Love to Water My Soul (Dreamcatcher)

by Jane Kirkpatrick

  Every day the woman helped drag the “tub” to my room, filled it with steaming water, and encouraged me to step inside and seep away sores. I did this only when they left me alone to stare out at the rock wall while the water washed away the layers of Asiam.

  Mrs. Sherar, as she was called by Sung-li, the man in blue who brought in strange foods with a scowl, sat every day on the side of my mat, my bed. She talked with me in foreign words I could not understand but whose tones were as warm as the touch of her palm on my forehead, as soft as the pillow she fluffed at my head, as comforting as the arms she wrapped around me when I let her. She had the body of a small woman, but her hands were large, like Lukwsh’s, and bore the red knuckles of hard work.

  I did not believe she was that much older than I. She had no lines on her face and all of her teeth. But she treated me like a child, not unlike the ways I watched over Wren. Her tending seemed to feed an unnamed hunger.

  Her husband, the big owl I met on the sidehill, came to stand beside her as she spoke with me at times; his arm held her to him as though they were one. Wide fingers pressed gently into her shoulders, and when they left, he stepped aside so she could move her wide skirts first through the door. He followed her out like a woman would from the lodge of the people.

  When Mrs. Sherar stopped smoothing the sheets over me, touching me gently, or bringing in bowls of steaming stew, I could hear her bustling in the cooking room, her voice loud, followed by the scurried feet of Sung-li and the clanging of pans. Outside, stagecoaches ground to a stop. I heard people talking, horses shake their heads against their harnesses, listened while they brought in new teams, noted the sounds of different voices of each day, periods of quiet broken by the rushing and meals, returning just before night.

  And through open windows, day or night, I heard the plunge and shudder of the falls, a sound so constant it became like air breathed in, like the chatter of ducks on the lakes, the cackle of geese rising in flight. At night, I lay awake listening to the noises of sleep, sometimes watched the stars and wondered if Shard watched this same sky, too. My head shook, ashamed at this hopeful thought when my mind said he was dead. Sleep then became a slow insect and made my pillow damp by morning.

  The woman, Jane, had eyes the deep blue of huckleberries, surrounded completely by white, like dark rocks in snow. At times, they reminded me of a moo’a hawk as she looked at me, not letting any detail escape. More often, they were a doe’s eyes, watching, to know and protect.

  She gave me a cloth dress the color of the curtains and motioned for me to sleep in it. At the foot of the bed lay a dress of cloth with the feel of warm ice. Marked with slender stripes of green and gold, a row of tiny buttons reached to a stiff black collar close to the neck. I had yet to wear it. I had yet to get up.

  “Peter … here … Alice M,” Mrs. Sherar told me one morning several weeks after I arrived. He stood in the doorway. She spoke to him at length, and I was surprised that I picked out several words before he told me what they were.

  “Mrs. Sherar wants to know if you are feeling stronger. Are you well enough?” He used his hands some to make sure I understood.

  I nodded my head once, indicated yes.

  “When will you, then, get up?” he asked.

  I answered him in silence, for I did not know.

  “She wants to know if people look for you.”

  I glanced at him and wondered what he knew. But then I realized he asked if someone might be missing me, wonder where I was, someone they could tell with joy to find me here, to claim their lost child bearing a nabawici. His question brought a stab of regret.

  I shook my head.

  “You can stay a long time, Mrs. Sherar says. And when you want, she will listen. She worries,” he continued, his hat brim sliding between his fingers as he spoke. His nails were clean. He paused to hear what the woman wished him to say. “You do not eat much, do not move about. She says no one gets well unless they eat and find a place to challenge their mind and their hands.”

  “My stomach is startled by the food,” I told him, to focus on something I could explain. “There is so much and so soft and different.”

  “Your belly will accept in time,” he said. “She wonders what ails your mind.”

  How to tell him that I wanted to accomplish something, find Sunmiet, continue my search, maybe live in a place where all could blend together? How to tell him that my mind was tired from too many challenges, too many recent pains? What words to use to let him know how weary loneliness could be?

  For the first time, I even wondered if Sunmiet would welcome me—if this was her place—wondered if she would open her arms to a woman-child who harmed her people, who had been washed and dressed for death, yet had cheated it and escaped.

  “Sunmiet …” I said out loud before thinking.

  Mrs. Sherar squinted her eyes to the word I’d spoken, spoke rapidly to Peter.

  “She wants to know how you know that one. Sunmiet.”

  I shrugged my shoulders, wary, not wanting harm yet hopeful.

  Mrs. Sherar spoke quickly, and Peter added, eyes dropped down, embarrassed to be speaking of these subjects, “Her Sunmiet prepares for a baby, has put another in its board. She comes in spring to fish, as always. Is that the one you know?”

  “Does she have a baby named Owl?” I asked him.

  His eyes showed surprise and he nodded, though Mrs. Sherar grabbed at his arm, wondering what I’d just said. He told her, and her eyes lit up.

  “You share a friend.”

  A smile spread across her narrow face as Peter finished.

  “She says you will be well by spring, ready to greet Sunmiet if you rise now, take in clear air and sun. Grow strong in winter. And if you wish, this good woman will help you find things for your hands to accomplish.”

  Perhaps my Spirit spoke to her on my behalf. Or maybe something in my eyes told her what else might make me well, for Peter relayed her next words that settled around me like the chatter of friends.

  “This inn welcomes travelers, Alice M, but they are free to leave, continue their journeys much farther than here. Some come looking for things; some are here just on their way to somewhere else. You are welcome, whatever kind of traveler you are. Or you can go when you are ready.”

  In her offer of such freedom, I found I wished to stay.

  Through the fall and winter, Mrs. Sherar discovered things I could accomplish, though wearing the silky dress was not one either of us claimed. My shoulders and waist were wider than the dress she gave me. My feet would not squeeze into the thin leather with hooks and ties she had set beside the bed. Instead, I wrapped my string of knots around the cloth-like sheets I had been sleeping in. She smiled at that, nodded her head as though understanding, and in a day or two, Peter arrived with soft leather skins formed into a dress and moccasins in my size. A part of me at first resisted so rich a gift. But I remembered the naming and the honor I would give by my receiving it.

  “My woman, Sumxseet, makes it,” he said, handing it to me, moving his hands, repeating the motion like an anxious friend. “And when you are ready, you will wear it to show her how her hands make you look.”

  My hands were put to work, and my mind recalled things. I watched men work on a mule’s leg, made note of a poultice I could make, then took a walk along the road, branched out into the ravines, the dog at my side. I selected familiar roots and asked Peter’s wife for certain leaves. With my mixtures, I tended animals brought with cuts and sores to the barn. A soft ooze of wild iris eased the pain of a bit held too tightly; yarrow soothed a swollen joint. Mrs. Sherar asked for what would help a bee sting and accepted my offer of mullein, mashed. Oat straw ground with a mano eased the tooth pain of a buckaroo working on the ranch, and I found that the bounce to his feet as he left without pain brought lightness to my walk as well.

  Inside the inn, as they called the house, I told Mrs. Sherar how to make yellow-jacket soup, a delicacy she found tasty, though she would not tell the
travelers its name. In the night, I collected cicadas and locusts and stripped them from the shell to fry crisp in pork grease as a surprise in the morning.

  Mrs. Sherar even asked me to help out Sung-li, a task of interest, though his scowls reminded me of the spiteful words of Grey Doe and the uncertainty of Wuzzie with his seething hiss of power.

  My mornings were announced by musters of peacocks strutting through the yard as they crowed away snakes. In the apron I took to wearing at times, I gathered clutches of eggs, helped churn the butter. Days when hundreds of sheep made their way across the bridge, I helped count them for the toll. One stick for each ten who passed by bleating, ten pennies times the sticks stuck in the bucket that held the money.

  Long walks up the road toward Tygh Ridge delivered me to Mr. Sherar, who worked each day to keep his road strong. I brought him a forgotten bit of venison jerky or a note sent by Mrs. Sherar. Each journey brought me small namaka, like a sight of wild turkeys nesting in firs or the mastery of a barn owl tearing at mice in the rafters where the stage horses were changed. At night, when the moon rose over the falls, shimmering, I found I slept at a faster pace now. I dreamed often in my new language.

  My days carried me on swift feet, surprising me with how quickly the language of the people disappeared and with it many thoughts that once formed like honey around my memory knots. The names of things surrounding me were all words the owls use, words of English said with ease. I learned the names of foods, most so unlike what I had eaten in Lukwsh’s wickiup that I could not make them fit my memory. I understood the names for objects inside the house, the barn, the words for weather, the rush of water, the speed of horses and of time.

  More difficult to learn were words for feelings, to describe the fullness of my heart when Bandit jumped onto my bed and curled there to sleep or when I came into the “kitchen” to see the Sherars in warm embrace standing before the window, watched them turn to me without embarrassment and smile, open wide their arms as if to pull me in, make no clucking of their tongues when I did not.

  Almost every day I heard Mr. Sherar say, “I love you,” to his wife, and I watched the way she lifted her face to his, the way she leaned into his chest as he stood behind her to push her chair in at the table.

  “I love you,” seemed to make them smile, go deep inside, block out any others in the room. These words had not been said to me, but something in the Sherars’ faces reminded me of a young man who told me that the sun rose in the light of my hair or set in the quiet of my eyes. I remembered a touch of his hand as we walked beside a lake, the way he held his arms, elbows out, then reached to invite me in to be held against his chest as softly as a sigh. I did not have the words to say that what we felt was love—he never said it—and yet I knew it by no other name.

  Nor did I have words in English for what I felt when travelers stepped off the stagecoach and walked past me as though I could not be seen, some not even grunting in recognition that I carried in their bags stuffed like sausages with their belongings.

  And I had no words to tell the Sherars about my fear of Sung-li, who chanted to his kitchen dolls at night in his room beside mine, or how he slammed his cleaver close to my fingers when I arrived to help him with the meals.

  All the feelings, good and bad, brought up memories of those missing, of Lukwsh and Wren, of love once realized and lost. And of Wuzzie and Stink Bug and the strength of their wishes to send me away, take Shard, too, from their midst. I found no way to share the thoughts and memories with anyone who had not seen the wickiups, had not known the joy and sorrow of the people of my past.

  I did my best to gather strength from blending.

  My skin paled, shadowed by the bonnet Mrs. Sherar insisted I wear, at least within her sight. Only my wrists stayed browned by the sun.

  My hands kept working; my body gathered strength.

  Winter dressed the reptile road in white. Even in the deep canyon, occasional snow forced us to push through drifts to tend the cattle, horses, mules, and sheep. Mostly the ground stayed brown and frozen beside the river. The hilltops were covered only partway down with snow like white frosting dribbled over Mrs. Sherar’s ginger cake.

  In early December, I noticed a great stillness of birds and animals. It brought back a memory of silence followed by cows racing in strange ways, rocks falling with Flake beneath them. This silence, too, preceded a massive shaking of the ground. Rocks and boulders tumbled down ravines as though pushed along by raging water, some splashing like the tails of a hundred beavers warning of intruders.

  Inside the inn, I heard dishes rattle, felt trembling beneath my feet, though only for a moment. Then all returned; all life breathed deeply as before.

  Days later, Mr. Sherar said over coffee that an “earthquake” brought a rock slide on the Columbia in northern Washington. “Stopped all the river traffic,” he said. “Caused quite a mess at those fish wheels and canneries.”

  “I wouldn’t wonder,” Mrs. Sherar said. “Unfortunately, not much slows them down.”

  “Ye can count on it bringin’ the priests and pastors, maybe take more folks to God, sure,” Mr. Sherar said.

  Mrs. Sherar clucked her tongue. “Smoholla might just get some converts of his own with that dance to bring back life.”

  She handed her husband a spoonful of soft, fresh-churned butter. He spread it on the warm bread I brought him from the oven.

  “Didn’t Peter say he predicted this quake?” Mrs. Sherar asked, spoon held to the air in thought.

  “Sure, now, someone did predict those rocks and the quake. Course I put no stock in such things. Be predicting Sunday follows Saturday if we’re not careful and claim it some new thinking!”

  Their words shook something in me, and I trembled that Wuzzie could make the earth break so far away, remembered his dreams of how he said the world would end and my part in it.

  The Sherars marked the passage of a “year” with a celebration, shot off guns as though gathering ammunition held no worry. Later they invited me to a place where a man wore a long dress. A neck cloth the color of wild iris and a necklace bearing the crossed bars hung around his neck, and I gazed at them without shame, wanted to touch them, perhaps show the man my chain.

  “We’ll be reading from Jeremiah,” he said, his voice large inside the building.

  He boomed out words read from a large, black book before many people assembled, sitting. His wide sleeves billowed out like pillow slips as his arms raised to the peaked roof.

  While I did not understand his speaking, I noticed warmth spread across the people’s faces despite seeing their breath in the cold air. Candlelight flickered and reflected in their eyes, and the smell of wax grew stronger than the scent of wet wool of the capes and coats. I felt the warmth some myself when we all stood, lifted our faces, and sensed the vibration of a hundred whistles and drums coming from a small wagon pumped by a woman’s feet, pounded by her fingers near the front.

  We began to sing. And while I could not join them in their words, I saw the happiness on people’s faces, the lightness in their joined voices, and I felt filled up, needed to wipe my eyes, pulled a cloth from the white muff my hands were buried in.

  Mrs. Sherar saw me dabbing at my eyes. She leaned across her husband, gently pushed down the book he sang from so she could see me. Her bonnet cast a shadow in the candlelight that washed along the walls.

  “Happy New Year, Alice M,” she whispered. “May this be just the best new beginning, ever.”

  The words “new year” held little meaning, but “new beginning” sounded like a breath of joy spoken as she touched her gloved hand to mine, patted it quiet as a dog’s paw.

  The building and its high ceiling echoed back the music, filled the cavity of my chest with words and rhythm. The sounds seeped through my skin, made my body tingly like a lightning storm captured inside. Tears formed again in my eyes. The deep tones of pipes were like a flutter through my feet.

  And when I thought my heart could hold no mo
re or burst, one more gift was given, great beyond all others.

  My Spirit spoke.

  I am here, he told me, though I heard no spoken words. Here among these people, here wherever you are, here whenever you should call my name.

  For the first time in a long time, a bubble pushed at my heart, my face, and formed into a smile I did not try to hide. I was not alone! I did not know his name yet, this Spirit that still spoke. But I was comforted, filled with joy. For he traveled with me, brought water to my soul, gave me hope and other people, work to master, and a song.

  THE FIFTEENTH KNOT

  WAITING TO UNFOLD

  My belongings were moved to a room closer to the Sherars as though I might be family. A bed warmer appeared between the sheets, placed there by Sung-li each night before I slept. I awoke, rested.

  Throughout the winter my hands were given tasks they completed. I worked, quiet, talked to no one of my Spirit, simply puzzled that he traveled with me, learned different languages, too. My eyes watched how people tended each other, touched and talked, recorded what caused smiles to form or frowns, how they learned to fill each other up or take away.

  Mrs. Sherar reminded me of Wren the way she moved so quickly, mostly filled with joy. Over dark water they called coffee, she and Mr. Sherar spent early mornings at the “dining table,” talking, sometimes scowling as they planned their day, heads bent together. Inside the house, they often folded their hands and lowered their eyes in what Peter described as the posture of their prayer.

  I noticed that the small woman could give her husband words to make his face turn sober or cause his ample beard to bounce in laughter upon his chest. His eyes spoke to her with tenderness I remembered from Lukwsh’s eyes, saw again when Peter spoke to Sumxseek when I visited them. And while I saw no children of the Sherars, I expected Mr. Sherar to call her piawabi, as all happy fathers call their wives when they have found such fullness.

  Peter became the bridge between my people and these. He and Sumxseet opened wide their wood home built north of the Sherars’. Like the Paiute people, they did not extend an invitation, just assumed that I would come when ready, drop in when it suited.