The men continued their conversation which included some odd gesticulations. Not recognizing any hand language she knew, she led the horse toward the running water. Shucking off the doeskin dress, she left it on shore then coaxed the horse into the water. The animal’s trepidation reflected in his trembling. She ran a soothing hand over his neck, humming a gentle tune.
Step by step, he followed her down the gentle incline until they stood in the chilly stream. The bracing cold burned her skin, but she ignored it. Once all four of the horse’s hooves submerged, she reached to cup the water and began to pour it over the worst of his savaged skin. They couldn’t stay in the frigid stream for long, but she cleaned the worst of his injuries. She left the scabbed over wounds alone, but one would need to be lanced. She could almost smell the infection when she pressed her nose close.
Too bad the men could not die twice for their cruel treatment of the gentle creature. The argument on the shore ended abruptly, but she ignored the men while she tended the horse. Soon, she led the animal from the water and toward the fire. A strangled noise escaped the younger man, the Not-Jimmy, and Onsi paused to find both of them staring at her. Then both jerked their eyes away and turned their backs.
“This one needs a cloth to rub the horse down and some white willow bark.” She’d seen a willow along her path. The sun would set soon, if she had to hunt for the tree, they needed to tell her
“The bag by the fire.” Where his use of her language earlier had been halting, he spoke with an almost odd strain. The warmth of the fire was especially welcome after the cold water. Even the horse leaned toward it. Locating the bag closest to the fire, she flipped it open and retrieved a bundle of cloth. They’d torn into even strips and she peeled off two. With one wrapped around each hand, she began to rub the horse down. The work warmed her up, chasing away the last of the cold.
Sometime during her work, the men moved away from the fire, heading in opposite directions. Glancing after them, she judged both were at a safe distance, and placed her hand against the horse’s neck. “Easy my friend,” she whispered in his ear. “Sleep.”
Checking where the two had gone, she pulled out her knife and opened the wound on her finger, soaking the point of the blade with her blood. Shifting her grip on the knife’s bone handle, she studied the festering abscess on the horse’s side. The swelling had grown considerably since she removed the saddle. If she could lance it and get her blood into him, he would heal.
Closing her eyes, she reached for the strength inside. The energy kindling within her blood crackled. She’d used so much strength over the last few days, never letting herself rest as she’d pursued the men who’d slaughtered her people. Even a few drops would be enough for the horse, and the kind creature did not deserve to suffer.
A clean slice across the surface of the wound gave the infection a chance to drain. The stink of it turned her stomach, but she applied pressure and keep the horse calm at the same time. On a normal day, healing the animal would be child’s play for her, but today was not normal. The warmth of her earlier work leeched away.
The corners of her vision went gray, so she closed her eyes and concentrated on the few drops of blood she eased into the injury. Her thoughts, powered by her will, were her gift. The horse shuddered a sigh and the stink of infection drifted away. Releasing her grip on the animal, she took a step back and swayed. The world came into hard focus, then softened and turned dizzying. No food, barely any water, and days of constant movement all collided in her system.
She needed sleep. Real sleep and a hot meal. She could afford neither, but her body refused to listen to her. Her right leg buckled. If not for a hand on her arm catching her, she would have fallen right into the fire.
The one called Jimmy’s face swam into her line of sight. He caught her blade before it hit the earth and then she fell. Darkness fell upon her like an eagle on a killing stoop. When its claws seized her and dragged her away, the world around her vanished.
* * *
Leaving the cave, Onsi found the newly-risen moon. Beautiful, the thin sliver cast a faint light across the night. Overhead, the ancestors glittered across the sky, ever patient and watchful. She greeted the moon with a wave, then began the climb up from the river. The soft sounds of the encampment wrapped around her.
The warriors returned with fresh game, and the children settled in their blankets or wrapped in papooses as the tribe gathered close to the central fire. Tonight, Loquan, their elder, would weave a tale and none wished to miss one of his stories. Though not a medicine man, Loquan held the most honored position in the tribe—that of chief to the chief. His age and wisdom, prized and valued, saved them in their last skirmish with the Sioux. Recognizing his wisdom, they allowed him to broker peace so what could have ended their tribe instead provided them with allies and a chance to flourish.
Following the dazzling sound of her people talking, she raced toward the great fire then stumbled to a halt. So many of her people were there, too many. The one called Morning Star stood at the center of the gathering, his hands raised in supplication.
No! A bolt of fury cut through her. A vision. Another vision of a forgotten time. What were the spirits hiding from her now? The last time they’d trapped her in a vision she’d lost her tribe. What did they want her not to see? Despite stopping, she continued forward, inexorably pulled toward the center of the ring.
“We have nothing to fear.” Morning Star’s tone commanded attention from the gathered People. “The illness felling the white man is not ours and will not touch us again.” He held out his hand and the woman called Alicia took it. Trapped in the center, she had no choice but to watch. The blonde woman at his side provided an exotic contrast to Morning Star’s ruddy skin and deep black hair. Like so many men in her tribe, he stood tall and thick chested with even thicker arms.
He was a man used to hunting. Though clearly marked a shaman by the paint on his shoulders and chest, his wife was not of the People. Captured bride or not, she had not made herself welcome either. Many in the gathering leaned away from them.
“We have seen to it. The sickness will not take the People.” Morning Star still spoke, and Onsi wanted to believe him, but why? She could not say. Two young boys rushed to join them, both stark naked. One somber and the other with an easy smile, the twins. Could they be the infants she saw before?
The passage of time in the vision seemed clearer now. Babes before, the infants looked to be at least two summers. Awareness chilling her blood, Onsi eased herself in a circle. Whatever force trapped her close did not prevent her from studying the landscape or the gathered.
The tribal gathering was large, comprised of all her people, yet she recognized not one face amongst them. Whatever time the spirits showed her, it was not hers. None of the tribes she knew of possessed this strength of numbers—unless they are banding together? The futile hope in the thought delivered a blow and drove the air from her chest.
“Lies,” a woman called out as she pushed her way to the front. “White man’s magic is not ours. The one called Alicia has angered the spirits. They do not talk to us or guide us. You follow her dark path now. If I spoke untrue, my son would still be with us and the spirits would have healed him.”
Morning Star met his accuser with no anger, but kindness. “The spirits did not fail your son, Little Tree. His injury was grievous, yet he hid it from us all. If he came to us when he received it, we could have healed the wound, but the darkness in his body spread to all parts and too much damage had been done.”
Infection. Onsi recognized the description, and her heart ached for the mother. The woman spit, seemingly incensed by the response. “He would have to come to you, if you had not angered the spirits.”
What is this? No one in the People behave this way. They did not attack their own, nor would they turn on a shaman. The boys leaned against their mother, bracketing her on each side. The smiling one wore a worried expression, but the other studied the crowd before him with a ste
ady, even expression, too old for one so young.
“We hear your words Morning Star.” An older man spoke, and the rumbling in the crowd lessened. When elders spoke, it was the honor of all to listen. The man who stood possessed a weathered visage and a crown of silver hair. His paint marked him as a warrior, though his age would suggest he no longer fought or hunted for the People. “We hear your words, and we are concerned. For once, the spirits who used to talk to us all no longer speak, not even in whispers, and the whispers we hear at the gathering of the sun speak of fevers taking others—others of the People, not just the white men. The caravan of wagons we found? All dead. You saw the illness., You know of which I speak.”
“I do, kind father.” The appellation labeled any senior member of the tribe. Morning Star ran a hand over his wife’s hair. “It is not the spirits who have ceased to speak, but we who have ceased to listen. The fevers you speak of, they are the white man’s illnesses. My wife knows of these things—the pox, mumps, and the one which brings the spots. They came here with them on the great ships which crossed the oceans. Our people did not possess the spirits to fight these sicknesses.”
“We do now?” The question rang with challenge.
“Yes.” Morning Star didn’t offer an explanation, but met the gaze of everyone who tried to stare him down. When the last looked away, he nodded slowly. “Then we are agreed. We shall take the winding river south to the golden hills and make our winter camp.”
A long silence greeted his proclamation then the crowd began to disperse. The shaman often chose the place of the winter camp. Onsi chose the river where her people wintered. They judged it from the word of the spirits and the history of the place. They chose from handful of locations and tried never to winter in the same spot twice. Once upon a time, the People did not fear choosing to return to a destination, but their enemies grew in numbers and found many reasons to object to their presence.
While the People left, Morning Star and his wife remained. Their sons, too, did not drift away with the crowd. The smiling one continued to appear troubled, but the serious one now wore a scowl.
“I hope I speak the truth,” Morning Star said in a hushed tone, though the words were clear to Onsi.
“We have no reason not to believe this truth you shared.” His wife pressed a hand to his chest before reaching to pick up one of their sons while Morning Star retrieved the other. “The spirits gave you the vision of the river.”
“Yes.” He nodded. Despite his earlier confidence, his expression and eyes reflected a troubled doubt. “The news of the illnesses spreads. When we met with the People over summer, fewer tribes came.”
“We do not know why they were not there, my love. All we know is they weren’t. More settlers travel from the east, smaller groupings, and they could be carrying our sicknesses with them.”
Like his troubled son, Morning Star’s dark look did not ease at her words. “I will dream tonight,” he said. “I will ask the spirits directly.”
“My husband, you cannot—” The words cut off, and the world blurred around Onsi.
* * *
A hand touched her face and a man’s words intruded. One moment she stood amongst the People, the next Onsi opened her eyes to find the one called Jimmy studying her.
“There she is,” Jimmy said. “You went cold.”
The words held no meaning. She was in the present once more, not trapped in a vision. The touch of the man’s hand on her arm brought her out of the vision. She lay against a blanket while another had been laid over her. The fire was larger now, and the warmth seeped into her bones. The scent of meat had her stomach grumbling and she sat. The one called Jimmy retreated before her head smacked into his.
She stared at him, then at the worried eyes of the boy across the fire. Both seemed uneasy. Her blade lay next to the fire, just out of her reach. Surprisingly, she wore her doeskin dress again. Registering all of this information in a single glance, she returned her attention to the one called Jimmy.
He knelt next to her. When her gaze met his, he reached for the blade. Holding it from the sharpened end, he offered it to her, hilt first. “This one will not hurt you,” he said, a reminder of their earlier conversation.
More passed in the shared moment than the mere offering of her knife, though what she could not determine. A distant part of her wanted to reject his offer. The blade was not his to give. Yet the rest of her recognized the simple truth.
She’d been helpless and at his mercy. Not only did she still live, they took care of her while she was vulnerable. “This one thanks you,” she said, closing her hand on the hilt but not pulling away until he released the blade. Two could make the same gesture. She flipped it around and held it up to him, hilt first. “This one will not hurt you either.”
Jimmy smiled. The expression relaxed his face and warmed his brown eyes. The unsettled feeling in the pit of her stomach intensified and a shiver stole through her. He took the blade and set it on the ground between them. After shrugging out of his jacket, he held it out to her. When she didn’t object, he settled it over her shoulders. The warmth staggered her, as did the smell.
Her wrinkled nose must have betrayed her thoughts because he chuckled. “This one will bathe soon. This one gives his word.”
The warmth outweighed the stench, however, so she accepted his words and drew her legs into a more comfortable seated position. The combination of jacket, blankets and fire warmed her further. The horses lingered nearby and she checked the animal she’d treated. A tingle in her blood told her the magic worked.
The younger man spoke, and Jimmy answered him in the white man’s language. The more words she heard, sooner or later, she would understand. Some sounded similar. One in particular—could the boy be called Shane? Or did it mean something else?
Jimmy said little while he tended the food. The pair of rabbits had been skinned, cleaned and set up to roast on a spit. The intensity of the meat crackling had her mouth watering. A pain clenched her side. She truly hadn’t eaten in too long.
The younger man held out something and she met his inquisitive gaze. When she didn’t accept immediately, Jimmy reached over and broke off a corner. Holding it up for her inspection, he waited until she watched him to put it in his mouth. He chewed slowly.
Food.
They offered her food.
“That one is called Shane,” he confirmed her earlier thought. “Shane wants to share the hard tack with you because of the sounds your stomach makes.”
As if on cue, her stomach rumbled louder and the pinching sensation increased. The need to eat grew desperate. “This one is honored.” She accepted the hard cake and took off a corner as Jimmy did. Testing the taste with her tongue, she was neither impressed nor disappointed. It had a faint flavor of meat, but more of something earthy. She did not recognize the flavor.
“This one has questions for you, Blue, when you’ve eaten.”
Blue. Such an odd name he gifted her. Perhaps it meant something in the white man’s tongue. Something more than the color of the sky. “This one will consider answers.” Though, in truth, she planned nothing more than to share their campfire for the night.
Come dawn, she would return to the hunt. Sooner, if the food granted her the strength.
“This one appreciates it.” Another smile and an unsettled feeling unfolded within her system. “Most can wait till the food is done, but this one is curious about one thing.”
Only one? Perhaps she misunderstood or he misspoke. That he understood the tongue of The People fascinated her. “What one thing does Jimmy want to know?”
The corners of his mouth curved, and he pulled off his hat. The wild tangle of his hair fell to below his shoulders and matched the ragged condition of his beard. “This one is not sure of the words. Did you see the bird earlier?”
Bird? Onsi frowned.
After turning the makeshift spit, Jimmy motioned toward the sky. “The bird. The men you pursued, they tried to shoot a bird.”
The eagle.
He’d seen the eagle.
Uncertain of how to respond, Onsi hesitated. Kindness extended only so far and some secrets could never to be shared. He was not of The People. In as much as she accepted his word about not meaning her any harm, she did not know him well enough to trust him with her secrets.
“No,” she answered, relying on the truth. She hadn’t seen the eagle. Would he accept her answer? Could he?
Jimmy, Night in the Hills
Until the moment she said no, Onsi hadn’t lied to him. The shift in her pupils when her gaze slid away from him betrayed a hint of dishonesty. What he didn’t know was why she chose deception for her response to such a simple question. Scratching his chin, he considered confronting her.
“You saw what she did to the horse?” Shane’s mumble carried a strained note.
“I did.” His beard itched. A bath tonight, even in the frigid stream, might be in order.
“She healed it.”
“I know.” Blue. He still wasn’t certain if the color was her name, but he found it suited her. Dark brown, almost walnut colored eyes and the inky black of her hair—the irony wasn’t lost on him. She wore nothing in the shade of the sky, and yet when he looked at her, all he could think about were the ferocity of her beauty and the open freedom of the skies above.
“Are you going to ask her?” The intensity in the younger man’s manner pulled Jimmy from his musing.
“No.”
Surprise flickered on his face. Seated between Shane and Blue, Jimmy chose a perfect angle to watch both of them. Blue waited for him to ask another question, her brows crinkled, disrupting the smoothness of her expression. Shane’s disbelief delivered a far more blunt reaction. He couldn’t seem to decide between a scowl or a stare.
When Blue stripped off her dress earlier, the boy nearly had a heart attack. Though, in all fairness, Jimmy hadn’t been much better off after an eyeful of supple, dark skin and smooth muscle. Absolutely beautiful, yet she didn’t seem remotely aware of it. Not once since she’d woken from her faint had she touched her hair or checked her clothing.
The Quick and the Fevered Page 10