The Morning River

by W. Michael Gear

  He frowned uneasily. His tormentors had vanished into the bleary light. Dear Lord God . . . thirsty ... so very, very thirsty. Richard gasped, blinking into the night.

  Darkness, stars, water lapping against the keelboat's hull. The plaintive hoot of an owl carried from the trees.

  "Boston," he whispered hoarsely into the night. "I won't die. God be my witness. I'll live. Prove them wrong."

  "How are ye, pilgrim?" a gentle voice asked. Phantom, or real?

  "Travis?"

  "Reckon they's some devils ye been a-wrassling with."

  "Water? Please?"

  A tin cup was placed against Richard's lips, the rim cool. He drank greedily.

  "Heard ye had a case of the collywobbles. Figgered ye'd be needin' a mite of curing, coon. I fetched medicine fer ye. Snuck up and kilt a farmer's cow, but I got what ye needs. T'aint buffler, but it'll do."

  "What?" Richard leaned back against the plank walls of the cargo box. The night sounds of the forest carried to his ears.

  "Hyar, lad"

  Richard squinted in the darkness as Hartman held out a teardrop-shaped bag no bigger than a green walnut.

  "Gallbladder, coon. Best cure they be fer collywobbles. Reckon ye'd best eat it. Like I said, cut her right out'a the cow. Fresh as could be. Though, I reckon that farmer's a gonna be peeved come sunup."

  "No, I—"

  "Eat'er, lad. That, or I'll sit on ye, clamp yer nose off, and douse ye good when yer breath runs out."

  Richard took the little sack with trembling fingers, glanced at Hartman to see that he really meant it, and plopped the resilient gallbladder into his mouth. He started upright as the vile liquid filled his mouth.

  Hartman anticipated his reaction, clamped an iron hand over his mouth, and pinned Richard to the deck.

  "Swaller it, Dick! It ain't a gonna kill ye. Reckon the better the medicine, the worst the taste. I done cured meself a time or two with gall."

  Richard wriggled under the iron grip and gulped the wretched stuff down. Nothing on earth could taste that bad.

  Hartman nodded to himself and released his hold, handing Richard another tin of water. "Wash her down, coon. I'm thinking ye'll be a-healing, now."

  "Lord God, that was horrible," Richard gasped, the taste still violating his mouth.

  "Strong stuff. Cure ye, or kill ye."

  Richard slumped limply onto the deck. "Let me die."

  "An' lose me bet? I got ten plews bet again ol' Henri that ye'd live."

  "Plews?"

  "Beaver skins. Yer ignerant, Dick. Even fer a Doodle."

  "My name is Richard."

  "Uh-huh."

  They sat in silence, Richard watching the stars.

  "Fever's gonna break." Hartman said after a while. "I seen it afore. Must have been some visions ye was having. Raging and muttering. I reckon I figgered out who yer father was, but who's Ames?"

  "My professor. At the university."

  "Philos'phy?"

  "Yes."

  "Injuns, they put a heap of store by dreams, visions, and such. Heard you say ter stop it. That ye was an animal. Ain't that what we got ye in all this mess?"

  Richard grimaced at the lingering taste of gall. "I saw myself in the dream. Arguing with Ames. They thought I was beaten. I'll get away, Travis. Go back to Boston. I swear it."

  Hartman bowed his head for a moment. In the darkness, Richard couldn't see his face. "Don't try it, Dick. See her through. Then ye can go back."

  "You'd still kill me?"

  "I figgered we'd been across that trail already, Dick. Like I said, yer ignerant. Upriver, Dave's word has got to be like God's. I been in outfits that fell apart. Men work together, or people die. A booshway's gotta make decisions, and have 'em stick. I don't know how ye'd philos'phy it, but killing you now might save my life, and Henri's, and Davey Green's a couple of months from now when the Rees get a fight on. Or when the boat's in danger in the rapids. Folks got ter depend on each other. Follow whar my stick floats?"

  "As in an army?"

  "Reckon yer on the scent now, pilgrim."

  "So you give up freedom in exchange for a chance at survival."

  "To yer way of thinking, maybe." Hartman turned his head to gaze upriver, his voice softening. "Freedom's up yonder, boy. Freedom like ye've never knowed. Reckon I cain't tell ye, not in words. But, Dick, if'n ye reaches down inside yourself, pulls up them guts ye've never used, and buckle down, ye'll have a chance to see. I reckon once ye've seen sunrise on the Shining Mountains, outskunked the wily Crows, eat hump steak off'n a fat buffler cow, and foxed the Blackfoots, ye'll know what few other men ever will. Not in yer noodle, lad, but in yer guts. In yer soul." Would the vile taste of gall ever leave his tongue? Vision was going shimmery again. "You sound like a poet, Travis."

  "Waugh! That's some, it is. Me, a poet?"

  Sleep had begun to drift into Richard's thoughts. "Indeed. A poet"— who's as ready to butcher me as that poor cow he killed. "Tyranny comes in many forms, Travis."

  Something was forming in Richard's soul, but he lost the answer as he fell into restless dreams of Laura and Thomas, walking hand in hand, laughing.

  Willow lay limply as Packrat stiffened and moaned for the second time that morning. She watched his face, his eyes clamped shut, jaw muscles tensed. Then he slumped, dead weight pressing her down. Would he withdraw now, or lie on her again until his manhood recovered?

  Packrat took a deep breath and opened his eyes, running his fingers along the sides of her head. She took the opportunity to stare into his eyes, spearing his soul with her hatred/

  Today, Pawnee filth, I have given you more than just pleasure. Get up. Look at yourself. See what Heals Like a Willow has done to you.

  He grunted, pushed himself off of her, and looked down. She chuckled dryly, enjoying the consternation on his face.

  Three days had passed while they camped in the cotton-wood bottoms. Packrat had used the time to allow the horses to recover their strength while he sated himself inside her. On the first day, Packrat had tied Willow tighter than a load of firewood, and led his horse out to hunt. Hours later he'd returned with choice cuts of buffalo wrapped in a quarter hide. That night, she'd gorged herself, rebuilding her own strength for the moment Packrat's guard slipped.

  Each time he had climbed onto her, parted her legs, and pumped himself empty, her menstruation had been that much closer. Now, as he stared wide-eyed at his bloody penis, her satisfaction grew. Pawnee males feared the monthly cycle as much as Dukurika, or any other men she'd heard of.

  Horror filled Packrat's face. He shivered, then grabbed up his clothes and broke into a panicked run for the river.

  Willow sat up and laughed until her sides shook. Now, if only he hadn't trussed her up like a grass doll. Her hands were secured behind her, with a thong running from wrists to bound ankles. She wriggled around, searching for something to cut herself loose. He'd taken his knife and quiver along with his clothing. Previously, she'd searched in vain for anything sharp and found nothing but grass, twigs, and soft dirt.

  She scowled, muttering, "Tarn Apo, this would have made a very good place for a flint outcrop." The only stones were crumbly sandstone cobbles that Packrat had placed in the firepit.

  She lifted her head. Tendrils of smoke rose from the ashes. Suppose she found a stick and managed to light one end. Could she prop it so that the ember would burn the leather thongs in two?

  Wriggling like an inchworm, she snagged up a stick and hitched herself to within a length of the fire. She craned her chin over her shoulder to see as she poked the stick in the coals.

  How long did she have until Packrat's return? The river was just over there, beyond the trees. If she guessed right, he'd scrub and scrub, desperate to cleanse himself.

  There. Smoke had begun to curl up around the end of the cottonwood she held so precariously.

  All right, Willow, let's see if this works.

  Her neck had begun to cramp. She rocked herself and wished she ha
d a neck like a heron, but managed to pull her feet close to the smoking end of the stick. If only the position weren't so awkward! The harder she strained, the more the stick jiggled. The muscles in her neck, back, and sides ached. Jaw cocked, tongue parting her lips, she managed to touch the smoking branch to the thongs.

  After a few moments the heat began to sting the skin of her ankles. To her frustration, the ember went out. Grousing, she prodded it into the fire again, glancing toward the river. Blood and dung, she didn't have all day!

  It took four tries, and painful burns, before she could snap the thong that held her ankles.

  "Thank you, Tarn Apo, and now, help me!" She lurched to her feet, hands still bound behind her. With time, she might use the bark on the cottonwoods to wear the thongs in two—as well as to scrape the hide off her wrists. Better to get away now, and worry about that later. . The horses foiled her attempts to loosen their rawhide hobbles. They'd let her approach forward, but shied the second she twisted around to fumble at the leather with her fingers. After the third time the mare dumped her on her butt, she glared up.

  "I hate horses! You've brought nothing but trouble to my people! I hope a rock ogre eats you. Slowly."

  Her time was running out. The hobbles were hopeless, and she couldn't ride with her hands behind her back, unable to control the horse with more than kicks to the ribs.

  She studied the bluffs to the north, and broke into a trot— the fastest pace she could manage with her hands tied. On foot as she was, Packrat couldn't help but overtake her. She crossed the first of the low ridges, slowed, and stepped out onto sandstone. With infinite care, she backtracked to the crest of the ridge where the gramma grass lay in thick patches interspersed with wind-deflated gravel. There she sidestepped, each foot placed delicately so as not to disturb the coarse gravel.

  Packrat would work it out, of course. She made several steps, hopped to a patch of gramma grass, and hurried off to the west. She ran desperately, throwing frightened looks over her shoulder, then tore across yet another of the low ridges, dropped over the side until hidden from the east, and sprinted northward again.

  She'd bought time. If she could hide her trail well enough, cut the bonds on her wrists, and hide in this flat land, she might have a chance.

  As the sun slid westward, she zigzagged to the northwest. Topping a low rise, she glanced back and saw him, on horseback, cutting for tracks.

  Heals Like a Willow ducked low, scuttled over the crest, and ran like a frightened antelope. Breath tearing in her throat, she prayed to Tarn Apo for a miracle.

  Richard awoke to a gray rainy morning. He sat up, weak and wobbly in his water-soaked blanket. His gut tortured him, but he crawled to the big stew pot and ate. The cold stew might run right through him, but at least it didn't come back up. With careful fingers, Richard probed at his belly and started at the tender spots. His raw butt felt like whip-sawed meat.

  Beyond the gunwale, the dense forest passed, many of the branches no more than a foot beyond the laboring polers. They might have been fingers, reaching out for the engages. Richard closed his eyes and shook his head.

  'Tm seeing monsters."

  "How's that, coon?" Hartman asked as he stepped around the cargo box.

  "Monsters," Richard mumbled. "Out there, in the forest. They've been after me for. . . well, since I left Pittsburgh. You can feel them, sense them in the shadows."

  "Huh!" Hartman rubbed at his beard, the scars looking paler on this gray day. "There be painters, black bears hyar and there. Ye'd find a rattlesnake in amongst the leaves. Reckon a feller might stumble onto a wolf on occasion. Them don't shine fer monsters, Dick. Not like Old Ephraim. He be some. Some, indeed."

  Richard glanced up uncertainly.

  Hartman pulled his pipe from his possibles, gesturing toward the trees with the stem. "Them woods be plumb dull, Dick. Right friendly when ye comes down ter it. Why, a feller can hide himself like a tick on a dog. He can feel safe, comfortable. Everything a man needs right there to hand. Deer, coons, and squirrels fer meat. Nuts fall like hail every fall. All a feller has to do is pick 'em up. Wind don't blow a man till his eyes sting, and the deep cold don't settle until a man's fingers freeze, blacken, and fall off. Sun don't burn ye so dry yer pizzle shrinks up and fergits what it's fer. Wood and water everywhere. The forest's safe. It's the plains and mountains as will kill ye."

  "Why do I feel it, then? Like eyes, always watching."

  Hartman tapped tobacco out of his little leather pouch, pressing it into the pipe's bowl with a hard finger, the cracked nail lined with dirt. "Taking yer measure, I'd guess."

  "Taking my measure? What are you talking about?"

  Hartman cocked his head. "Judging ye, Dick. What do ye think? That the land's dead? Hell, look at it, ye ignerant Yankee! Everything ye sees out thar be alive."

  "Only men have souls, Travis."

  Hartman hawked and spit into the river. "Do tell, Dick? Prove it."

  Richard scowled. "The philosophical works of—"

  "Painter crap! Ye been living all yer life in buildings and cities a-reading books. Get out there in the forest, Dick. Listen, boy! That's what yer ahearing . . . feeling. It's the soul of the land, the trees, and critters."

  At Richard's blank look, Hartman shook his head in disgust. "Aw, ter hell with ye! Damn Yankee son of a bitch! Gets ter feeling the land, and 'cause he's never felt it afore, he figgers it's old Hob hisself spinning evil."

  "I didn't mean to make you mad."

  Hartman's lips pinched. "Ye cain't larn everything outa a book, Dick. Some things ye got ter larn with yer soul. Now, how're ye feeling?"

  "Better. Weak, miserable, but better."

  Hartman pointed at the engages who'd been poling along the passe avant, listening to the conversation. "Reckon ye can fetch a pole, then. A body mends quicker when it's a-working."

  "I'm just better, not well! If I strain I have—well— accidents."

  "Hell, I never said ye was plumb fit, did I? A man's got ter haul his pack. Go do what ye can, and run squat when ye got ter."

  "Travis, I—"

  "Reckon I'll go find me an ember fer me smoke. By the time she's lit, ye'd better be a-hustling yer butt, Dick."

  "But you don't—"

  "We just slid them four days back, Dick, on account of ye being down with the scours, and all. Green's still aching ter shoot ye, and old Trudeau there, he done put a month's wages that yer a gonna be dead afore then."

  Hartman disappeared around the corner of the cargo box and Richard stared dully at the battered oak deck. He could barely stand up, so how was he supposed to pole?

  Glancing up to the side, he could see Trudeau's smile, so wide the white teeth gleamed below the black mustache.

  Richard gathered himself, pulled a pole from the top of the cargo box, and worked in between the boatmen.

  "Don't shit where we walk, mon ami," Louis hissed. "And stay back, yes? Don't spread your contagion around us."

  "Sleep well?" Trudeau asked as they made the next trip. "About time zee booshway get some good out of you, non?"

  "You're all nothing but a pack of—" Richard caught himself. "Leave me alone. I'll do what I can today."

  Someone snickered.

  To Richard's relief, Henri began the "Ding-ding-a-dong" song, and the voices turned to singing instead of tormenting him. Then his gut twisted, and he almost lost his pole as he ran for the far gunwale.

  Packrat's life was shattered like a dropped pot, his soul wounded and broken. She would pay for this!

  He pulled his horse up and scanned the country. What appeared to be flat grassland was in reality a deceptively rolling terrain cut by shallow drainages working their way down toward the river. The scrubby gramma and buffalo grass was broken by low patches of sagebrush and gray-green splotches of prickly pear, none of it tall enough to hide a person. A small herd of antelope watched him from a distance while a hawk sailed above, uninterested in his plight.

  Triumph had become a disas
ter. Heals Like a Willow had profaned him with her menstrual blood and broken the purity of his manhood. The Spirit World would turn its back on him, withdraw its protection. A warrior depended on Power to protect him, to give him luck. But now . . .

  He glanced self-consciously up at the sky and remembered stories about young men who had been profaned, and how lightning had struck from clear blue skies, and how they died in freak accidents.

  I must return to the Skidi and be cleansed. He winced at the implications. The Doctors could cleanse him, but the ceremonies would cost his family a fortune. The Singers and Doctors would have to be paid, feasts provided for dances and sweats.

  Not only would his folly cost his family's wealth, but he would pay a terrible price in public humiliation. The jokes told at his expense were already ringing in his ears. "Pack-rat, the pira-paru, so desperate he dipped his lance into a bleeding captive!" "Hey, Packrat! If you were so desperate, why not stick yourself into a camp dog? The shame would have been the same, but you wouldn't have made your family destitute in the process!''

  I'll find her even if I die in the process. A likely event, since the Spirit World would shun him now. And then I'll kill her!

  Until he had been purified in the ceremonials, people would avoid him. In his current state of defilement, no one, not even his own family, would allow him into their houses. They'd refuse him entry into the village.

  Adding to his humiliation, the woman had taken what had been a dashing coup, and thrown it in his face.

  I curse you, you Shoshoni bitch!

  All those great plans! His only chance to establish himself, repay his father for that long-ago perfidy! His guts went hollow at the thought of Pitalesharo's reaction. I'll no longer be tiwa! He'll disown me.

  He kicked his horse forward. It's all her fault. She'll pay . . . and very dearly.

  He found the thongs on a low hilltop. Willow had obviously located a sharp stone and managed to slice through the rawhide straps. Inspecting them, Packrat smiled at the flecks of blood. It wasn't easy to cut one's bindings when one's hands were tied behind one's back. Too bad she didn't bleed to death in the process.