The Morning River

by W. Michael Gear

  "How do I feel? What sort of idiot Doodle question is that? I feel like if I laugh or sneeze, my guts is gonna fall out on the ground."

  "I mean, besides that."

  "Hot. A little giddy and girlish. Sort of floaty. Reckon the fever's a gonna start."

  "I’ll get you more water."

  "I'd take that right kindly." Travis closed his eyes. "Hyar's things ye need ter do. Go strip them Pawnee corpses. Half Man had powder, bullets, and makings in his possibles. Reckon we'll take that kid's bow and arrers, and any outfit he's got. Pull them moccasins, and wrap the whole keeboodle in their blankets. Ye savvy this, Dick?"

  Loot the dead? Richard's stomach turned "Yes. I'll do it, Travis."

  "Roll up all the plunder—inter a pack, understand?"

  "Yes."

  "Keep watch, Dick. Check the priming in my rifle. If n ye needs ter shoot, pull the cock back, pull the back trigger first, then the front one. She won't shoot like that Injun trade gun did. This one's a Hawken. Back trigger first."

  "You think there will be more trouble?"

  "Hell, I never counted on that second Pawnee yesterday. He caught us nigh dead to rights. Be careful, Dick. Oh, and one other thing. I asked Willow ter stay and help ye. Maybe she will, maybe she won't. Keep in mind, boy. She's Injun. Aboot as trustworthy as a buzzworm."

  "She's a woman, for God's sake!"

  "She ain't no white woman, Dick. She's Snake . . . and she picked up that Pawnee kid's war club and went ter sleep with it last night. Don't turn yer back on her."

  But she was so pretty! Richard glanced over his shoulder. She lay under the blanket he'd draped over her last night. When he looked her way he could see her eyes glint, narrowed slits, watching his every move.

  Even the wary vigilance of a wounded and hunted animal finally ebbs. Heals Like A Willow lay under her blanket, hurt and exhausted. The fear of the White men, despite their assurances, goaded her to watchfulness—as if she could defend herself, groggy and swimming as her senses were. Her punished flesh, however, demanded respite, no matter what the consequences.

  Willow never realized when she crossed the divide from consciousness to sleep. ...

  I remain hidden beneath my blanket the way a grouse tucks herself under a log when coyote is hunting the black timber. The scent of danger lingers on the wind, something acrid, like the stench of rot mixed with smoke.

  I hear a stick crack in the trees behind me. A foot crackles dry needles as weight shifts in the darkness.

  Who? I peer out at the shadowed forest with new alarm, but see nothing in the dark shadows.

  When I look back at the White man's camp, a giant bear now sleeps where the wounded White man was. The fierce head rests on large paws, the claws gleaming in the fragile moonlight that penetrates the dense canopy of the trees. He is an old animal, his silver-tipped hair giving him a frosted look.

  Buckskin rasps against bark in the forest as the enemy creeps closer. The sound is loud enough, close enough, to stop my heart-but the giant bear doesn't hear. He sleeps on, and only now do I notice the beast's breathing is labored and weak.

  He's dying. The voice repeats over and over within me. The bear couldn't protect me if he wanted to.

  I tense under my blanket as stealthy feet come closer, ever closer.

  Run! I throw off my blanket and dash for the timber like a frightened rabbit. I know I am hurt but fear gives my legs new power. So long as I don't think, don't accept my weakness, I can run forever.

  I duck between the trees and into the dark protection of the forest. I know this place, understand how the elk trails run—well defined as they leave the clearing, but fading into nothing back in the black timber. I duck shadowy branches, leap deadfall in my desperate haste.

  He is still chasing me, crashing through the forest, his steps pounding the ground, shaking the very earth. I charge ahead, heart hammering, arms pumping, full-tilt through the jumble of interlacing branches, deadfall, and duff.

  Sticks snag my dress, and I have to bat branches aside as the forest closes in. Where a huge tree has fallen across the trail, I drop to my belly and squirm under, only to plunge ahead into a virtual net of splintered dead wood.

  In the end I have to wiggle through the deadfall like a bull snake through a serviceberry thicket.

  Upon reaching the other side and regaining my feet, I stagger into a grassy, moonlit clearing. From the trees, an owl hoots, and coyotes yip and wail in the distance. I circle, panting for breath, while my body shakes with fatigue. No matter where I turn, an impenetrable mass of forest blocks any escape.

  The owl hoots again, and the coyotes sound like they are laughing.

  He's coming, dry wood cracking as he pushes through the deadfall.

  The moonlight shines eerily in Packrat's crazy eyes. He smiles at me, and throws his head back to scream his triumph at the stars. As the ululation echoes, the forest turns silent.

  Packrat grins, moonlight sparkling on his teeth, and speaks to me from the Land of the Dead: "Your souls, Willow. This time, I want your souls.. . forever...."

  He opens his arms and steps forward, his moccasins sinking into the brittle grass.

  How do I defeat the dead? I back away, the chill certainty of defeat shivering through my exhausted body.

  So much pain, so much hurt, is it worth it? Why continue-to fight when the only result is more suffering?

  A voice inside me says, Give up, Willow. The world belongs to Coyote, full of tricks and pain. Drop to your knees. Let Packrat take your souls. Accept it Misery is inevitable.

  Packrat cocks his head in anticipation, his shadowed eyes like black pits in his smooth face.

  At that moment, the mist white dog dances into the clearing, twisting and leaping. He cavorts like milkweed down on the wind, flitting this way and that, twirling and rising, then rushing down to skim the surface of the grass.

  Packrat's expression strains with shock and disbelief. The mist white dog dances past him and blood begins to drain from Packrat's mouth. He falls, sprawling in the grass. His mouth opens and closes, making bubbles of frothy black blood.

  Panic drives me thrashing through the forest. I must find a way out.

  The pale mist dog dances before me, teasing, then leaps, curls in the air, and beckons. Fear burns bright within me, but i follow the spirit dog. The way leads down a winding maze of trails that crisscross through the dark forest.

  At the foot of a mountain, the way turns steep and rocky. I climb with the mist dog cavorting above me like a spark from a fire. From rock to rock, grasping for purchase with fingers and toes, I lever myself up the mountain. Finally, I pull myself onto a high pinnacle.

  There the mist white dog sits, his tail wagging. As if irritated, he barks. When I do nothing, he whines insistently.

  "What are you?" I ask, reaching out to pet the animal.

  I barely touch him when, in a flash, he strikes savagely, sinking teeth into my hand.

  I cry out, tear my hand away, and stagger back. The mist dog shoots up, spinning in the air. This time, instead of barking, he howls with Coyote's keen voice. The misty hair hardens, and the pale color darkens. I cannot mistake that pointed muzzle, or the pricked triangular ears.

  For one eternal instant, I stare into Coyote's blazing yellow eyes. Then, in a snap of the fingers, he turns and races off, his bushy tail bobbing behind him as he skips across the landscape.

  I grind my teeth against the pain. Settling onto the rock, I tuck my bitten hand in my lap. I fight the desire to weep.

  TWENTY

  The passions that incline men to peace, are fear of death; desire of such things as are necessary to commodious living; and a hope by their industry to obtain them. And reason suggesteth convenient articles of peace, upon which men may be drawn to agreement. These articles, are they, which otherwise are called the Laws of Nature: whereof I speak. . . .

  —Thomas Hobbes, Leviathan

  The morning grew hot. Slanting yellow rays of sunlight penetrated the n
ew leaves, fresh burst from the bud, to dapple the ground with shadows. Flies buzzed in a wavering column over the two dead Pawnee. Birdsong, light and melodic, mingled with the tinkle of spring water.

  Willow lay still, recruiting her strength as the Young Warrior, the one called Dik, cared for the Bear Man. He kept glancing shyly in her direction, unsure of her.

  The feeling is shared, White man.

  That wretched headache had dissipated to a dull throb that only bothered her when she moved too quickly. She stretched, feeling each muscle and its attendant aches. Better. But how far could she push herself? Had she healed sufficiently? Or, if something went amiss, would she leap to her feet only to topple into a pile again?

  The Bear Man moaned. Willow watched Dik lay a hand on his forehead. He mumbled nervously in White tongue, and shook his head.

  Willow sat up noiselessly. So far, so good. The headache still throbbed, but her senses weren't swimming. Her bones ached, but she gambled that that would go away with movement. She clutched her war club and stood, waiting for the dizziness. When it didn't come, she took a careful step. Then, to her relief, another.

  Dik never heard her, but jumped aside with surprise when she crouched beside him.

  She met his startled eyes and smiled innocently, saying in Shoshoni, "If I'd wanted to kill you, Dik, you'd have never known until the instant I broke your skull."

  He bobbed a happy nod and smiled his reassurance, then turned thoughtful brown eyes on Trawis.

  Willow placed a hand to Trawis's cheek. "Hot. Fever."

  She took a deep breath. Her fingers had looked just like that as they lay against her husband's cheek. Then, too, she'd felt the heat that had burned him to death from the inside out. I couldn't save him. I failed.

  And this hair-faced White man?

  She studied him in the daylight—especially those scars.

  The bear had torn off half his face. From the scars' look, he must have been pus-fevered then, too. "Are you strong enough, Trawis? Can you beat the fever again?"

  Dik was talking, the words as meaningless as wind over the rocks.

  With her hands, she asked: "What medicines do you have?"

  Vacant eyes watched her signs, then he slowly shook his head. In reply he spoke White babble.

  She leaned back, elbows on knees, and inspected him. "So, you can't even make signs. Are all Whites ignorant of the most basic of things?"

  Maybe he didn't know anything about medicine, either. But, do I? Or am I only fooling myself? A familiar desperation, one she hadn't felt since Packrat captured her, slipped around her guts. What if I fail? What if my Power to heal is truly broken?

  Dik rose and walked to a bundle of cloth by his blanket. He ripped off a piece, stepped to the creek, and dipped it in water. When he returned, he used the cloth to wipe Trawis's sweaty head.

  Willow lifted the leather hunting shirt to study the wound. Pus had begun to leak from some of the stitches, but other parts had scabbed over nicely. The stitching itself was rough, inexpertly done, but effective.

  Dik was babbling again, and Willow ignored it. She looked around, recognizing few of the plants she needed. In her country, she could have found phlox, the first shoots of gumweed, and. . . Well, here, at least, was willow. That would help with Trawis's fever and her own headache. She pulled Trawis's steel knife from his belt

  Dik went silent, unease in his wide brown eyes.

  "You think I'd take his knife to kill you? When I have the war club in my other hand?" She snorted derisively, before winding her way down to the patch of willows beyond the spring.

  When she had her cuttings, she located a small metal pot in the packs, scoured it with sand, filled it with water, and put it on to boil. With the war club and a flat slab of limestone, she pounded the willow to loosen the bark. Her deft fingers stripped off the bruised bark and placed it in the water to boil.

  As she worked, her stiffness eased. From the tenderness, a horrible bruise must have marked her where the war club had glanced off her back—and the rest of her trouble came from the fall from the mare. Thank Tarn Apo, no bones had broken.

  Where the earth had slumped at the edge of the caprock, she located green shoots of goosefoot. The other flowers defied her. This country produced no shooting star, no biscuit root or desert parsley. No balsam root sent up shoots to mark its location. In the soggy ground below the willows, she found mint and added that to her collection.

  "Who'd live here?" she wondered. But certainly most of the plants she saw must be edible or medicinal.

  By the time she returned to the camp, the willow bark had boiled down to a murky paste. With sticks Willow plucked the pot from the fire and cooled it in the spring. When she could hold the pot, she tasted the bitter contents. Some she drank for her own aches, and then walked up to where Trawis lay.

  He was awake, watching her through glittering eyes. Sweat continued to bead on his forehead before slipping down his scarred face in rivulets that disappeared into his beard. She made the sign: ''Drink."

  Trawis choked down the bitter brew without complaint and gasped.

  Dik came to kneel beside her as she lifted the shirt again. Pus not only leaked from the stitches but had begun to swell the flesh. "If only I knew the plants, knew what spirits live in this land."

  She glanced sideways at the big triangular tins. "Spirit water? Medicine water? They call it many names." But would it work? What had White Hail said, that he'd seen visions?

  Willow tapped Dik on the shoulder and pointed at the tins.

  "Whiskey," he said.

  "Whiskey," she replied. Then she reached for the tin cup

  Dik used to get water for Trawis. "Whiskey," she said, pointing inside the cup.

  Dik frowned, then nodded hesitantly before taking the cup. She watched, seeing how he untwisted the lid and poured the clear liquid. No doubt about it, these White men were very clever. Among her people, the best container was still a gut bag. The pottery they made was brittle, primarily for the storage of winter foodstuffs.

  When Dik brought her the spirit water, she did not take it at once. She leaned forward, smelling its tang, and cautiously looked into the liquid. She didn't quite know what to expect, maybe some amorphous form swirling like fog, faces, or tiny shapes. But only clear fluid lay between the surface and the bottom of the cup.

  She had been around Spirit Bundles, fetishes, and medicine before. Most could be felt—a sense of Power in the air. Now, she felt nothing, no sense of threat. Nerving herself, she took the cup and studied the wound.

  "White man's spirit water," she mused. "White man's wound." Her mind made up, she poured the spirit water along the puckered cut.

  Trawis grunted, eyes popping open as he tried to sit up.

  "Shssh!" she told him, placing her fingers to his lips and easing him back. "Do not fight."

  Dik was speaking in low tones, talking to Trawis. She caught the word "whiskey" a time or two.

  Trawis blinked, then stared into Willow's eyes. He signed: "That will cure or kill me."

  She nodded, then scrutinized the wound to see if anything happened. Would it smoke? Perhaps little demons would come wriggling out like worms. She'd seen some of the Tukudeka puhagans suck bloody feathers, bear claws, and other objects from the sick. Would such things pop out of Trawis?

  The pus pockets would be a problem. She'd seen Dik digging in the leather bag that lay beside Trawis. She pulled it over, found an awl made of metal, and raised the sharp point to the light.

  "What you do?" Trawis signed. Dik was looking nervous again. Did neither of them have a brain in their heads?

  "Your wound must be drained." She made the signs, then bent over his stitched side. Unlike plants in strange country, when it came to draining wounds, she had plenty of practice. The metal awl worked much better than the sharpened rabbit bones she was used to. She lanced the puffy flesh, twirling the awl at the same time.

  Trawis grunted and hissed as she worked. Mostly he kept his eyes clo
sed, pale features even whiter, if that were possible.

  "You'd think I was working on a ghost," she muttered to herself. Then looked up to meet Dik's eyes. She handed him the cup and pointed at the whiskey again.

  He nodded hesitantly and left.

  Willow lanced the last of the pockets, very gently squeezing the wound. To her satisfaction, the pus mostly ran clear. She dribbled whiskey on the oozing sections, and bent down to squint at the flesh while Trawis made suffering sounds. To her disappointment, nothing like bloody feathers or bear claws popped out.

  She sighed and sat back, thankful that the willow-bark extract had killed most of her headache. To the uncomprehending Dik, she said, "I can do no more for now. Let him rest. In the meantime, I will boil the goosefoot and mint for something to eat."

  Dik smiled at her then, soft lights in his brown eyes touching her soul. He took her hand, raised it, and pressed his lips to the skin on the back. In clear tones he said, "Thank you."

  In return, she lifted his hand, brushing her lips on the back of the pale skin. "Thank you." Some curious custom of the Whites?

  He laughed, shaking his head and jabbering away in White talk.

  "Excuse me," she said. "If we are to eat, I had better do something about it From the looks of things, you Whites would starve to death." As she bent to the task of boiling the goosefoot and mint, the thought crossed her soul: If the Whites are so helpless^ why haven't they starved to death before this?

  Travis hissed, teeth clenched, as Richard poured whiskey on the stitches in his side. It took several seconds for the sting to drain away and the world to come back into focus.

  "Waugh! That's some, it is. Damn, I'd like ter give ye a dose of that!"

  "You did," Richard said, bending over him. "Back on the boat, remember? When I had the scours? You were the one made me eat that gall. I think it was you who said that the worse the taste, the better the cure."

  "Wal, ye better go easy on that whiskey. Tarnal Hell, whiskey's supposed ter go in a feller, not on him."

  Richard shrugged. "Perhaps. The pus isn't as bad today. Fever's broken, too. I think Willow was right about pouring it on you."