The stockade's defenders didn't see much more of the invaders that day. The braves were busy outside Kato Town's far fringe, preparing to send the spirits of their dead to a place of beauty.
The rituals differed between the tribes, so the three principal chiefs had counseled with their principal pastors and spirit talkers. Then the braves of the three tribes separated by about six furlongs, to prepare according to their own customs. Which included butchering enough spotted buffalo to feed all the braves the next day.
The Dkota, those who did not have watch duty, spent much of that day digging a long, knee-deep trench with Sotan shovels. Dug it wider than the height of a tall man, and filled it with funerary fuel, piling it waist high above the brim. They carried off woodpiles, emptied woodsheds; broke up furniture, doorsteps, wheelless wagon beds, shutters and doors; knocked down small outbuildings. And after leveling the fuel, carefully, respectfully—tearfully!—laid the Dkota bodies on the fuel.
With the pyre completed and the bodies laid out, the pastors prepared the ceremony. It would differ in certain respects from the usual, primarily because their women weren't there. So adolescent youths would serve not only as fire-tenders, but in female ceremonial roles, and when the time came, the women's prayers would be sung by deacons. Approximately, for the women's roles were known exactly only by the women. The pastors would coach the stand-ins as best they knew how.
Finally, as twilight faded into night, Pastor Morosov stood by the long pyre and its dead, looked up at the evening stars, and raised a prayer to God, commending to his love the spirits of the dead and the living. And reminding the dead themselves that since the enemy in this place had fought honorably, and treated Dkota bodies with respect, their lodges in this place would not be burned. It was, he said, as Jesus wanted.
Then the drummers began to drum, and the dancers of both parts to pray and dance. Pastors approached with long torches, and walked along the sides of the pyre, from opposite ends, praying as they ignited the fuel, honoring the dead, commending them to God.
The fire grew and intensified. Here and there the fuel collapsed, sparks leaping upward. The fire was so large, so intense, the fire tenders found it nearly impossible to lay fresh fuel on it with the usual reverence, and the disturbance sent more sparks swirling. But it seemed that God approved, for in the northern sky an aurora appeared, spring green, quickening all souls.
Firelight gleamed on sweating dancers, and for a while the smell of burning flesh was almost overpowering. But in the ritual circumstances, no one seemed afflicted by it. Fire tenders poked the almost eye-searing fire with long green poles, raising and stirring it for maximum heat, and maximum consumption of bodies.
The dancing and praying continued for hours. The fire burned down, and still the tenders poked, raised, stirred. Finally Pastor Morosov sang the closing prayer, in a voice so strong and clear, one wouldn't imagine he'd been chanting all evening.
The aurora had traded its greenness for icy white, and expanded across the entire bowl of the sky, pulsing, marching, flashing. The celebrants stared upward in awe. Truly, Mazeppa thought, we witness the face of God.
Then the dancers walked reverently to the river, submerged themselves in its cooling water, and afterward dried themselves with their hands. From there they went to their robes and slept, weapons beside them, watched over protectively by cane men. But the pastors and deacons stayed near the trench, praying each according to his own thoughts now, while youths continued to stir the embers. Finally even the aurora shrank to a soft, poorly defined arc low in the north, awaiting approaching dawn.
By midmorning the fire had burnt out, the souls of the dead having ridden the purifying heat to God's higher realm. Meanwhile it was appropriate for the living to break their fast. Using Sotan kettles, meat was cooked. The braves ate, then slept again.
The proposal not to burn the town had been Morosov's, but remembering the aurora, Mazeppa had agreed. Their dead had risen to heaven here, and the site henceforth was holy.