Good Medicine

by Bobby Hutchinson

  “I buy them from him, too. The going rate is a quarter per pint.”

  “Really?”

  He could see from her guilty expression she’d been handing over considerably more.

  “Your nephew has a promising future as an entrepreneur, Silas.”

  “More likely a gossip columnist.”

  Jordan laughed. He loved to see it. She had a sadness about her that disappeared when she laughed. “All the news that’s fit to print, and some that isn’t.”

  “True. Getting back to school will be good for those little gossipmongers.”

  “I’ll miss them.”

  “Me, too.”

  “By the way, I drank some of that tea you gave me. I can’t believe how well it worked. The pain hasn’t been nearly as bad. It’s got pharmacy painkillers beat all to heck.”

  “Good.” He concentrated on the food for a few moments, noticing that she hadn’t tasted the bannock. He broke off a chunk, smeared it with butter, and held it out.

  She leaned forward and took it from his hand. The fleeting contact of her fingers on his sent heat coursing through him.

  “Yum.” She swallowed, and gave him a slow smile. “You can’t even taste the sand, can you?”

  “I think Mabel uses an oven.”

  “It’s delicious.”

  He nodded agreement. “Were you busy today?”

  “It was quiet in the morning. But this afternoon we were immunizing babies, so it was a little hectic. Fun, though. The babies are so cute, even though they hate me for sticking them. How did you spend your day?”

  “Writing. One article is overdue, there are several others I’d like to finish.”

  “I’ve always wondered what it would be like to be a writer.”

  “Tedious. You sit at a keyboard until blood comes out your fingers.”

  After a dessert of bread pudding with thimbleberries, they walked home—slowly, because of Jordan’s crutches. “I saw a patient today who told me you’d been treating her for chronic fatigue syndrome,” Jordan said casually.

  “That would be Zweena Watts.”

  “Yes. Chronic fatigue syndrome is a difficult condition to treat, and she’s so young to have developed it. Have you treated anyone else for it?”

  Silas hesitated. He suspected this was going to lead to controversy.

  “Probably, but I don’t label illness the same way you do,” he said after a moment. “Our healing teaches that it’s best not to give a condition a name, because by naming it we are inviting its presence, making it more real than it already is. So we deal with symptoms, with energy patterns and avoid saying yes, you have this or that.”

  “But how do you know what treatment to prescribe if you don’t diagnose the disease?” They were almost at the clinic. The evening was soft and warm, and the sky was just beginning to darken. The sun had set while they were having dinner.

  “We rely more on interpretation of the patient’s story. How and when did the illness develop? What does it symbolize in the patient’s life? Is offering a therapy in harmony with everything else? Timing is all-important, since a medicine offered at the wrong time may make the symptoms worse instead of better.”

  They were at Jordan’s door. She motioned to two lawn chairs on the small patch of grass. “Would you like to sit and talk? Or will we get eaten alive by mosquitoes?”

  “You need a smudge fire to keep them away.” He steadied one of the chairs as she set her crutches aside and lowered herself into it.

  “I have a candle thing someone gave me that’s supposed to keep the bugs away—citronella. It’s just inside, on the shelf where the books are.”

  He went inside and found it. Outside again, he set it on a stump of wood and lit it with a match.

  “Thanks, Silas. I hope it works. I’m going nuts scratching the bites I got the other night.”

  “Rub them with the inside of a banana peel, it’ll take the sting out. An old man told me that mosquito bites represent the little irritations we carry around with us.”

  “I must have a ton of them.” She scratched in silence. “The way you describe your healing technique is very holistic, Silas. I met a naturopathic doctor in Vancouver, and your approach sounds similar to hers.”

  Relieved at her open attitude, he sat beside her, stretching his legs out in front of him, and noticing the long, lean lines of her body. She had a natural grace, a way of moving, even with the crutch, that he found intensely attractive.

  “Indigenous cultures around the world have developed healing techniques that work, and in many cases they’re almost identical.”

  “So can you tell me exactly how you treated Zweena, or is it confidential?”

  “Sure, I can tell you.” Some areas of the treatment were confidential, but most of it was pretty general. This was where he’d find out how open-minded she really was about alternative therapy.

  “Getting the person to talk is always critical. I listened to her words, but at the same time I paid attention to her energy. I could feel that there were psychological and spiritual components to what was bothering her. I could see a desperate child inside the woman, and I knew the child had to be addressed before we could go further. I helped her identify her spirit totem, and then we used its power to ask for help. It helped me see her soul, trapped inside the child and not allowed to grow to meet its potential. Using visualization, I performed a ceremony to help her free that part of herself, to help her spirit return to her body.”

  Jordan had been listening intently. She waited, and when he didn’t say anything else, she shook her head, puzzled. “I don’t understand. Didn’t you give her any herbs or—or whatever it is you use?”

  “I gave her juice derived from herbs.” He wasn’t surprised at her emphasis on tangible medication, and her dismissive attitude toward the other, subtler healing techniques. There had been a time when his reaction would have matched hers.

  “Herbal medicine is being recognized more and more in scientific studies. I read in a medical journal that yew bark is effective for a wide range of ailments.”

  Silas nodded. “My people have always used it. Over seventy percent of all western drugs have come from isolating the active ingredients in plants and animals that the world’s indigenous people have used for centuries. Fortunately, yew bark’s still widely available. Other plants and herbs are disappearing—destruction of the forest and land.”

  “I had a chance to read some of Sandrine’s stories, about the summer camps and fishing for salmon, and the rigorous training the young women went through. To me, it sounded as if things went steeply downhill after the missionaries came.”

  “You’ve got it.” Silas laughed. “Sandrine used to say that in the beginning we had the land and the white man had the Bible. Now all we’ve got is the Bible and the white man has the land.”

  Jordan said softly, “The way you transcribed Sandrine’s words made her world come alive for me, Silas. I’m sure things weren’t easy in those days, but they sound idyllic compared to now.”

  “It was a different life.” There was sadness in his tone. “A different time. We’re trying to reclaim the best things about our culture, but it’s tough.”

  “It must make you very angry.”

  He shook his head. “Sad, yes. Mad, no. Sandrine taught me that balance is integral to healing. Anger knocks you out of balance. Illness is an imbalance. You can’t give what you don’t have.”

  “Physician, heal thyself?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Easier said than done.”

  He looked up, into her eyes, wondering what had caused her such deep unhappiness.

  Jordan reached for her crutches and struggled to her feet. “It’s getting late. I should go in. Thank you for my dinner—I loved it. And I’ve really enjoyed our conversation.” Turning, she tripped over her crutch and let out a shriek. Silas grabbed her before she fell, but instead of letting her go drew her close, tight against him. She felt fragile in his arms, and famili
ar. He’d learned the shape and weight of her.

  “Is it all right if I kiss you?”

  She caught her breath. Instead of relaxing, he felt her stiffen in his arms.

  He was prepared to release her when she nodded, just the faintest inclination of her chin. She closed her eyes, and put her hands on his shoulders.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  SILAS TOOK HIS TIME. He touched her mouth with his in the gentlest of kisses. When she relaxed just a little, he teased at her lips, nibbling and caressing until she began to respond.

  He made an appreciative sound deep in his throat and went on kissing her until the final bit of tension left her body and she allowed him to gently draw her in, so that the contours of her body matched his. Supporting her with one arm around her waist, he put a hand at the back of her head, sliding his fingers into her thick, silky hair.

  She slid her arms up and around his neck, and now the kiss spiraled out of control. The force of his desire caught Silas by surprise and his whole body shuddered.

  SWEET HEAVEN, but the man could kiss. Jordan was grateful for his strong arm supporting her, otherwise she knew she’d slither to the ground—and it wouldn’t be a wound in her groin this time. Pain in that region gave way to a desperate ache that had nothing to do with injury and everything to do with need.

  Tightening her grip around his neck, she gave herself up to the sweetness of his lips and the intoxicating sensation of his strong body pressing against her. His erection made it clear how very much he, too, was enjoying this.

  But she wasn’t about to take the next step. She wasn’t free. She was still married to Garry, and theirs had been a strong emotional bond. She no longer loved her husband, but she couldn’t forget that she had loved him.

  She wasn’t ready for Silas. For her, making love required commitment and familiarity. She didn’t really know him well enough, and still it took every ounce of her willpower to pull away.

  “My crutches,” she said in a shaky voice. She’d dropped them. “I really need to go in now.”

  “Sure.” Reluctantly he let her go, steadying her as he found the crutches and handed them to her. He used his knuckles to tilt her chin up so she was looking into his eyes. “There’s strong energy between us, Jordan Burke.”

  Her heart attested to that, as well as her libido. “There sure is.”

  “What do you want to do about that?”

  “What do you mean, do about it?”

  He looked amused. “I think it’s called having sex. I’m asking you if you want to make love with me.”

  Jordan didn’t know how to answer. Talk about straightforward, this guy was an arrow. She looked up at him and shook her head. “Nothing subtle about you, you go straight for the jugular.”

  He grinned. “Think lower down. And I guess I don’t know any way except direct. I’m out of practice at the mating dance.”

  “Is that what this is? A mating dance?”

  He shrugged and looked at her with those clear green eyes. “It’s whatever you want it to be.”

  She had to look away.

  “Are you going to be okay now? No more throwing yourself at me?”

  “I’ll try to restrain myself.”

  “Night then, Falling Down Woman.” He gave her his characteristic salute and walked off into the dusk.

  Jordan snorted. “Falling Down Woman? What’s that about?” she muttered, going inside. “I’ll give him Falling Down Woman.”

  Silas Keefer was one of the strangest men she’d ever met. He was also one of the most vital. He made her laugh, he made her want to tear her clothes off and jump his bones. He made her feel alive again, as if she’d recovered from a long illness. When she was with him, she hardly thought about Garry, or her past life at St. Joe’s. When she was with Silas, there was only the present, the moment. Now.

  It had been so long since she’d felt like a desirable woman, so long since a man had kissed and caressed and admired her.

  The physical relationship had ended long before she finally admitted Garry had a drug problem. She’d made so many excuses—both of them were busy, she worked shifts, Garry hadn’t recovered from the accident. Like so much else, she hadn’t been able to face that an important part of her marriage was dying.

  Which was why she had to consider carefully whether it would be a mistake to make love with Silas. Physically, she was more than ready. She wanted Silas as her lover. Emotionally, she wasn’t as certain.

  THE TEA WORKED LIKE MAGIC on her muscles, and in a little over a week she was barely limping. On a warm Wednesday afternoon, she and Silas set out for the hot springs.

  The boat he’d borrowed was a smaller version of the one that had brought her to Ahousaht.

  “It belongs to my cousin, Earl Lucas,” he told her as he helped her aboard. “It’s his fishing boat.”

  “I probably could have guessed by the smell,” Jordan said, wrinkling her nose as she hastily stowed her backpack in the tiny cabin. She hurried back up on deck to stand beside Silas. He looked exotic in dark wraparound sunglasses, his hair tied back at the nape of his neck. His white T-shirt clung to his torso, and his ragged cutoffs emphasized the powerful muscles in his thighs. He had great legs, long and well shaped.

  It was a windy, blue sky day, and the water was choppy. Silas turned the tiller into the waves, and Jordan laughed as the water thumped under the boat’s bow.

  “Like that, do you?” He managed the tiller with one hand and looped the other arm around her shoulders as the little boat bounced along. “It can blow pretty big along this coast, you don’t want to be out here when it’s storming.”

  “It’s not going to storm today, though, is it?” Jordan squinted at the expanse of sky and ocean and relished the feeling of his bare arm against her skin.

  “No. I checked the weather. Perfect sailing.”

  Jordan felt lighthearted. It had taken some arranging to break free for a few hours. She’d put a sign up several days ago announcing that she’d be away for the afternoon, and then had to do some fast talking to get out of saying exactly where she was going. Her patients had no qualms about quizzing her.

  Christina was the only one who knew, and she’d promised to keep the information to herself. But Michael and Eli had been down at the dock when she and Silas set sail. By now the news would be spreading like the flu.

  Jordan had her cell phone in her pocket, in case some dire emergency arose at the village, but she was really hoping for a quiet afternoon.

  “I finished Sandrine’s stories last night. You’re going to publish them, aren’t you?”

  “The University Press is interested, but I haven’t decided. Grandmother’s yarns have always belonged to her people. It’s hard to let them go.”

  “Christina said that Michael’s mother is trying to talk the grandmothers into taping them.”

  “Wanda’s creative. I think it’s a good idea.”

  “So do I. They’re powerful and moving, anyone could relate to them,” Jordan declared. “I cried when Sandrine described how she hid when they came from the residential school to take the children away. I can’t believe the government sanctioned something so barbaric.”

  That story had touched Jordan deeply. She remembered clearly the day the authorities had come and taken her and Toby into custody.

  Silas turned the wheel of the boat to steer it across the waves. “Sandrine never did go to the residential school. Everyone said she’d died, and the authorities believed them because so many died from the measles. And then Sandrine was taught by the elders, in the old ways. Her grandfather was a powerful healer, and he understood that Sandrine would be a healer, too.”

  “And she taught you.”

  “I didn’t have the benefit of learning from an early age, though, the way Grandmother did.”

  “Why not, Silas?”

  “I was born here, but my father was white—an anthropologist who came to study the poor natives.” He pressed his lips together.

 
“And he fell in love with Rose Marie?”

  “He married her, took her with him back to Vancouver, probably because I was on the way.”

  “And then your mother got sick.”

  “My father kept me with him when Rose Marie was brought home. He wanted me to have a good white man’s education.” Silas pronounced each word very clearly. “Rose Marie fought for custody, but he had good lawyers and plenty of money.”

  “Didn’t she have visiting rights?” But Jordan knew all too well that having them and using them were two very different matters. Mike had had visiting rights.

  “The agreement was that I’d spend summers in Ahousaht and the school year with him in Vancouver.”

  “Sounds reasonable.” Imagine having two parents who actually wanted you with them, Jordan thought with a pang of jealousy.

  “I hated it. I didn’t fit in here. I was a half-breed. In Vancouver, Angus sent me to boarding school as soon as I was toilet-trained. I was a half-breed there, too.” There was no self-pity in his tone. He sounded almost amused.

  “So…what are you now?”

  “A half-breed.” He turned and smiled at her. “But I’m a damned well-adjusted one.” He squinted at the shoreline. “Look, can you see the deer over there, just beside the cedar tree? She has a fawn with her—he’s tough to see because he blends in so well with the foliage.” He was steering the boat in a parallel line to the wild, thickly timbered coastline.

  Jordan squinted through her sunglasses. At first, she couldn’t see the animal and then suddenly it was obvious. She could just make out the smaller shape, half-hidden behind the doe.

  “Oh, she’s so graceful. And her baby’s small, a real Bambi.”

  “She’s welcoming you, Jordan.”

  “That’s a nice thought.”

  “See that wharf up ahead? That’s where we’re heading.”

  In another few moments, he’d pulled the boat alongside the floating dock and tied it securely. Shouldering his pack, he jumped out of the boat and held out a hand to Jordan. She rescued her belongings from below and then took his hand. Her groin was pretty much healed, but it was still tender, and she winced a little as she clambered up beside him.