The smoke rose up from the small iron fire-pot, pale and fragrant. I had brought other herbs as well, but I knew that for the Tuscarora, for the Cherokee, and for the Mohawk, sage was holy, the smoke of it cleansing. I rubbed juniper needles between my hands into the fire, and followed them with rue, called herb-of-grace, and rosemary—that’s for remembrance, after all.
Funeral
