Love to Water My Soul (Dreamcatcher)

“Sometimes the hawk is all who will talk with Grey Doe, and she has to bargain with old meat for that.”

  Lukwsh chuckled at her own joke. I wondered where the moo’a was and what caused this pulling between them.

  Shard was busy chipping an obsidian stone outside Lukwsh’s lodge and did not look up when Stink Bug and Wren squinted into the sun like two puppies watching us return.

  “She is yours now,” Lukwsh told them. “Set her to work.”

  Shard twisted aside to let us pass but offered no help. I thought him bothersome, but neither Stink Bug nor Wren gave him notice. Over her shoulder, Wren spoke some of her language to Shard. He disagreed with a nod.

  “Brother,” she said, raising her voice an amount as tiny as a seed. “Now!”

  Shard dropped his knife and stood at the same time, then stomped away to Lukwsh’s lodge. I thought I caught a slight grin on his face as he passed me, and it seemed she could get her brothers to do what she wished.

  Like a three-legged dog, Stink Bug, Wren, and I made our way to the marshy grasses nearer the lake, Pinenut at our side. The brown and white of the hawk’s tail led us on.

  The effort, little as it was, tired me. “Need to sit,” I told them. “Feel sick.”

  Stink Bug let go to protect himself from my stomach’s potential heaving, leaving Wren to handle all the weight of me. I fell, pulling her down with me. My leg burned with her weight, sent sharp pains up my back.

  Wren picked herself up and scowled. Stink Bug watched warily. Behind us, I saw Shard at first dragging himself like a wet hide, but he quickened his steps at the sight of Wren brushing herself off. He carried a burden basket and two winnowing trays shaped like beaver tails.

  “What’s the matter with you?” he scolded. “Help her up.”

  He thrust the trays into my hands before I realized his anger was with Stink Bug and not me.

  “No bother,” Wren told him. “She was going to sit anyway.”

  The distinctive white stripe of the hawk flitted over us and disappeared. Pinenut, knowing when to leave a tense place, sniffed his way into the tall reeds and seablight and wada seed grasses. Wild rye wove and bobbed around him in the morning breeze.

  “Go find your new horse,” Wren told Shard. “Take Stink Bug with you. Let him ride away from us girls.”

  Shard hesitated only a moment as if being sure she was well, then pushed at Stink Bug’s shoulder and moved the boy ahead of him.

  “Go,” he said, and they left.

  I was aware of an inner warmth that formed at my edges when Wren grouped me with herself. “Us girls,” she had said, as though I belonged beside her. She was as powerful as her name said. And kind. She wanted no one blamed, no one upset with another. She smiled at me as the boys left, an encouraging smile meant to lift me up. At least I thought it meant that. It had been so long since I had seen a smile directed just at me I wasn’t sure if I could tell the ones that meant softness from those with a sting.

  Clatter of activity drifted from a distance along with the smell of roasting ducks and fish, filtering over the grasses. Games began in sections of the camps around the lakes, final events before people returned to their own places to winter. I hoped Lives in Pain had already left. Children slapped mud into shapes of toys, tossed rocks, and picked pebbles, and for a moment I imagined Wren and I exchanging stones and smiles around a circle, Wren and I talking and sitting as friends.

  For the first time I let myself think past this morning, this healing of my leg. The gathering would end. The games would be over. I could remain. If I did my share. If I did well. And then I could move on, in the spring, when I was older and stronger and not too far behind my parents.

  A sigh escaped me.

  “Don’t complain,” Wren warned.

  I felt tired and a little chilled in the harvest sun, weary from my movements though I had not gone far, full of aches from my leg pain though it was less than before. But I hadn’t meant to complain, hadn’t thought my sigh sounded crabby.

  “You must work,” Wren said, serious, her voice soft as though sharing a secret. “No family can feed someone who is lazy. And if the winter is greedy and does not share many seeds to see us through, old ones will be fed first, not you. You must know this. Your place here is like a shaky bridge,” she said, rubbing her hands again. “You could be gone—like that!” She clapped her hands once. “Look at your leg. Your bridge is not built well. And there are those who would keep you from making it stronger.”

  She began her dance again with her toe tapping and hand rubbing, but it did not distract me from the weight of her words. This was not a safe place, yet. I could not let myself forget my plan. I had a long winter to get through and more people who wished to kick me than to help me stand.

  I reached for the winnowing basket and nodded to her to place the strands of grass in them. I would toss them to the air and catch the seeds as planned. But my hands shook, more from fear of what the future held than from weakness.

  The commotion from the grasses startled both of us. Wild sounds of snarls and bites brought alarm. Reeds bent and moved as if a dust devil swirled inside them, but I saw nothing, only felt my stomach sink, only heard the growls of large dogs fighting.

  “Flake!”

  I heard Shard shout as he ran from the sagebrush corrals toward the reeds. “Come!” he shouted again, racing past us.

  He entered the grasses so tall they swallowed him, and we saw only the top of his dark hair as he moved quickly toward the sounds.

  “Your dog went in there,” Stink Bug announced for me as he caught up with us. He did not follow his brother into the reeds to help out.

  “I know where he went in,” I said, my words snapping, covering up the danger I could feel sticking to my clammy hands. With the juniper stick I stood, shaky, but on my own for the moment.

  Stink Bug laughed and scratched at a belly growing out over his buckskin. His grin formed into a sneer, and he licked his lips.

  “Shard has a bi-i-i-g dog,” he said stretching his words and hands to show me. “Like a small horse,” he said. “Flake likes little dogs. Chews them into bits, buries the bones, likes to bury bones.”

  The sounds from the grasses were wild with fur and fangs tearing at flesh. There is no sound quite like a dogfight with its snarls and rips and little hope of interruption. I shouted, though I expected Pinenut could not hear me, would not stop if he had.

  “If he doesn’t chew yours up, and it’s your dog that walks out,” Stink Bug said, raising his hands like a cottonwood fluff drifting into the air, “you’ll be gone next,” he said and smiled.

  “Be still!” Wren said, “Or help.”

  Like a crow, Wren hopped, hopped toward the edge of the marsh. She shaded her eyes from the sun and peered toward the ruckus in the reeds.

  Stink Bug snorted and walked slowly toward the sweet grasses. He did not go far.

  What was left of Pinenut as he skulked howling out through the reeds almost knocked him over. But I had a glance, just for a moment. Later, I wished I hadn’t seen it. The dog flashed by me, eyes bleeding, chunks missing from his ears, blood pouring from his chest. Shreds of flesh along his side exposed pink mixed with fur and mud and seeds, a section of hide flapped from his side.

  “Pinenut! Come, dog,” I pleaded, my hand out in coaxing. “Come.”

  I couldn’t run to him myself, had no one to ask to do my job. The dog did not notice me or could not hear me above the howling and barking or his own pain. His tail slid between his legs, and he worked his way back into the reeds before I could even take a step. Red glistened on the grass stems where he entered. I saw reeds move a short distance and then stop.

  “Dangerous,” Stink Bug offered when I started toward the last place the dog had been. “Should wait till Shard comes out with Flake.”

  My heart pounded for Pinenut. The prickle of dread for my fragile place within this gathering hovered around me.

  “Don’t see Shard’s dog,” Stink Bug said, cast
ing his eyes into the distance. “Maybe Flake’s dead.” He smiled again when he turned. “You lose,” he added and walked away.

  I started after Pinenut then, thinking I should not hope for good things, I should not trust in safety. None of these were reachable for a small child. Only wariness and distance and the hope of leaving should be my companions. Anger and frustration burned behind my eyes.

  “Pinenut!” I pleaded. “Come!”

  I hobbled only a few feet before Shard stepped out of the reeds and grabbed my arm.

  “Don’t follow,” he said.

  I pulled myself from him.

  “It is my choice,” I said.

  “His wounds are bad,” Shard said, stepping over my challenge. “His throat is torn. If he lives, it will not be for long.”

  “And your dog?” I asked, the tears stinging behind my nose. “What about him?”

  For my answer, the largest, blackest dog with a massive head like a bear’s, larger than I had ever seen, lumbered out of the reeds and moved slowly behind Shard. He too had wounds and a torn strip of hide, and through my tears I could see that he limped. His tail hung low but wagged, his tongue was pink and panting, and he wore a victor’s eyes.

  “I look for him,” Shard said, “after I tend to Flake. But I will not bring him back. The reeds will be a good place for him to rest, forever.”

  I felt Wren’s hand touch my arm like the flutter of a feather.

  “Winnow your seeds,” Shard told me in a softer voice than I had heard him use before. To Wren he said: “Show her what she needs to do to stay alive here. I will care for the dog.”

  When he left, followed by the black dog, I hobbled with my stick into the grasses.

  At the sight of Pinenut, I dropped beside him, expecting to be brave. I straightened his head, didn’t remember seeing so much gray in his muzzle. I patted him, thanked him for his comfort on those cold nights, and thought I did well with this leaving. But then I could not stop the tears. The ones of anger at the pain he suffered, the ones I hadn’t shed when I fell down, the ones I buried deep when I felt helpless, lonely, or afraid, that covered up my longing to be somewhere else. They all came then, without stopping.

  “You have poor ears,” Shard said coming up behind me.

  “I decide,” I said, wiping my nose, “not you. Now you can burn or bury him. I’ve told him good-bye.”

  “What does that mean?” he asked genuinely. “Good-bye?”

  I realized I’d used an English word and had to think. “That I will never see him again,” I said. “It’s what people say when they leave or someone has been left behind.”

  He grunted. “It is not a word we have. Go now. Help Wren, and I will do this thing.”

  As a woman having lived through many disappointments, I admire those who set aside their pain and get their tasks completed. Only later in my life did I pause to wonder when such people eased their grief or said good-bye, or did they?

  That day, I thought that I would never stop my crying as I made my way out to the opening where Wren sat waiting. I couldn’t imagine how I could put my hands to work.

  But Wren took Shard’s direction without question and led me too. She clasped a handful of rice grass stems with one hand and sliced them in a stroke with the wehe she pulled from her belt. Then she hopped, hopped back to the burden basket where she laid the long white stems. “For your aching bones,” she called to me, “when we grind the seeds to flour.” She made a motion like washing her hands, tapped her head with her fingers, then stopped in front of me.

  “He did not mean it,” she said, and I thought she spoke of Shard’s dog. “He will find a way to give him rest and tend to him so coyotes or the other dogs will let his bones be. Work now,” she added.

  Stink Bug returned and was pressed by Wren into cutting cattail heads. He lowered one armful beside me. “Beat these,” he said, “if you know how.” Then he hurried to follow his brother who had left the grasses with Pinenut in his arms.

  A riot of noise reached us from beyond the lodges, a welcome distraction of dust-covered horsemen and the chatter of excitement. A thick-waisted woman dismounted. We heard bursts of laughter, excited voices, and dogs barking at new arrivals.

  Wren paused and shaded her eyes with her small hand. I noticed a healed scar sliced below her little finger, wrapping around to the palm.

  “It’s Sarah,” Wren said, turning to tell me in a whisper. “With news, maybe. Don’t tell Wuzzie.” She looked around. “It will make his day go bad.”

  She took a step forward, then looked back at me, a question forming on her lips. Before she asked it, the dreamy look in her eyes took over her face, and without warning, she dropped to the grass as though the earth had been pulled from beneath her.

  Her slender body became a mass of motion, jerks and twists and jumps. Her small hands arched awkwardly, away from her body; her head threw itself back; her hair gouged into dirt. Sounds as of a sick person came from her throat.

  I reached for her, pain racing up my leg, and watched from a distance that might be miles instead of inches as her eyes disappeared from her face, leaving white. Wet bubbles formed at the corners of her mouth.

  “Lukwsh!” I shouted. “Help!”

  My voice was from a small, unfamiliar child, and there were many men and women laughing and talking some distance away, conferring with the people just arriving, dogs barking, too much noise.

  “Shard! Stink Bug,” I tried again, louder, but did not see them or anyone I knew.

  But Flake appeared like a shadow brushing past me. His presence frightened me as he bounded close to Wren and barked, short, steady barks, jumping around her, as though aware something was wrong and he should not leave. Blood sprayed from his ear wound when his barks shook his head.

  Wren’s jerking movements brought her closer to me. Flake jabbed toward her, then back, shoulders lowered, barking. I expected Shard to follow his dog, but he did not appear.

  I needed to do something, didn’t know whether to leave for help or stay with her. With effort I touched Wren’s shoulder, felt the jerking move from my fingertips to my fear of being able to do nothing, of hoping the dog would not object, hoping his barks would bring help.

  Her shoulder felt stiff, and her face grimaced and strained. I started to rise, to lean over her and hold her face in my hands. I shouted again and lifted Wren’s arm to bring her closer, to do something well in this day of entanglement and helpless pain. I wanted to do something before this presence moved beside me, grabbed and pinched my hand and wrenched it from Wren’s shoulder.

  THE FIFTH KNOT

  VISITS

  Wuzzie stood there, a black obsidian wehe thonged to his side.

  “Get back,” he hissed, and I did.

  He dropped beside Wren and wrapped her in his arms like a baby swaddled in its willow board. He began to sing.

  The dog whimpered, quieted, turned, and lay down.

  Wuzzie rocked back and forth with Wren in his arms while I stared, still startled by his hairless head, the bareness of his face, the way his two-colored eyes seemed to float up into his scalp with no eyebrows to separate seeing from his forehead. His voice calmed Wren, and her body stopped hopping and jumping. A string of pelicans drifted across the sky above us, and my heart began beating without running a race.

  The dog rested his dark head on his paws, eyes watching Wren. He had a wound on his face and a chunk hung from his ear, but otherwise he looked little troubled by the fight that took Pinenut. I shivered and turned away.

  The girl looked to be asleep in Wuzzie’s arms.

  “Better,” Wuzzie said, no longer singing. I thought he spoke of Wren, but he turned finally and nodded his chin toward my leg. With one hand, he reached out to touch the shadscale leaves that wrapped it. I jerked at his touch.

  “You will climb rock walls again,” he laughed, “earn the wada Wren gathers for you.”

  “I do things, now,” I told him, alert to the influence he might have in
my staying. I showed him the winnowing tray. “I am familiar with these wada.”

  I wanted to ask him about Wren, why the dreamy look turned to motion then into sleep. I wanted to ask if the scars that marked her were from falls. But he behaved as though she was not present, so I kept quiet and let my hands winnow seeds.

  Wren moved but stayed asleep, so Wuzzie laid her down, her cheek pressed against the soft grass, her legs curled up as though she was merely resting.

  “What happens?” I asked him, finally brave.

  He stared at the sleeping form, paused so long I did not know if he refused to tell me or if he too had fallen asleep. When he did talk, his words were wispy, and he moved closer to me, his breath warm on my face.

  “Chosen people speak with spirits,” he said, his voice promising a secret.

  “Spirits?” I said. I had seen nothing, was surprised he thought some spirit might take an interest.

  “Some of us choose when we will go away to meet with them; others have it happen when they are not expecting, do not do the choosing.” His eyes left mine to look at Wren; his long fingers stroked her bare arm as she slept.

  “It is like this with Wren,” he continued. “I know this. Her spirits come often to her, cause her to give her whole body to their wish for attention. So she drops and goes to them in her mind. Those chosen must find ways to work their power, not resist or try to stop it.”

  “Spirits?” I asked again, uncertain that such things even existed.

  He stopped stroking her arm but did not turn.

  “You question me?” he asked, looking into the distance.

  I fidgeted with my shirt, smoothed it, did not want to make him angry, but did not understand.

  “Your presence bothers,” he said then, dismissing me as an insignificant being. “If you have no spirit speaking to you, stay quiet. Get away from the one being chosen. Do not try to touch her.” His face moved closer to mine. “Or you may find yourself taken up like the ghosts of those who die, who come to take the living when they get in the way.”

  His hand fluttered into the air above my head; his eyes opened wide and then he closed them.