Where the Lost Wander(104)
“My hands are hopeless,” she says, holding her palms up to the lantern light.
“I love the stains. I noticed the stains on your fingers that very first day. Remember?”
“I do. I saw you staring. You didn’t know what to think.”
“I still don’t,” I whisper, teasing. “But you wouldn’t be Naomi without the stains.”
“I have so many,” she says, quiet. And I know she isn’t talking about paint. She plops her hands back down in the water and sinks beneath the surface, a baptism of sorts. When she comes back up, she’s focused on me.
She wouldn’t be Naomi without the stains, and she wouldn’t be Naomi if she didn’t make good use of the hot springs. We descend the slope an hour later, overheated and freezing, the ends of Naomi’s wet hair already stuck to her robe. We hurry along, our feet crunching on the snow. We have extinguished the lantern to save the oil. We don’t need it. The moon is high and huge, and it reflects off the snow, making the night soft and gray.
When dark shapes loom to the south, rising up over the pristine expanse, I freeze, pulling Naomi behind me. Two figures, bundled against the cold, ride toward the wickiups. They aren’t Crow come to steal the horses; there is no stealth in their approach, only haste, and two men would not carry out any kind of attack. It’s late, nigh on midnight, and I can’t conjure a reason for their presence, but they ride straight into the village.
“Washakie!” a voice calls out before the horses even stop. “Washakie!” the man shouts again, urgency ringing through the camp. “Washakie! I need Face Woman. It is Biagwi. I have Wolf Boy. He is sick.”
Naomi and I change into our clothes in rushed silence. Washakie has ushered Weda and Biagwi into his wickiup, but we do not wait to be summoned.
When we arrive, Weda and Biagwi are standing just inside, still wrapped in the buffalo robes of their journey. Hanabi has stoked the fire, Lost Woman is making a poultice, and Washakie has gone to rouse the medicine man. Biagwi looks wary. And scared. Weda’s arms are wrapped around her chest, sheltering the boy within her robes.
“Please?” Naomi asks, extending her arms toward the woman. “Can I see him?”
The woman looks at Biagwi, who jerks his head, giving his approval. With great hesitance, she unwraps the baby from her robes and hands him to Naomi.
He has grown a great deal; his little legs are dimpled, and his wrists and thighs are ringed with fat. Blond hair curls wildly about his round face, but his cheeks are flushed, and he is very still.
Weda moans in distress and asks Naomi if she can make the wolf boy well. She touches her chest and breathes with a rasp, demonstrating what ails the child. But Wolfe is not coughing or wheezing now. He lies feverish, hardly breathing, and Naomi gathers him close, her lips trembling.
“He’s been sick for three days, but he would still feed, and he would smile. He did not cry. But now he will not wake,” Biagwi says, his face tight.
Hanabi urges Biagwi and Weda to sit by the fire and take off their robes, but they are anxious and weary, and though they shrug off their robes, they remain standing, Biagwi with his arms folded in defiance, Weda rocking back and forth as though she still holds the babe. It reminds me of Winifred. Winifred used to sway like that.
Washakie returns, the medicine man in tow. He takes his time, clearing the air with sage and repeating a string of sounds that I don’t understand. He puts something on Wolfe’s temples and on his chest and shakes his rattles over him to drive out the sickness in his body, then moans and meanders around the wickiup before circling back again to shake the rattle above Wolfe some more. Naomi’s eyes never leave Wolfe’s face, but Biagwi is angry with the old ways and tells Washakie that the medicine man in Pocatello’s camp did much the same for three days, and the boy has only grown worse.
“He wants all the daipo to die. He wants the tua to die. He does not use his real medicine,” Biagwi growls.
Naomi looks up at me for translation. “Biagwi says the medicine men do not like the whites. He doesn’t think they are trying to heal him,” I murmur.
Washakie tells the medicine man to leave, waving him away with a weary shake of his head. The medicine man is insulted, but in the face of disbelief and Biagwi’s rage, he gathers his things and goes. Hanabi leaves too, her daughter in her arms, afraid of the illness that plagues Wolfe. She urges us to stay, saying she will be near in her father’s wickiup.
Lost Woman leads Naomi to the fire and urges her to sit. She doesn’t make her release the boy or lay him down, and I am grateful. Naomi needs to hold Wolfe. Lost Woman presses a thick, pungent poultice onto the boy’s chest, promising it will help him breathe and make his body release the fever. The vapors are strong, and Naomi’s face begins to bead with sweat. Weda sinks down beside her, her back bent and her head bowed. I doubt she’s slept in days. Biagwi paces like a caged mountain lion, and Washakie stands at my side.
At one point, Wolfe emits a little cry, and Naomi lifts him to her shoulder, rubbing his back, trying to clear his throat. No one breathes, hopeful, but he doesn’t cry again, and we all sink back into our vigil.
Weda tries to make him nurse, clutching him to her breast, her chest wet with perspiration, her damp hair clinging to her face, but Wolfe does not latch, and he does not wake. Weda does not give the boy back, and Naomi doesn’t insist. They sit side by side, their eyes heavy, and watch him hour after hour. Lost Woman changes the poultice and makes us all drink. The heat is stifling, and Biagwi stumbles for the door, unable to bear a moment more.