Darkness. Labored breathing fills the lodge. Cold autumn winds sweep through the door, but I can see by the embers in the center that they are all sweating. Nothing more that I can do here. I have offered my prayers to Lone Man, but none have improved. I move on to the next lodge. The same fetid smell greets me; the same sweaty sleepers lie here. I move on.
The morning comes from far away over the hills. As each pock-marked man and woman comes out, I mark in my mind which do not. Much of the village has already gotten the fearsome disease in only a week. My people are fearful, what can they possibly have done to deserve this? They question my power. Some have run away in the night, and it is difficult to keep those who have not to help heal the sick. Today we have seven less to care for, though, if my memory is right.
Two weeks pass, and there is no order left. Some of my strongest warriors have not waited for the disease to kill. They have killed themselves immediately after they sickened. There are not enough people left to properly attend to the dead. The only people left are those who are too weak to leave and those who still trust and have faith in me. They are not many.
Fear. That is all I can see in the faces of the people. Though they have not eaten, they are not hungry. Though they have not drunk, they are not thirsty.
They are afraid.
Today was a good day: only twenty-three new dead.
Fear. I am getting weak, the red spots have come for me. Lone Man has only saved three from the terrible sickness. Fear. Only three survivors for the hundreds who have died. The village is lonely, empty.
Fear. The red spots do not go away. Restless, sleepless, I lie on the floor. It is mid-winter now. I shiver from the cold, but still I am sweating. Fear. Thousands have died, I can tell death is near for me also. Eight survivors now. The red spots cover me, they itch, they hurt. Open wounds from my scratching are everywhere: on my chest, my legs, my arms, my neck, my back, my face. Fear. They call me, beg me to come back. They plead to me: “Maka Eyota, help us!”
But I am not Maka Eyota anymore. I am weak, I am afraid. They say, “Maka Eyota, a white healer has come. He wants to talk with you, Maka Eyota. Please!”
But they are not talking to me. I am not Maka Eyota anymore.
Fear. Everywhere, fear. There is no escape. Fear.
Finally, I slip into sleep, but I doubt it will last.
I am the first spirit of Maka Eyota, meaning Great Earth in the Mandan language, and that is my story. When the village was first exposed to smallpox, about fifty people survived. More than a hundred times that number died within months, including me.
