Chapter 15

Chapter

Fifteen

"Who are you and what are you doing here?" The young man in front of me has red and black war paint on his face, I can see that despite the darkness. A second man stands behind him in the darkness.

I raise my hands at the sight of the gun not knowing whether to rejoice or be afraid. "I… my friend and I…got lost." Where I get the strength for this lie from I have no idea. "My name is Josephine. My friend…" I'm beginning to cry again. "He needs help."

"This is Indian land. You have no business here." With his chin tucked in, the man with the gun steps toward me and narrows his eyes at me. He looks anything but thrilled.

"I'm… I'm sorry." I sob erratically and he lowers the gun, apparently no longer believing I'm a threat.

The other man standing behind him stares at me wide-eyed. Words in a foreign language flow from his lips that sound like anxiously spoken incantations.

"My name is Darrow." The Indian with the gun introduces himself in a much friendlier tone and hangs the gun by its strap over his shoulder. "And this is Amarok. How long have you been in the area?"

I drop my hands awkwardly. "A day or two. We were on the freight train and lost our luggage." I can reveal part of the truth. I glance at the other young man, who is still looking at me like he's never seen a blonde girl before. "Hi!" I say, trying to smile disarmingly to break the ice between us, but I'm sure it's only a frown. "I'm not on your land on purpose."

"He doesn't speak your language."

"What did he say to you? It sounded like he was afraid of me." Which wouldn't be the worst thing because a tiny voice from last summer persistently tells me there's two of them, and they are men.

Darrow quickly glances over his shoulder at Amarok. "He thinks you're the deer woman."

I stare at Darrow like an idiot. Maybe I'm dreaming all this. Maybe I'm lying half dead of thirst between the ferns hallucinating. "I don't have fur," I reply somewhat stupidly. At the same time, my hope for Bren grows. Darrow and Amarok seem to know the area well, after all, it's their people's land. They certainly know where the nearest town is.

"The deer woman story is a legend, but Amarok firmly believes it. He knows nothing but the wilderness and the early stories of the First Nations."

"Oh. Tell him I'm just a normal girl."

Again, I hear words that remind me of remote adventure lands. Seemingly unconvinced, Amarok shakes his head with pressed lips and steps back a few feet.

I smile at him again, but it has the opposite effect. With a hiss, he averts his gaze, covers his eyes with his hand, and utters sentences that clearly sound like a curse.

"The deer woman appears to lonely hunters as the most beautiful, graceful woman in the world. She seduces men, invites them into her wigwam, and spends the night with them." Darrow says something harsh to his companion. "After that, the hunter becomes an eternal seeker because the next morning, the deer woman is gone. In reality, he's not searching for her, he just doesn't know it. In truth, he is pursuing his soul, which she stole from him during the night of love."

"I don't want to seduce him." Impatience rises in me and I have to pull myself together so I don't raise my voice. "My friend will die if he doesn't get help, deer woman or not."

Darrow asks me to take him to our camp, so I walk toward the glowing flames, which flicker eerily in the night, making Bren's skin appear even paler. Their shadows dance across his face like an omen of approaching death.

"He has blood poisoning and a fever—an injury has become infected," I quickly explain his condition.

In the distance, Amarok stands with blue war paint on his face, watching us silently. Every time I glance at him, he looks away with difficulty, but he has lowered the hand with which he covered his eyes.

Darrow frowns at Bren's wound, squeezing his arm here and there while I hastily recount how Bren has been for the past few hours and how I've searched in vain for water. Darrow listens, leans forward, and sniffs Bren's injury as if that could help him learn more about his condition. In the faint glow of the fire, I notice he has a round, friendly face, broad cheekbones, narrow eyes, and a strong broad chin. His raven-black hair falls like fine threads to his hips, but he wears the front in narrow braids on both sides of his cheeks. The beads woven into it are a shiny river green and peach in the firelight.

He catches my eye. "That looks bad. The wound goes deep. We have herbs in our camp that can help him."

"Herbs won't help him," I disagree. "He needs antibiotics."

Darrow rotates Bren's forearm, examining every inch of skin. "He'll be dead by the time you get to the next town."

Again, I feel the tightness in my chest. The young Indian seems to notice because his tone softens. "At this stage, the poisoning can probably be fought without your poisons. I've seen a lot of injuries like this—trust me!" He adds the last words after I've stared at him for a while but said nothing.

It's not like I have any other choice. They're the only ones here who can help. Darrow talks to Amarok in their language. They seem to be arguing, but in the end, Darrow seems to prevail. Maybe since he's the older of the two. I estimate him to be in his mid-twenties while Amarok still looks almost youthful.

"He says he'll help me carry your friend to our canoe as long as you're not looking at him."

"What? Yes…yes of course!" Relieved and confused, I look from one to the other, which elicits a few angry-sounding words from Amarok. I immediately and consciously look at Darrow. "Tell him thank you."

As I gently brush a few damp strands of hair off Bren's chalk-white face, his lashes tremble, but nothing else stirs. "Do you have any water with you? He… Henry…hasn't had something to drink in ages." Unfortunately, the missing boy's name is the first that comes to mind and I silently offer him my apologies.

Darrow shakes his head regretfully. "Our bottles are empty, but we have reserves in our canoe. We drove off an aggressive bull moose." He gestures for me to back off and only when I'm five feet away from Bren does Amarok approach, alert as a fox. I look pointedly to the side, but when he turns his back to me to heave Bren up, I glance over anyway. Amarok is taller than Darrow but about the same height and stature as Bren. His thick blue-black hair is tied in a waist-length ponytail. Like the other man, he wears dark trousers, ankle-high moccasins, and a shirt made of cognac-colored leather.

"He broke his ribs in a fall," I say hurriedly, watching them pick up Bren. Amarok grabs him under the arms and Darrow grabs his legs. Bren groans and grimaces. Because of Amarok, I don't dare approach to calm him down, I don't want to risk Amarok changing his mind at the last second.

I watch for a moment. I should probably be afraid to go with two men I don't even know and whose motives I don't understand. Why are they even helping me instead of just leaving me here? So much kindness toward white people who are on their soil is surprising. Of course, they could simply be pretending to help and then pounce on me later, leaving Bren alone. On the other hand, they could have done that immediately. Darrow seems harmless and Amarok is afraid of me. In the end, it's probably his fear that dispels my suspicions fueled by last summer.

I quickly extinguish the fire, slip into my shoes, and follow the two. I'm so incredibly relieved not to be alone anymore even though I'm still scared. Herbs aren't antibiotics, but Darrow seems pretty knowledgeable about natural remedies.

Everything will be fine, Lou. Trust him! Just believe in it!

Which is what I'm doing now because I'm far too exhausted to brood about it any further. For the next few hours, I manage to hide everything that is preventing me from advancing. My dry throat, my sore feet and open blisters, the nagging hunger, my aching ankle, and every other part of my body that hurts. Bren needs water, and the sooner we get to the canoe, the sooner he'll get it. Worn out, I follow Darrow and Amarok through the dark forest, wondering how they orient themselves in the dark. Bren sometimes tied cloth to spruce branches in the Yukon to locate rabbit traps, but the Indians seem to know each tree and root personally by name.

I don't know how long we've been walking when I start daydreaming with my eyes open, stumbling with fatigue.

"We'll be there soon." As if he isn't the least bit tired, Darrow smiles encouragingly at me over his shoulder. The moon is high up in the sky, casting its faint ghostly light on the needle-covered soil. I nod weakly. I must have walked over twenty miles today without eating or drinking, but I don't want to whine. On the contrary.

Just as I am about to collapse from exhaustion, the pine forest opens as if by magic. A blue-black lake shimmers in front of us and the land on the opposite bank is flat. The moonlight paints a silvery path across the smooth surface like a bridge of light.

With the last of my strength, I hobble to the pebble beach and cup my hands in the clear water to drink. I feel I've drunk half the lake before I straighten up in shock.

Bren! He needs to drink something, but I see Darrow and Amarok are giving him water from a canteen that one of them probably retrieved from the canoe on shore. It's this image, the concentration and care with which the two pour Bren water while murmuring their strange words that completely wins me over. Whatever happens, they have secured a place in my heart forever today. They carried Bren for hours without a word of resentment or complaint and provide him with water before quenching their own thirst. Unlike me!

Tears well up in my eyes again from sheer gratitude. I want to say something to Darrow, but it's like I've forgotten how to speak, I'm so exhausted. When his gaze falls on me, I smile at him and he nods.

Finally, he lowers the canoe's outboard motor and the two lay Bren on the bottom in front of the prow bench with his back against it. Darrow offers me the seat on the front bench so I can hold Bren. I carefully drape my legs around his torso and support his head while Amarok takes the rear seat. Luckily, the canoe is big enough, probably twenty feet long or more. Darrow pushes it further into the water with ease, jumps in, and uses a paddle to push it off the bank.

Only when he is sitting on the middle bench and the boat is floating gently on the surface of the lake does Amarok start the engine. It is quiet, barely disturbing the stillness, the canoe gliding almost ghostly over the smooth water.

Darrow fishes out what appears to be a leather pouch from his pocket before reaching in and sprinkling a few crumbs into the lake. Judging by the looks of it, it could be tobacco. From Jay's stories and old movies, I know about the offerings Indians make to the nature spirits—to put them at ease. Jay also told me about Indian villages that don't have traditional roads, only beaten tracks or water routes. Still, I thought that was more of a myth. I had a different picture of Native Americans in my mind: they live alone on their reservations, supported by the state but still excluded. Most have no prospects and many are addicted to alcohol and drugs. The wild Indian romanticism is only saved for tourists in Monument Valley at horrendously high prices.

The two Indians in the canoe don't fit into my worldview.

I close my eyes, the exhaustion overtaking me between thoughts and my mind starting to drift. I want to stay awake for Bren, but the gentle swaying of the boat acts like the steady rocking of a cradle. Back and forth. Back and forth.

I frantically focus on the surrounding nature. The land here is different from what it was days ago in British Columbia—and the Yukon. It's much more flat with more deciduous trees intermixed with spruces and firs.

The lake flows into a calm river that branches and later turns into a nighttime sparkling lake again. This is a labyrinth of waterways nestled in a mixed forest that hugs the flat banks like a seam.

At some point along the elongated lake, Darrow begins to sing, the intense, unfamiliar words echoing across the water like a prayer and wistful lamentation. I've never heard that type of singing before. Hundreds of dark vowels fill the night, carrying fire, wind, and earth across the body of water. With Bren's head in my arms, I stroke his sweaty hair and hot cheeks. You'll feel better soon. Everything is going be okay soon, I promise him silently.

The song almost makes me cry, maybe because I've been exhausted and scared for so many hours today. It comforts me deep within my soul. I wonder if Darrow senses my grief and is trying to ease it with his singing. Maybe it's presumptuous, maybe they always sing at night on the lakes.

As the last note flies away like a bird over the water, the stillness of nature seems even greater. Amarok steers us into a narrow river and the forest disappears as we glide through a moonlit gorge with stunted birch trees clinging to the slopes. A moment later, the pale rocks shrink and bushes reach out for the canoe with their branches, the river is that narrow. In the darkness, I believe I see eyes in the forest next to us, a gray body like a wolf's, but the next moment, it's gone and I feel even sadder, even more lost. Maybe I was dreaming.

Finally, we come to a vast lake with wooded shores and countless islands.

Amarok says something to Darrow, who looks at me and laughs.

"What did he say?" I ask. I'm so tired, it takes effort to put words in the right order.

"He says if you truly aren't the deer woman, you're a very brave girl. The journey was long and you never once complained even though you've been up for hours."

I have to smile, but I don't look at Amarok, as promised. "Tell him Henry would never allow me to spend a night with him even if I were that deer woman."

Darrow nods and translates my words.

I feel Amarok's eyes on me, causing a tingling sensation on the back of my neck, and I stare consciously at the flat island to our left. I hear the two speak again.

"Amarok says you are very brave and very beautiful—and if you are not the deer woman, he intends to negotiate with your friend for a night when he is well."

Now I can't help but look at Amarok, but he immediately averts his eyes. I swear to God or Manitou that, despite the darkness, I see him blush.

For heaven's sake! That's just what we needed. "Tell Amarok I'm the deer woman," I reply weakly.

Darrow laughs warmly and softly, though he doesn't repeat my words to his friend. "Two of our hunters found Amarok when he was maybe eleven or twelve years old, we don't know exactly. Before, he had only lived with his parents, completely isolated from the outside world, so he only speaks the ancient languages."

"To which people do you belong? Where are we anyway?"

"Manitoba. We belong to the Navapaki tribe. Our village is on an island hidden from civilization. Seven years ago, a group from our reservation decided to return to the wild. White people only brought us bad luck, but I won't argue with you about that. We've lived here ever since, only getting what we truly need to survive from the outside world. Nature gives us all else." Darrow looks at me. "Manitoba belonged before to the First Nations. Our ancestors heard the drum of the Great Spirit beating in the waves breaking on the shores of the lakes. Manitou, hence Manitoba."

When we reach the island of the Navapaki, dawn is hanging over the land in a ghostly pale shade.

Mist rises from the lake into the air like the breath of water and a number of canoes in a variety of colors are located around the landing in the small bay. Red and yellow and blue.

Amarok and Darrow heave Bren out of the boat. I pray the herbs Darrow spoke of will actually heal him.

I follow the Navapaki along a dirt path through a forest of oak, beech, and birch. Meaning I hobble behind as best and as gracefully as I can while feeling dizzy. After about five hundred feet, I see a clearing with several teepees. For a few breaths, this image seems like a revelation to me, but suddenly the thoughts in my head crumble into individual fragments. Help for Bren. People. Food. Warmth. Sleep. Finally.

Stars flash before my eyes like countless glittering snowflakes and then the world turns black.

When I wake up, a red-painted animal skull hanging from a wooden pole in the middle of a teepee greets me. It stares at me from empty eye sockets and I blink several times until I've pieced together the fragments of the last few hours.

I sit up carefully and examine the interior. The tent floor is generously covered in animal skins. I make out a fire pit in the center and a trunk against one wall. The only thing I don't see is Bren.

My heart immediately starts to beat faster—I have to see him. My limbs are still weak, and when I stand up, I almost trip over a bundle of thick gray furs. My skull has a sharp pain behind my eyes as if the nerves suddenly erupted into lightning bolts. I walk slowly toward the exit, keeping my head down so as not to be blinded by the bright light coming in. At the same time, I realize dawn has long since passed.

Damn! How long have I been asleep? How did I get here in the first place? I wade through my memories, but I seem to be missing a few.

As if on eggshells, I step through the low opening of the tent and am immediately enveloped in a rush of warm air. In front of the teepee is another fire pit, on which several slabs of meat are drying on a wooden frame. It smells so incredibly delicious. My fingers twitch, they desperately want to steal a piece.

A high-pitched giggle sounds next to me. I spin around in time to see a little black-haired girl disappear into the teepee opposite mine. A second later, a young woman appears in a soft leather dress, fringed and decorated with delicate blue embroidery.

"You must be Josephine," she says with a friendly smile as she approaches. Her face is as round as Darrow's and her eyes remind me of the big spherical eyes of a deer. "I'm Thea and my daughter here"—she gestures to the little one who is peering curiously out of their teepee—"is called Yoomee."

"Hi," I say awkwardly, waving at the girl. She's maybe four or five. "I'm looking for my friend."

Thea nods. "Darrow told me to take you to Henry as soon as you wake up."

For a moment, I'm trying to figure out who Henry is. Part of me feels guilty about lying, but I couldn't take any chances. If they find out we're wanted, they might call the police or send us away. I have no idea if their camp is legal and permitted by the state.

Hobbling as best as possible, I follow Thea on a well-trodden path through the long grass. Every muscle in my body hurts and my light-colored T-shirt sticks uncomfortably to my skin. It seems like a million mosquitoes are buzzing around in the air and I thrash about a few times because the tormentors happily pounce on my bare arms. We pass a number of teepees, at least twenty all in all, before Thea stops at a painted tent at the edge of the forest.

"Here we are. Go on in!"

I nod politely to her. A pungent odor emanates from inside, and as I step through the opening, the smoke from wild herbs settles in my lungs.

"Sage. And birch to disinfect," Darrow explains without greeting me. He sits next to Bren, who is lying on the floor on animal skin.

Another Navapaki whose age I can't possibly guess is sitting cross-legged next to me, mixing a paste. He doesn't look at me. Maybe he also believes in the deer woman story.

I look at Brendan's face with concern. Luckily, he's not as pale as yesterday. I carefully squat down next to him and put my hand under his neck.

"His fever has gone down," I say, amazed.

"He was pretty restless, but now he's sleeping. We have been able to give him water and a decoction of white willow bark several times. It has fever-reducing properties."

I smile gratefully at Darrow. "How long was I out?"

"Two hours. You collapsed and I carried you to my tent and gave you something to help you rest."

I wipe my brow, confused. "What?"

"You wanted to see Henry right away, but you were too weak to even walk. I'm sorry I couldn't accommodate you."

"I don't remember any of that." I don't like the fact that he gave me something that seemingly knocked me out, but I won't complain.

"I had to promise to wake you if he worsened."

There's a fuzzy memory in my mind, but I can't recall the details. Sleepily, I look around. Artfully painted bowls stand on a wooden tray, most of which contain crushed plants with a few clay jugs to complete the picture.

"Nashashuk is preparing the paste for healing the wounds."

"Hello," I say out of propriety even though Nashashuk pays me no mind.

"He's as good as deaf and he rarely speaks—unless he's telling stories," Darrow explains, pointing to the tray. "The infusion of willow bark has an antipyretic, pain-relieving, and disinfecting effect. Nowadays, it is made synthetically and called aspirin."

So, the fever went down, but that means nothing because the inflammation has to be fought.

"Nashashuk mixes different parts of plants together. Witch hazel, chamomile, and silverweed," he lists. "A concoction of burnet, arnica, masterwort, and angelica is also simmering outside. Henry has to take that every hour. To do this, you make hot moist compresses with hay flowers, which works like a drawing salve."

I eye him skeptically. Last night, I let his knowledge of herbs comfort me, perhaps I was too exhausted not to believe it. This morning, however, my concern is gaining the upper hand again. I noticed earlier that the red line has moved a bit further. "How many wounds have you treated successfully with this?"

Darrow looks at Nashashuk, whose wizened hands, deft as a young man's, pound a few blossoms in a stone mortar. "Many. But it takes longer than your medicinal poisons."

"Has anyone ever died anyway?"

Darrow sighs. "Don't people die in your hospitals despite panaceas?"

I nod uneasily and brush a few sweaty hairs off Bren's forehead. "May I stay with him?"

"Certainly. This tent was unoccupied anyway. Old Kowi left us last winter."

I look at the other Navapaki, who's still pretending I'm not here. "Is Nashashuk your shaman?" I ask warily.

Face framed by his braids with shimmering beads, Darrow gives me a piercing look. His war paint glows at me in the form of black crosses and red dashes, and despite last night, he doesn't appear to be exhausted. "Depends on what you mean by that."

I shrug, a little disconcerted by his accusatory tone. "Well, one hears so many things."

"And, what's that?"

"Shamans dance around campfires, summon the spirits and stuff like that." I left out the dancing naked part.

"Is that so." Darrow's mouth pulls down in derision.

"I didn't mean to offend you, but you did ask. To an outsider, it always looks a bit showy or like mumbo jumbo, especially in movies or poorly made documentaries." And it's easier to believe in it when a loved one's life isn't at stake.

"Shamanism is far more than you white people can ever imagine. At times, it's even more than I can ever imagine." He glances at the old Navapaki who is still devotedly grinding herbs in the mortar.

"So, what is it?"

"A glimpse from mortal consciousness into the eternal."

Okay.

"You should trust Nashashuk. At the moment, he may seem to you like an old man who believes in this supposed mumbo jumbo, but in a trance, he can see—with the sight—and he can come into contact with all things and wisdom beyond our world. That is the true art of a shaman, not cheap tourist magic."

I merely nod even though I'd still prefer a doctor and a blister of antibiotics over Nashashuk and his herbs. Just to be safe.

I stay with Bren all day and only leave the tent to fetch fresh water from the nearby creek. Naturally, every step I take in the camp is being watched from all sides and not all eyes are kind. Darrow says many don't particularly like white people and keep their distance for that reason alone; I'm fine with that for now.

I regularly refresh Bren's compresses with the herbal decoction and hay flower after Nashashuk silently showed me how and I applied leg compresses and washed his body with cold water to bring down the fever. Every hour, I give him a tablespoon of the burnet herb extract which is said to fight bacteria, but Bren's condition doesn't seem to be improving.

Toward evening, I am so tired, I could fall asleep standing up. When I step out of the teepee, about to head to the stream again, I almost trip over a clay bowl with blueberries the size of cherries. Astonished, I look around and discover Amarok standing at the edge of the forest about fifteen feet away.

He looks at me seriously and I point to the bowl and then to him. He nods.

"Thank you very much!"

"You're welcome," he replies in broken English and disappears among the mighty oaks.

"He has never spoken a word of your tongue. So far, he's successfully refused," Darrow says, stunned, as he passes by.

I bite my lip. I recall the blond man at the Crescent City Walmart. Hopefully, this situation with Amarok won't escalate once Bren improves. If he'll even get better! a fearful voice inside me whispers. All day, I've clung to the hope that the natural remedies would work but now I have to face the truth: they don't. Bren's blood poisoning is too severe or too advanced. After sunset, his fever rises and the red line on his forearm almost reaches the crook of his elbow.

I light the kerosene lamps and sit next to him, not knowing what else to do to help him. I was told by Darrow that the nearest town is five days away and the only way to get there is on foot and by canoe. No one could carry Bren for that long without taking a break, especially not in his condition. Besides, that would be pure torture for him, he might not even survive the journey. Yet, if he doesn't get help, he will die.

I'll lose him. Suddenly, I can't think of anything else. The appearance of the Navapaki didn't change the situation. I'm back where I was last night.

I stare numbly at Bren's face. His skin is clammy and pale, even his lips, and his hair looks black as charcoal. "Bren." I carefully take his hand. It radiates heat and, dazed with desperation, I place it against my cool cheek. A hundred words fill my mind. A hundred prayers, still, it's one sentence that I keep thinking. Do not leave me alone! Don't leave me alone! I can't utter the horrible, the incomprehensible. I want to say everything to him: wake up, stay with me! but I'm mute with fear. Eventually, Darrow comes up to me and says something about his father, who is currently in civilization with two friends to run some errands. But they cannot be reached since they don't have a cell phone. I'm sure I only hear half of what he's saying. But in the end, it doesn't matter. Even if they had a cell phone, there is no signal whatsoever anywhere around the camp. I checked this morning after recharging my cell phone with the power bank. Reception would have meant being able to get help, a helicopter, an ambulance, or anyone else. But here, there is none. Nothing works. All I can do is sit here and watch Bren struggle, breathing heavily and moving further away from me by the second.

I bend over him, his hand against my cheek, rocking back and forth.

Why did we have to get on those goddamn trains? Why didn't I jump first, then he wouldn't have hurt himself? Forgive me, Bren! And while I know he would, always, I could never forgive myself if he died because of it.

What if I lose him?

His heavy breathing fills the stillness of the teepee. Cold fear creeps into my bones. What if he suddenly stops breathing?

Horrified at the thought, I drop Bren's arm and, instead, put my hands over my mouth to keep from sobbing loudly, still rocking back and forth. Again and again. "Wake up, please, please, wake up!" Although the words come out of my mouth, they're mere whispers. But even if I screamed, I'm sure Bren wouldn't hear me. He's much too far away.

At some point, I realize that I have to do something to keep from going completely insane. As if on autopilot, I renew the compress on his forehead as tears stream down my cheeks. I can't be without him. Never. It feels wrong, empty, and pointless.

I'm positioning the cloth on his forehead when I hear loud voices outside. It seems to be about Bren and me, at least I hear our names—Josephine and Henry. Other words follow, some in Navapaki, some in English.

Maybe help has arrived!

Maybe Darrow's father has returned and has antibiotics with him! Immediately, my heart beats faster. I jump up and run outside to find out what's going on.

I spot a group of men around the large campfire that is the village's general meeting area. Darrow and Nashashuk are there and another younger Indian of whom I only know that his name is Coven. He's speaking but his sentences sound cold. I hastily search for strange faces in the group but I only see the men I met in the camp during the day.

My courage leaves me and the paralyzing blackness returns, covering me like a cloak of iron. I'm about to return to Bren when I hear Darrow yell, "Josephine!" He comes toward me with a serious look. "Your friend is in a very bad way." I feel like bursting into tears right then and there. As Darrow says it out loud, it only becomes more of an inevitable certainty. "Remember what I told you about Nashashuk? That he can see into the other world with his sight?"

I can't even nod, I just stand in a daze in the tall grass.

"Nashashuk wants to perform a healing ritual for Henry," he explains. "But not everyone agrees he should use his special powers on a white man."

Tears pour down my cheeks again. An Indian healing ritual cannot kill bacteria, so the spirits can whisper whatever they want. But Darrow seems to believe in it and it's currently the only way to do anything for Bren. And I'll die if all I can do is sit around and change his cloths! "Let me talk to them! I can change their minds," I say more vehemently than I meant. And what's their point of not wanting him to use his powers on a white man anyway?

Darrow shakes his head. "You'll just make the situation worse if you join them now. You're too upset, we only make decisions with a calm mind."

"Tell me if Henry were a Navapaki right now, nobody would object to the ritual, would they?"

Darrow sighs. "You don't understand."

I could shake him. "You can't let him die simply because he's the wrong race or color! I love him! Maybe you don't understand!" I yell at him.

"Josephine, calm down!"

"I don't want to calm down. He's dying! If Nashashuk can help him, he has to, he has to at least try! Anything else is denying help!" I clench my hands and feel my heart pounding in my throat. The men around the campfire have stopped their discussion and are looking over at me. Everyone is staring at me and, startled, I realize Darrow might be right. Maybe they won't help me if I yell, it might have the opposite effect. I press my lips tightly together and breathe deeply through my nose to control my emotions. Then I say more quietly, "Darrow, please. You have to change their minds. Please try! Tell them I'll do whatever if it gives Henry a chance to heal." I'm crying again.

Darrow nods to me. "I'll try, but I can't make any promises."

Numb and in a daze, I return to the teepee as the discussion continues. I'll die if I lose Bren. That's how it seems to me. When he stops breathing, my heart will stop beating. I don't think about my brothers or my home, nothing exists but Bren and me. It's like there's nothing here but life and death.

As I sit next to Bren and beg him not to give up, the voices outside die down. I don't know if that's a good or a bad sign, but moments later, Darrow peeks into the teepee and gives me a thumbs-up—a strange gesture for him—and I jump up and throw my arms around his neck. "Nashashuk did it, not me," he says modestly, but I don't give a damn right now.

Bren will get his chance, probably his last. The thought brings back the fear in full force. Hocus pocus, the fearful voice inside me whispers, but I push it back. I can't think about what will happen if the ritual doesn't work.

The moon is barely visible in the teepee's smoke vent when Darrow and Nashashuk return and clean the inside of the tent with feathers and the smoke from burning sage leaves. Of course, I immediately thank Nashashuk, but as always, he takes note without reacting. Darrow says Nashashuk feels an intense connection between Bren and me and sees healing in that alone. "You have to be present, he needs you for the ritual." I nod at Darrow. If there's even a tiny chance I can help Bren, I'll do anything, even dance naked around their fire and speak to the spirits myself. But apparently, I don't have to.

Once Darrow has left the tent, Nashashuk crouches down next to Bren and puts a hand on his forehead. "Many shadows are chasing your friend," he states seriously and cryptically. "Many parts of his soul have been lost."

I know what he means by shadows, but I don't get the soul part. Maybe it has something to do with their beliefs or he is referring to Bren's memories that he has suppressed. Only—how can he know about them? If he's able to see that, maybe he does have special powers.

"You'll have to talk to him when the time comes," he says as he helps me refresh Bren's damp compress. "Keep him in our world because once he's on the threshold of the spirit realm, you won't be able to hold him."

His words scare me even more. So Bren is about to cross death's threshold? Is that what he's telling me?

I gently take his hand while Nashashuk opens a box at the edge of the teepee and pulls out a rattle, a tambourine, and some dried herbs. He burns a handful of the latter in a bowl, cleans the objects with smoke, and then puts the Indian rattle in my hand. It has a leather-covered handle and its bulbous end seems to be made of animal skin that is filled with natural materials. A pair of brown feathers and beaded leather straps adorn the shaft.

I feel as awkward as a toddler who doesn't know what to do with their new toy. "When should I talk to him?" I ask Nashashuk, who doesn't seem to hear me.

He rhythmically hits the tambourine with his flat hand, which reminds me of a dream catcher, and falls into a monotonous singsong. It is beautiful and ghostly at the same time, very different from Darrow's singing on the lake. There is no consolation in this song, but a request like a call, possibly addressed to spirits in the afterlife. I don't know if I should talk to Bren right now, but somehow, I feel it's not the right moment.

I shake the rattle with clumsy hands, listening to the unfamiliar words and the steady beats of the tambourine. The rattle handle is nestled softly in my fingers, and with every shake, it clatters like nuts and the leather straps with the beads tap my wrist. I glance at the shaman furtively. Nashashuk's eyes are closed and yet I feel him everywhere in this teepee, like he's opened his mind and sees everything. I remember what Darrow said: he has the sight, which means he can see into the eternal. He's still singing his haunting song, his upper body rocking back and forth, his arms shaking and beating the tambourine—it's like seated dancing. As if from far away, the tart scent of the herbs penetrates my consciousness, fills me, and at some point, my thoughts seem to expand with the smoke, grow out of me, and float through the tent. It's growing darker, but at the same time, there's light—like the moonlight that draws out all the shadows at night and makes them visible. Black shapes scurry with the singsong across the tarpaulin, and maybe I also see the words in the form of shadow plays. For a split second, I believe I sense the presence of a wolf. Very close, like Grey is breathing next to me.

Bren's fingers squeeze my hand, but I don't know why right at this moment. It still feels like I'm suddenly able to see with an additional eye. Sounds rise up from inside me, songs from my childhood days, lightning moments, Dad's funeral, word-thoughts with no recognizable meaning, I read letter cookies on our porch, L-U-I-S-A, a spinning spiral full of images from the past, last summer in a snow globe, and finally, the Indian teepees like tall lanterns in the night. Suddenly, there's a lake and lots of tears, my brother Jayden's face. Shadows open and close like birth canals, and then I'm standing at the edge of a wheat field, crouching, arms outstretched. "Fynn," I call out and a small dark-haired boy runs toward me, squealing with joy, straight into my outstretched arms. I catch him and spin him in circles, exuberant and happy. I suddenly feel like someone is standing next to me, watching me, and when I turn, I see Bren. But it's not really him, just his black silhouette. He seems like a wanderer on a long journey and has come to say goodbye. He looks at me silently and I mentally reach out my hand to his silhouette. Now I'm no longer happy, I'm crying. "Stay here!" I beg silently. "Stay here with me! I need you. I've seen how it could be."

His silhouette is still staring at me, and several heartbeats later, I know that it's actually Bren. Maybe his mind, his consciousness, his soul, something. As if he stepped from his feverish dream into my waking dream and is sharing the images with me.

As soon as I think that, I'm catapulted out of my hazy intoxication and find myself sitting on the floor of the teepee, rattling clumsily as tears stream down my cheeks.

Nashashuk looks at me with his old wise eyes, fully awake and lucid.

"I fell out of the dream before I actually spoke to him," I say, choking. I just can't let go of Bren's hand. "It wasn't enough."

The herbal vapors rise steadily from the clay bowl and the Navapaki fans it in all directions. "You told him the most important thing, otherwise, you wouldn't be here already. Listening is not always done with the ears just as speaking is not always done with words."

I just shake my head, crying. "What just happened?"

Nashashuk has turned away again. Maybe he doesn't answer questions from white girls as a matter of principle, but this time I don't give up. "Did I see the future? What was that?"

Nashashuk mumbles something under his breath, puts his tambourine back in the trunk, and pulls out new dried herbs. He carefully scatters them over the others and a column of smoke rises like a flame. "A dream," he finally says.

"So, it didn't mean anything?" I ask, stunned, feeling anger and hopelessness surging inside me.

The shaman looks at me intently, and for the first time, I notice the resemblance to Darrow beneath his wrinkles. "Everything is a dream for the Navapaki. Dream and reality are one, there is no separation. Now light the herbs and guard your friend. He needs you."

With that, he gets up and walks to the exit with the agility of a young warrior. He looks so content as if he knows the ritual was successful.

"Dream and reality are one, of course!" I murmur to myself, lighting the herbs, when he turns and shakes his head reprovingly as if he heard my grumbling.

Hard of hearing, my ass!

"The shadows chasing him, are they gone now?" I ask quickly.

Nashashuk turns back to me. "Such shadows only disappear when you confront them."

The moment he steps out of the tent, I hear Bren.

"Lou?" His voice is perfectly clear. "I… I had a strange dream."

With a choked cry, I turn to face him from my seated position. And sure enough, he's lying there with his eyes open, staring at me.

I can't help but bend down and hug him so hard, he groans in pain.

"My ribs… Lou…are you trying to kill me?"

I laugh and cry at the same time, unable to reply. I quickly examine his wound and can't believe it. The red line has receded by at least three centimeters!

Now I'm crying uncontrollably from happiness and I can't stop touching him. And there is a completely different memory inside me. Me and Bren at the Seattle Plaza when we were wondering what was real. The city or the wilderness. Bren said only the wilderness was real, yet the Navapaki believe everything is a dream. City and wilderness. Life, death, dreams. Dreams within dreams. Bren and I.

And one day, Fynn. It means bright one.