Where the Lost Wander: A Novel(101)

“He’s not like Washakie, John. Pocatello is a bad man. Bad men hurt people. All kinds of people. He’ll keep hurting people. There is no place in this world for men like him, but no one seems to want to stop him.” My voice rings with accusation, and I wince. I don’t blame John. How could I? I don’t blame Washakie either. He has been a true friend. But I do blame Pocatello, and he and his men haven’t been held to account.

“There is no place in this world for any of these people,” John says, looking back at me, his eyes troubled. “Washakie’s war chiefs sit around the fire and talk of defending their lands and their way of life, but Washakie knows it’s just a matter of time.”

“What way of life is that? Scalps? Burned wagons? Selling and raping women?” I don’t understand him, and my chest is hot with indignation and suppressed emotion. John is silent beside me, and when he finally turns his head again, I see . . . disappointment. He looks hurt and disappointed. In me.

“Washakie told me a cow wandered away from an emigrant train into a Blackfoot village near Fort Hall. The Blackfeet killed it and ate it. They didn’t steal it, and they didn’t know who it belonged to. It was in their camp, so it belonged to them. Someone complained, the cavalry was sent out to ask questions, and half the village was wiped out in the confusion. There’s plenty of ugly on every side, Naomi. It isn’t fair to make a statement like that.”

I press my hands to my chest, trying to hold back my outrage, the injustice of his disapproval, but find that I can’t. I rise to my feet and stumble out of the wickiup, out into the pink-and-purple remains of the day. The sun is almost gone, and the mountains beyond us are black. I take a few deep breaths to ease the fire in my heart and stagger on. John doesn’t follow, and I am glad.

I climb up through the trees to the pool of hot water that reminds me of the springs where Adam Hines was bucked clean off his feet by the force of the water. That was just a few days before my whole family was taken from me. John’s worrying about preserving a way of life when my whole life is already gone. Oh, dear God, I need my mother. I need her to tell me what to do and how to feel. I gotta get my mind right.

“Ma?” I say, and her name is an audible cry. “Ma, if you can hear me, I need to talk. I need to say a few things, and no one here understands a word I say. Not even John. I need you so bad, Ma. I will never see you again. And I’m angry about that. I’m angry that you’re gone, and I’m angry about the way you were taken. It’s not right! It’s not right, Ma. And it’s never going to be right.”

“Naomi?”

I jerk, embarrassed, but I don’t look over my shoulder. I know who it is, but I’m embarrassed. I am babbling at the water like I’ve lost my mind. I keep my back turned and try to slow the tears that never seem to let up.

Lost Woman comes closer and stops at my side. She says something to me that I don’t understand, and the longing for my mother wells even deeper.

“I need my mother,” I tell her, and my voice breaks on a sob. “I don’t know what to do, and I need Ma. Sua beeya,” I beg. I don’t know if I’m using the right word for need. John has tried to teach me.

I can’t see her face; my eyes are too blurred with tears. I am foolish, and I groan in frustration.

“Naomi?” Lost Woman says.

I rub at my eyes, trying to control myself, trying to meet her gaze.

“Talk . . . Lost Woman,” she says softly.

She takes my hand and pulls me along beside her, but when we are down from the hill, she releases me, and we stroll through the darkness together, not touching, the wickiups at our backs, the fires leaching the orange from the night sky.

“Daigwa,” she says. Speak.

So I do. I talk to her like I would talk to Ma, and she listens, her hands clutched behind her back, her eyes on the steps we take. We pace in front of the wickiups, close enough to not get lost, far enough to be alone. I tell her how angry I am. I tell her how hurt and scared and angry I am. I give her all my words. Every ugly, terrifying one. I tell her I am trapped where the lost wander, and I don’t see any way out. I will never be able to leave. Not without Wolfe. And he is not mine anymore. He is not ours—mine and Ma’s. He is theirs. And I am so angry. I tell her I wish I were dead . . . and yet . . . I’m so happy I’m alive. I tell her I love her and I hate her. And that makes me cry, because I love her far more than I hate her. I say I hate John too because I need him so much.

I hate and I love. I hate that I hate, and I tell her everything. When I am done and there are no more words in my chest, I stop. Then I breathe. Lost Woman stops too and looks up at me as if she understood every word.

“Att,” she says, nodding. Good. And I laugh. She smiles too, her white hair billowing around her, and the sky doesn’t feel nearly as big, and I don’t feel nearly so small. She points toward the edge of the darkness where John stands, waiting for me, and we walk together toward him.

He speaks to her, words I don’t understand, and she answers softly, touching my cheek. Then she leaves us alone.

We lie in the dark, not touching. I don’t have any words left right now, but when I turn my back to go to sleep, he pulls me into his body and buries his face in my hair.

“What did you say to her?” I ask. He doesn’t ask who.

“I thanked her for bringing you home.”