The Knife Wearer

This morning we found ourselves skinning a deer, cutting meat, hanging some to dry and packaging some for the freezer. It was the dogs late last night that set off a howling, the unexpected smell of fresh blood floating down the block, then a familiar car horn honking in the driveway. My nephew and his friends were hunting and brought us a deer. Mother always said, “Cut up the meat right away, don’t let it sit.” I look at a front quarter, a hole filled with coagulated blood. Grandma says not to eat the part next to the wound, “Cut it out; offer it to the earth for healing, a sacrifice to remember the hungering spirits.” Auntie says to save the muscle along the back strap, “It makes good thread.” I carefully learned the exact place to cut the joints so the bones separate easily. Mother said that is important—“It means you are a thoughtful person.” Auntie is at the door waiting for a roast. “An elder takes the first piece,” she reminded. Mom tells me to save the hooves for her. She wants to make a bone game for the new grandchild, wants him to be patient and skillful. I boil the hoofs with sage, find the little toe-bones for her. My hands begin to ache from the work, I soak them in warm water and start again. I admire the placement of tendons on the deer shoulders, no joints, just the crisscrossing of muscle. Grandma says, “That’s why your dad called them jumpers, they bounce off the strength of their flexing muscles.” Late at night Mom helps me stake out the hide. My back hurts; my feet feel like I’ve been walking on rocks all day. I want to complain, but Mom catches the look in my eyes. She says to me, “When you get dressed for the dance this weekend, you will proudly wear your beautiful beaded dress, your beaded leggings and moccasins, and last, but not least, you will put on your beaded belt, and attached you will wear your sharp knife and quilled knife sheath because of what you have done this day.”