The Spirit Keeper

by K. B. Laugheed

  “Ah! A runaway!” said the young trader who had failed to sell me anything. His English was poor, but his meaning was clear. He grinned as he added, “Your father, he give fortune to find you, eh?” The older Frenchman shot the speaker a warning look, which caused the younger man to turn his attention to refolding fabrics.

  “My father is dead,” I said simply. “The few family members remaining to me know where I am and, I assure you, would give nothing to have me back. Therefore I must ask you gentlemen, once again, not to concern yourselves with my affairs. Thank you for showing me your wares.”

  I rejoined my companions, hoping they were ready to return to the Indian village, but they were at this point keenly examining a large array of knives. When I asked Syawa if he meant to trade for something, he stept back and gestured emphatically that he had nothing to trade.

  I was surprised. What about all those furs and hides we had been cleaning, collecting, and carrying? Why did we keep them, if not to use in trade? I thought perhaps Syawa was positioning himself to bargain, but I had no way to ask because our language of gestures offered no opportunity to speak privately. Besides, I wasn’t e’en sure he fully understood the situation. He and Hector might not want to trade, but these Frenchmen were experts at getting what they wanted, and they would keep after my companions as long as they had anything the Frenchmen considered valuable—be it animal hides, information, or, for that matter, me.

  Sure enough, before we could leave, the head Frenchman insisted we join them for a meal, and inasmuch as Syawa was incapable of refusing an invitation, we ate with them. I must say the food was the best I’d had since leaving home, no doubt because it was the sort I was used to. The French had taught their Indian women the Old World way of cooking, and I thoroughly enjoyed the bread and cheese and cake and pie. Syawa and Hector were less enthusiastic, but, as usual, they ate everything offered to them as if their lives depended on it.

  Whilst we were eating I watched a number of local Indians come and go from the trading post. The younger, mix-blooded Frenchmen did most of the haggling, but I noticed they always consulted with the older man who was hosting our meal, e’en if the consultation consisted of nothing more than an inquiring look and a confirming nod.

  Our host, whose name was something like LeFevre, got a lot more information from my companions than he had managed to get from me. Clearly LeFevre had either seen or heard about our performance the night before, and, using the gesture language, he plied Syawa and Hector for details, especially about where, exactly, I was from, what Indian tribes were involved in the raid, how many people were involved on both sides, and what sort of resistance my family and the neighboring community put up. My companions answered all of LeFevre’s questions without reservation.

  Knowing how traders use information as a tool in negotiations, I wisht I could urge Syawa to be less forthcoming, but because I did not want to call further attention to myself, I said nothing throughout this interrogation and did not, in fact, let the Frenchmen know I spake their language. As the men gestured on and on, silently discussing the situation on the Colonial border, I watched their discussion but let my ears focus in on what was happening at the trade tables. When the young traders negotiated with the natives, they spoke the local language, which I did not understand, but when they conferred with each other, they spoke French, which I understand well. In this way I learnt the traders were systematically cheating the Indians.

  When, at last, my companions were ready to depart, I was relieved. I said naught about what I’d heard, mostly because I did not know what to say. Should I say merchants are deceptive? Who does not know that? In my lifetime, my father’s livelihood came from clever deal-making and ruthless profit-taking, and the fact that Father was so bad at those enterprises helped make my early life abysmal. Considering how much information Syawa had just given the French for free, I feared he, like my father, would rarely come out on top in any trade, which made it likely I would continue to live in poverty all my days.

  By the time we got back to the Indian village I was exhausted, and, still full of good French food, I curled up in my bearskin and went immediately to sleep.

  • • •

  Awakened the next morning by a commotion outside, I hurried out to join my companions, who were being gabbled at by a distraught young man and an older woman. Finally the young man realized his error and repeated his frantic pleas in the form of fumbling gestures. Apparently his wife was in some sort of distress, and he and his mother prayed the celebrated Seer from a Distant Land might perform the magic their own healers had been unable to conjure.

  Syawa stood still for a moment, an odd smile on his face. He gave Hector the slightest shrug. Hector lifted his chin in acknowledgment and walked away as Syawa turned his eyes to me. “This is what I saw in my Vision,” he said in both words and gestures. “Now it begins.”

  My stomach churned. I was not ready for this—I was still half-asleep! Besides, I had no special powers, no unique knowledge, no ability to help anyone do anything. The truth was, as Syawa well knew, I could scarce assist in meal preparation and couldn’t e’en chop wood without bungling it. Yet here he was smiling at me, and here were all these strangers staring at me with hope in their eyes. I was absolutely petrified. How could I possibly make Syawa’s Vision come true?

  I numbly turned to follow Syawa, who was following the young man, my thoughts racing far ahead of them both. If we all somehow survived the shame of my inevitable failure, would Syawa understand at last what a mistake he’d made? When he realized there was nothing at all special about me, would he send me home or have Hector dispatch me on the spot? I walked with head down, dreading the dismal end of my short, unhappy life.

  We came to a hut from which a few of the roof mats had been removed. Syawa and I entered to find a young woman clearly suffering the pangs of childbirth. She was wholly naked, sitting on a large hide, her belly huge and tight, her face pale and dotted with perspiration. Her eyes rolled in terror that instantly transformed into relief the moment she saw who we were. When Syawa smiled that smile of his and knelt beside her, I watched the tension in her taut muscles simply melt away.

  The woman’s husband remained outside, but his mother introduced us to the women attending the laboring girl. One explained how the young mother’s pains began shortly after we arrived in the village, and how she had suffered e’er since with little to show for her efforts. With the mother growing weak, the women hoped the famous Holyman could coax the baby out into this world.

  Syawa crooned a song the young woman could not possibly understand as he brushed the damp hair off her face. He gently laid her down before pulling some items out of a pouch he’d brought with him. As he began performing an incantation o’er her, I turned my attention to the young mother and the hairs on the back of my neck began to rise. Everything was eerily familiar. I suddenly realized I’d been here before—dozens and dozens of times. I knelt beside the laboring woman, becoming strangely calm, confident, and sure. I didn’t know much about campsite cooking, but I knew a thing or two about having babies.

  From the day I, myself, was born, I had been exposed to childbirth on a routine basis. My mother was confined about once a year, and my sisters, sisters-in-law, neighbors, and acquaintances too numerous to mention gave me infinite opportunities to learn all the problems and solutions of difficult labors. In my seventeen years, rare was the month when I was not bathed in the blood of birth—if not from a human, then from one of our many animals. I knew all about the birth process. I knew how it worked and why it sometimes didn’t. If the subject of Syawa’s latest Vision was childbirth, I just might be able to make a contribution.

  Whilst Syawa sang and rubbed herbs on the young woman’s temples, I slowly and deliberately felt her belly. I expected her to tighten up when I touched her, but I was surprised to feel her actually relax beneath my hands. Then it occurred to me—if I were being handled by
someone I sincerely believed to be the embodiment of a Holyman’s Vision, I suppose I, too, would relax.

  My examination revealed the baby’s backside was pressed down hard upon the top of the birth canal. On the other hand, the woman’s pains were still strong and productive, and when I laid my ear against her belly, a strong rolling movement assured me the little one still lived. There was, indeed, reason to hope.

  Hours passed as I tried to work with the pains to turn the baby ’round. Of course the women who’d been there from the beginning had already tried what I was doing, but they urged me on, sure I would have more success. I don’t know how the poor woman endured all my pushing and prodding, but by late in the day I myself was beginning to flag as frustration welled in me. Remembering how I broke that ax, I struggled to remain calm, but I’m sure I would’ve brought the poor mother to the brink of hysteria had it not been for the cool example of Syawa, who sang sweetly through all my futile efforts, ne’er tiring, ne’er wavering, ne’er losing his encouraging smile.

  Just before sunset one of the baby’s grandmothers took me outside to give me food. I sat there by myself, eating numbly as I thought about what more I could do. Something was strange about that baby. I could move it, but it just would not stay where I wanted it to be.

  I held my head in my hands, defeated and increasingly scared. What did I know about childbirth? Of the dozens and dozens of babes I’d seen born, probably less than half had come through the process alive, and of those, maybe half again made it through their first month. This was a grim and grisly business, and things were appearing very bleak. What right had I to be here, pretending to know what I was doing? I was no midwife! I was no one special! Fear swelled as I chid myself for e’er thinking I could save three lives.

  I looked up, startled. Syawa had said three lives. There was the mother, the baby, and . . . oh, you stupid, stupid, stupid girl!

  Syawa had not stopt to eat, and as I re-entered the dark hut, the flickering firelight revealed him staring at the young mother as she stared at him. ’Twas as if her mind was his now, as if he was absorbing her pain. When I resumed my place at his side, he smiled without looking at me. “Are you ready?” he asked, a phrase I knew well, for it was the very thing he asked each morning before we set off on our hike.

  I mumbled an affirmation. I wanted to tell him what I had figured out, but before I could, he urged me to proceed, adding that I need not worry—all would be well. Whilst he kept the young woman focused with his penetrating gaze, I felt her belly more carefully. There it was, hiding up behind the rib cage—the second baby.

  I gestured to the other women about the second baby, explaining that every time we moved the first one, the second pushed it right back where it started. Our challenge was for the grandmothers to hold the second baby out of the way whilst I pushed the first one into place.

  We all took a deep breath and got back to work. I’d seen women scream and writhe under a lot less provocation, but that young mother continued to stare blankly at Syawa’s dark eyes as if she felt no pain at all. Unfortunately, our efforts failed. There just wasn’t room to turn the first babe all the way ’round. At some point well past the middle of the night I had to admit my plan wasn’t going to work.

  When I sat back on my heels, once again near tears, Syawa turned his head to look at me. I could see the firelight reflected in his eyes, the red-orange dancing in the black. His smile was warm, encouraging, filled with love and support. No one had e’er looked at me like that. Tears filled my eyes, and I looked away, ashamed of myself. If Syawa was so sure I could do this, who was I to think I couldn’t? I went back to work.

  This time, instead of trying to turn the baby ’round head first, I pushed it the other way. Working through multiple contractions, I nudged the little legs ’til they were pointed straight down. When next the muscles tightened, we all saw the bulge in the mother’s belly slide into place. That baby might be coming into the world backwards, but at least it was going to come out.

  Once the legs were in the birth canal, things proceeded rapidly. The contractions did their job, and before long tiny feet were visible. I worried to myself that the baby’s head might be too big, which happened once with a cow my father had. After the calf’s body dangled from the mother for some time, my father had no choice but to push it back so he could reach in and crush its skull to save the mother’s life. ’Twas a gruesome scene—not one I wanted to repeat.

  I needn’t have worried. With the next contraction, the baby slithered out as easy as you please. It was a boy. One of the grandmothers was ready and waiting to take him, but he was blue and lifeless, which I knew was oft the case with breech births. I sucked what I could from his mouth and nose, then rubbed him to get the blood flowing. I turned him o’er to rub his back, but nothing much seemed to be happening.

  He was so very small, lying lifeless on my hand and arm.

  With my palm against his tiny belly, I used my other hand to gently press the baby’s back up and down like a bellows. He spluttered and choked and wiggled and kicked. Then he cried.

  After tying off the cord, I gave him to his grandmother and turned my attention back to his mother. By the time the second baby was in position, the poor girl was too depleted to push, and it took much effort from all of us to get that baby out. We worked e’en harder to get the second afterbirth, for the contractions had stopt. By the time we succeeded, the young mother was bleeding so profusely it seemed, for a time, we might yet lose her.

  The other women applied herb-filled pads to stanch the flow, as I piled hides beneath her legs and backside to keep her feet and legs well above her head. I also made cold compresses from river water to chill her belly. Through it all, Syawa’s gentle ministrations kept the woman so calm she actually drifted off to sleep whilst the rest of us scrambled to save her. By late in the afternoon, clots had formed, and mother and both babies were sleeping comfortably.

  Having done all I could, I staggered to the river to wash, my knees trembling from the strain of holding me up for so long. I had worked hard for maybe thirty-five hours, and my vision was beginning to blur. A soft doeskin appeared in mid-air before me; I stared at it blearily. When I managed to focus my eyes, Syawa was drying my hands, his smile smug. I wanted to say something, but ’twas all I could do to stay upright as he pulled me to my feet and put his arm ’round my shoulders to lead me back to the hut where we were staying. I was asleep as soon as my head hit the bearskin, but on the way down some small part of my mind screamed:

  Three lives, three days. Three lives, three days.

  Syawa had said it, and it had come to pass.

  ~11~

  I FIRMLY BELIEVE I DID nothing extraordinary by helping with the birth of those twins. On reflection, I’m sure the women already there would have succeeded without me. But I doubt they could have managed without the calming influence of Syawa. He was the one who truly saved three lives.

  So the question rolling in my mind was this—why did he want people to think it was me? Was this his way of turning me into the mystical creature he claimed me to be? Because that’s exactly what happened. The villagers considered the miraculous birth to be both confirmation of the power of the Great Seer and proof of my Divinity. I would have laughed at the notion had it not frightened me so.

  A gray, stormy sky prevented us from leaving the next day, but it also gave people from far and wide an opportunity to come pay us tribute. Thus began my instruction in the delicate art of Gifting.

  It was so very complicated. We hauled out all the pelts we’d collected and gave these to people to whom we were obliged—those who’d given us food, lodging, or other considerations. But we also had a pile of gifts others had given us, and I asked Syawa how we could accept these things when we must travel so lightly. He smiled and said to refuse a gift insulted the giver, but once the gift was ours, we could do with it what we would. As we gave away most of the things we�
�d been given, he insisted the important thing was to maintain a balance between those giving gifts and those receiving them.

  Oh, but there were treacherous subtleties! For example, I wanted to give the young mother a couple of soft rabbit furs, but Syawa said I’d already given her the greatest gift and to increase her obligation would only shame her. It was hard for him to explain such complex concepts through gestures, but he patiently assured me that if we gave the wrong sort of gift to someone, we might insult that person, and if we gave no gift at all, we might actually be acknowledging that person’s high status or wealth, which would be a compliment. The wealthiest person, Syawa insisted, was the one who ended up with nothing.

  I was confused and must ask many questions. If a gift given to me was mine to do with as I pleased, why had Hector raised such a fuss about my giving away food back at that first village? Syawa smiled and said the sharing of food was not so much a gift as an indicator of a personal relationship, but, in any case, it wasn’t Hector who’d refused my family food—it was Syawa. He went on to tell me Hector had begged to be allowed to provide enough food for all in an effort to avoid a fight like the one which occurred, but Syawa, for whatever reason, flatly forbade him to do so.

  I was shocked by this revelation. Why had Syawa denied my family food? Was he punishing them for the way they treated me? That seemed plausible, especially when I saw how pleased he was by the homage I was receiving. ’Twas almost as if my elevation in status was his gift to me. But how could I possibly enjoy such a powerful gift when, given the importance of balance in the Indian world, I knew I must, sooner or later, give Syawa an equivalent gift in return?

  Thinking of balance also made me wonder about the relationship between the French traders and the natives. Every merchant I’d e’er known exchanged goods for only one reason—to make a profit. This motivation put the traders at a distinct advantage when bartering with people who exchanged goods primarily to maintain a balance of wealth and power. I wondered—how did the Frenchmen explain this contradiction to their Indian sons? And when they explained it to them, how could they look them in the eye?