Where the Lost Wander(86)

I lie down on the buffalo robes and close my eyes. I don’t think I am unwell. My skin isn’t hot and my throat isn’t sore, but something is loose inside my chest. I can feel it sliding and slipping when I move.

Beeya pokes at me and tries to get me to paint, but I can’t, and she lets me sleep. Magwich comes in hours later. He is angry that I am sleeping. He argues with Beeya and prods me with his foot. Beeya brushes my hair and braids it down my back. She hands me a long skirt and a cloth blouse, something a woman gave her for one of my paintings. I put it on with shaking hands. There are beads at the neckline and beads at the cuffs, and a thick beaded belt wraps around my waist. It is beautiful, and Beeya is pleased.

She is taking me somewhere, and I’m too weary to be afraid. I should be. The moment I think I am saved is the moment I open another window to hell.





18





THE GATHERING


JOHN


Word has spread, and the clearing is teeming with warriors. There are too many leaders to fit inside a wickiup, so the council is being held outside. A fire has been built in a hole so the men can sit around it and still see each other, and Washakie says it’s a rare occasion that the people can observe, even if they can’t hear all that is spoken.

Hanabi thinks I should dress like I belong to the people. “He is not so white,” she says. “We can claim he is one of us.”

But Washakie shakes his head in disagreement. “He is here to claim his white wife and her white brother. He must be a white man too. That is how he must be seen.”

Washakie sits on the east side, the northern bands to his right, the southern bands to his left, the western bands across the flame. I sit behind him with his war chiefs. He tells me that when it is my turn to speak, I will stand. There are old chiefs and young chiefs, but most, like Washakie, are caught somewhere in between, though Washakie stands out from the rest. He is respected and lauded, and I am reassured by his position among the leaders. Pocatello sits among the chiefs of the Northern Shoshoni. He is feathered and proud, but his lower jaw juts out too far, competing with the beak of his nose, and his eyes are mean and small. Beyond the circle of leaders, the field is dense with their men. The women make a circle around the edges, standing so that they can see. Hanabi is among them, Lost Woman too, but I do not see Naomi.

They begin with the pipe, passing it from one leader to the next. Each speaks of the prosperity and prowess of his tribe. Pocatello speaks the longest, describing his battles against the Crow and the Blackfeet and the white enemy that invades the land of the Shoshoni. He shakes his scalps, suspended from a pole that he lifts into the sky, and the people murmur and nod in approval. He does not speak of Naomi or Wolfe. He does not know why the council has been gathered.

Some of the older chiefs speak slowly, their voices muffled, and the crowd gets restless; the leaders grow sleepy. Finally it is Washakie’s turn. He says that it is good to defeat our enemies and protect the lands, and it is good to make peace to protect the people.

“We made an agreement at Horse Creek to let the white men pass in their wagons. When we break our agreement, we give the white chiefs reason to break theirs.”

“They do not keep their agreements,” Pocatello yells out, interrupting. “They want to deceive us.”

Washakie nods, acknowledging this, but he turns to me and asks me to stand. Curiosity ripples through the crowd, and the chiefs straighten. My presence, which has obviously been noticed, is being explained.

“This is John Lowry. Two Feet. He is a friend to my people and a brother to my woman. He saved my daughter from drowning.” He pauses, letting the people look at me, letting his words settle. “His white woman and her brother were taken by Pocatello. He has come in peace, asking for their return. We will listen to him.”

Pocatello shakes his scalps, and there is an audible shifting among his men, but the other leaders stare at me, waiting.

I am nervous, and I begin speaking Pawnee without realizing what I have done. When the people grumble and hiss, I stop, find my words, and try again. I have been preparing, but the weight of the moment, of Naomi’s fate and my own, tangles my tongue.

I do not have an orator’s skill, and the language does not flow from my lips, but I tell the story as well as I can. The burned wagons, the boys who hid in the rocks, the dead women and men. I tell the story of the bow and the child who wielded it, accidentally killing Biagwi’s brother. I speak of Naomi, my wife, the woman who paints faces wherever she goes, and her infant brother. I tell them she is here—many of them have seen her—and I ask that they give her back to me, along with her brother.

When I am finished, there is a moment of silence, but then a young brave stands, his face twisted in anger and grief, and he shakes his fist at me and the leaders sitting around the fire.

“My brother is dead. I claim the child in his place. A brother for a brother.” This is clearly Biagwi, whose wife has adopted Wolfe. The people murmur and nod, and another man comes to his feet beside him. He is burly and bare chested, and black feathers hang down his back, fluttering when he turns his head to address the people around him.

“The woman is mine. I will not give her to this Pani daipo,” he shouts. The people snicker at the name—Pawnee white man—and the snakes in my stomach coil and hiss, their venom rising in my throat. And this is Magwich.