their longhouse, and he is a little too slow dashing away from the opening and settling down onto the bedroll.
“Ratonhnhaké:ton?”
He freezes, not daring even to blink. Moonlight seeps through the roof, reflecting off his pupils, and Kaniehtí:io takes a step forward, crouching down to run her fingers through his hair.
“[Did I wake you?]”
Slowly, he regains his nerve and shakes his head. “[I was listening.]”
She sighs, letting the pad of her thumb trace over his cheek. “[You know you shouldn’t do that.]”
“[I can’t help it,]” he protests. “[You’re loud.]”
“[I suppose I am,]” she concedes. “[But that doesn’t mean you should listen in.]”
He huffs, but relents.
“[Why don’t you go to sleep?]” she suggests. “[We can talk about it in the morning.]”
“[I can’t sleep.]”
“[You can’t sleep?]” she repeats, stilling her fingers. He nods.
“[How about a song? Would that help?]”
He nods again, his lips curling into a smile. For a moment, he thinks he sees Mother share it before she starts, the words quietly curling around him as she sings, just loud enough to be heard over the lap of the basinwater on the shore and the crickets chirping in the brush and the midsummer night wind whispering through the village.
Ho, ho, watanay
Ho, ho, watanay
Ho, ho, watanay
Ki-yo-ki-na
Ki-yo-ki-na
Ho, ho, watanay
Ho, ho, watanay
Ki-yo-ki-na
Ki-yo-ki-na
The words are like magic, and as she sings, his eyelids become heavier and heavier until they finally droop closed, his arms and legs curled by his side. His breathing is soft, but regular. Satisfied, Kaniehtí:io withdraws her hand from his hair, pulling a blanket over his small frame.
“[Sleep well, my son.]”
She rests the back of one hand on his cheek, smiling despite herself.
“[I love you.]”