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has the truth in its heart.”
    “What are you even talking about?” I asked.
    “Stories are born from our consciousness,” she said, lacing her fingers in her lap. “They come from the things we already know. They come from the things we learn from our ancestors and our kin. We all learn different things, depending on where we’re born, so the stories you hear will be different. So too thethings your kin decide to do will be different. So too the things
you
decide to do will be different. The way to make the best decisions is to listen to all the stories and to know them by heart and to feel them in your bones. You need to know, Natalie, that no story is truer than truth itself. All good stories and all our lives are born from that knowledge.”
    “So, what’s the truth?”
    “It’s hard to say. That’s why it’s so important to listen and to look both backward and forward at the threads that Grandmother Spider spins between things. You understand?”
    “I never understand a word you say,” I told her.
    She shrugged. “Well, anyway, you’ll like this one, because it happened, and a white guy in a frilly hat wrote it down and stamped it with wax to prove it. It starts in a place called Nee-ah-ga-rah, or if you like to say things in a stupid and wrongway just for the hell of it, you could pronounce it Niagara—like Viagra. It means
thundering waters.”
    “The waterfall?”
    “The very same,” Grandmother said. “Nee-ah-ga-rah was a sacred place to the Seneca tribe, who believed the falls were a doorway to the spirit world, the Happy Hunting Grounds. When they went there, they could hear the roaring of a mighty spirit that dwelt in the waters.”
    “You mean they could hear the water,” I said.
    “Maybe,” Grandmother said.
    “Definitely.”
    “How do you know?”
    “Because there are no spirits,” I said.
    “How do you know?” she asked.
    “Because my mom told me.”
    “And what did your mom tell you about me?” she asked, and when I didn’t answer, she went on, with a touch of smugness. “Every year, the Seneca offered a sacrifice—a young maiden from within the tribe—to the great spirit of the falls, and it was considered a great honor to be chosen. The women would compete for the chance to be the one to lie in a white canoe that would pass over the falls into the spirit world. There, she would be with the rest of her kin and honored for her sacrifice.
    “In 1679, there was a beautiful and strong woman named Lela-wala who wished to be chosen for that year’s sacrifice. Lela-wala was the daughter of the Seneca’s Chief Eagle Eye, and though his wife and other children had died years before, he blessed her decision, and Lela-wala was chosen for the sacrifice. There was also a French explorer named La Salle, who had been living among the Seneca for some time, working to convert them to Christianity, as was the custom of the time. When he learned of the tribe’s plans to sacrifice Lela-wala, he went to Chief Eagle Eye and the other leaders to beg them to withhold their sacrifice.
    “But they would not be persuaded. One of the tribal leaders answered him, ‘Your words witness against you. You say that Christ sets us an example. We will follow it. Why should one sacrifice be great, and our sacrifice be terrible?’
    “And so LaSalle went away, devastated and furious with Chief Eagle Eye. But he did not understand the Seneca or their ways. He did not see Chief Eagle Eye’s grief at his daughter’s decision, as the chief was a very brave man who had to honor his daughter and his tribe, despite how precious Lela-wala wasto him. While he was part of the great web of life and kin, both human and inhuman, she was the thing most dear to his heart that remained alive.
    “On the day of sacrifice, the Seneca gathered on the riverbank to celebrate, feasting and singing and dancing, playing games and honoring ritual. When the time finally came for the white canoe to round the corner, everyone