For generations, the landscape remembered. The wild roses that sprouted in strawberry time came no color but red in memory of the loss and sacrifice. For years, the ghosts of the warriors showed themselves at their old battleground at the end of the occasional day. The sounds of their cries may have troubled the nights for centuries. The effect may linger today in reports of mysterious lights, likely witch lights, at dusk in Mourning Kill.
A story like this teaches us to understand the Native American reverence for human remains. They believe the spirit has some connection still to the body, possibly one too profound for human philosophy. In this case, though, the returning dead person is less ghost or spirit and more of what’s called a revenant: They’re back—in the flesh.
In the old days, the Iroquois often wrapped their dead in skins and left them above the ground in trees or on open scaffolds. This way the natural processes could do their work in the clear air and give back to nature what it had put together.
The Specter Wife
(Seneca Country, Western New York)
A young hunter had a pretty wife to whom he was much attached. She sickened and died within days, leaving him and his young daughter. Even after the accustomed ten-day mourning period of the Death Feast, the husband was beside himself. He wandered about the village aimlessly, sitting by himself, crying and muttering, their sad little girl in tow. He recovered enough to join the rest of the men for the huntingseason. He left his daughter in their home, telling her that her mother’s spirit would look out for her.
In a few days, he came back and was surprised to find the fire already made and his daughter looking happy. He wondered about this, but the girl was too young to talk. The next day when he came home, the fire was made as before. Furthermore, his daughter’s hair was combed and her face was clean as if a mother were caring for her. The next day he came home a bit early and found the fire made, the girl groomed, and the meal started. The man wondered if the Great Spirit had taken pity on him.
He came home still earlier the next day and caught a glimpse of his wife’s dress darting around the lodge as if she had just left their home. He pursued it, but saw nothing.
The next day he rejoiced to himself, hardly able to think about his hunting, sure that the Great Spirit was returning his wife to him. Sure enough, when he came home that day he found the meal almost ready to serve and his wife at her appointed tasks. He could hardly believe it. He rushed to embrace her, but she stopped him with a gesture.
“It’s true that I’ve returned. I’ve been coming back to our daughter all along. I loved you both so much that I couldn’t rest in the other world. I’ll stay with you and care for you both, but I’m still one with the spirits. You must never try to touch me in any way.”
The young man was overjoyed to have her in any capacity, and the family spent many a month together. At the end of the hunting season, though, the small family was sharing a meal when the mother cut loose with a scream. “My burial place has caught fire!” she said, horror in her eyes. “I have to go. I love you both, and I will see you on the other side!” And she vanished.
The hunter ran madly through the woods to his wife’s scaffold and saw indeed that it had caught fire. Her body was almost entirely consumed. It might have been the work of lightning. That was the beginning of the time that the Iroquois started to bury their dead. It’s from events like these that societies like the Chanters for the Dead originated, intended to ease the earthbound spirits.
The Old Chief’s Grave
(Onondaga Country, Skaneateles Lake)
It was the fall of 1696. Frontenac’s massive army had landed near Onondaga Lake and was on its way to the Onondaga Castle. The huge force had guns and cannon. Open battle was pointless. Even a traditional Iroquois ambush was a poor idea. These invaders had Native allies serving as their own keen scouts.
The Onondaga leaders called their century-old chief to the council fire. His name Thurensera was said to mean “dawn of the light.” No one watching him on a litter would guess how agile he’d been in his youth.
“Not until you join with the other Longhouse nations can you fight this force,” he said. “But the invaders must learn a lesson. I will stay to show them how an Onondaga can die.” The whole camp took a breath. Thurensera would be tortured and killed.
The old chief told them how he wanted to be buried: with his pipe, his canoe, his tomahawk, and his bow, on a hill overlooking Skaneateles Lake. When they returned, they would find his bones, doubtless by the torture stake. He made his good-byes, declaring them the last words he would speak. Then he took a Zen-style pose, faced the direction from which the invaders were expected, and waited for an army alone. His people fired their homes, loaded their belongings, and filed by him with their last words.
All that Thurensera foretold came to pass. His burial, too, went as planned. Today, Skaneateles Lake, including any of a dozen potential gravesites, is a region of paranormal allure.
