Читать книгу Shaman's Dream: The Modoc War - Lu Boone's Mattson - Страница 6

Keintpoos had sent for him, and he had come all the way down from the reservation. Why shouldn’t he? After all, while many would not call Keintpoos a lá-ge, a leader, everyone knew him to be open-handed. That was the word even among the Bostons, who called him ‘Captain Jack.’ There was something there to see in the way of him. He was not, people said, just your ordinary Indian.

And he, Compotwas Doctor, a kiuks, was known to be one of the best of the shamans. A sucking doctor. A healer. He had agreed when Keintpoos called for him to come and summon his spirits. They would listen to him when he called them. They were the powers he had long ago wrestled and pleaded with, who had long evaded and tested him -- until they had submitted and had taken him. He was proud of the songs they had given him.

When the kiuks entered the house down on Lost River, he noticed in the little remaining light the buckskin thong hung over the rafter. It had been placed above the girl lying on the mat; it betokened Keintpoos’ offer. The price was a good one. Compotwas Doctor had seen the horse tethered outside the earth house. It was long-legged and handsome, not just an Indian pony. Two full blankets were folded over its saddle, good ones. He would claim the present after he had finished. The blankets could go, one with his Spokesman, the other with The Invoker, but he himself would keep the horse and the saddle.

He thought to himself that the Modocs who had stayed back at Sprague River -- up on the Klamath reservation -- would talk among themselves, saying how Jack must have prospered from going back to his old camping ground. Otherwise, they would say, how could he offer such a prize as this? “We should have stayed out with him,” they would say, “not come crawling back here among the Klamaths for a piece of blanket and some army beef.” Compotwas Doctor did not care that he himself would cause the people to say Jack had done right to leave the reservation and take all those Modocs with him. The folks over by Yainax could gossip as much as they wanted. For it was true: the horse he had agreed upon was a good one.

Now, however, he must surrender those thoughts and listen to his Invoker who had brought him here. As his eyes grew used to the semi-dark of the unfamiliar house and he settled into himself for the task before him, he felt the breath of the gathered people. They crowded in together, some along the walls, others pressing forward, the better to hear him, to miss nothing. Here and there in the shadows he recognized the faces of ones he had known back at the Klamath reservation. People who had followed Jack here to Lost River. They were not harried now but determined, ready to answer in chorus as The Invoker called out the names of the shaman’s spirits.

From among them Compotwas Doctor selected the ones he might need this night.

Kéis! Blaiwas! Tcûskai! Kówe! Coltz! Kumal! Witkátkis!

Rattlesnake! Eagle! Weasel! Frog! Porcupine! Pelican! Fish Hawk!

As his Invoker chanted each name, the chorus echoed it. So many! But the kiuks had still others:

Lightning! Bear! Ghost Spirit ….

The chorus hesitated at this last one; its words grew ragged and dwindled away to a whisper. They were afraid to have the death-bringer in the darkened room with them. Compotwas Doctor snapped his fingers at the singers, chiding them to press forward. If he could risk daring to bring these forces, the people could at least show they would welcome -- and honor -- them.

The girl lay on her back, on a pallet against the east wall of packed earth, neither a child nor a woman by the look of her. She had the face of her uncle: wide-spaced eyes, clear features, full mouth, but now sweat plastered her hair to her forehead. Her hands tugged at the meager cloth covering her. When she turned toward him, the kiuks saw she had fear, but her eyes, like those of Keintpoos, though they were needful, were steady. The people watched as he drew the strip of red-painted buckskin from his bag and laid it next to her. His long fingers arranged the feathers -- yellowhammer, woodpecker -- and smoothed them.

Compotwas Doctor sat at the foot of her bed, facing the girl and his Spokesman, waiting for the room to hush. He rummaged in his bag and found his pipe and lit it, the acrid red-willow bark smoke filling his mouth and stinging his tongue. In the dark silence he rocked to and fro, trailing the smoke from his lips, blowing it over and over again in little gusts across the girl’s body. He traced with his fingers his own arm then reached out and touched the girl so. Where he laid his hand he felt the skin wince, then warm under his touch. He proceeded to her leg, her belly, her head. Still rocking, now blowing his own breath across her, he felt her soften, felt her breathing fall into rhythm with his own. He reached for the sprig of sage at his side, dipped it into the water-basket and, calling silently to the spirits now crowding the room, let the droplets fall onto the silent girl.

What had happened? Who had done this? He must know.

The women had been sure they could tell him: their gossip had come to Compotwas Doctor that afternoon as he entered the Lost River camp. She was headstrong, like her uncle. She would do what she pleased and not be led. She had just finished her preparation for womanhood, but she had not listened to them. She had dared to stop dancing that fifth night, the last one. She had said she was too tired and must sleep. They had told her she could not stop, risk sleep, for she must not dream. And she knew that. But, tired as she was, she did not like what they said. She had cried out at them and had run off through the brush into the dark. In the morning when they found her, her feet were swollen and bleeding, and she said she had not slept. But the women did not believe her. They were sure she had just tried to deceive them. This sickness, they said, proved it. Surely she had slept and dreamed of herself, just as they had warned her she would. She must have done so, even though she denied it; had denied it even as she sickened.

-- Blaiwas -- Compotwas Doctor must have Eagle to climb the dry air and circle, looking from on high, swinging out over the flinty land and the lakes.

It could have been that she saw what she should not have: a spirit-being, not to be beheld by a mortal. But sometimes luck would have it so, and that could be what had happened here. A young girl, full of the glow of life, parting the tules to find fish, would find one, swimming against her bare leg or coming to the surface and looking at her, opening and closing its circle mouth, or floating on one side and staring at her with one wide eye, then disappearing. That would be a spirit Fish only to be seen in the other world. Dangerous here; like all spirits ill-intentioned and unwilling to be seen by anyone, but especially an unheeding girl, unprepared for the sacred.

-- Kéis -- Compotwas Doctor must know what Rattlesnake, delving under the ground, could tell him.

For maybe it was a kiuks he was looking for, some shaman angry at this girl’s parents or someone else from the family. It could be that this other kiuks shot a pain into her, just as the fish spirit could have done, through her mouth or her ear. And the pain resided now in her, put there to plague another. Compotwas Doctor had asked and knew she had no father, at least not one who would be named. So her uncle had always spoken for her. Perhaps it was that this Keintpoos -- ‘Captain Jack’ the Bostons called him -- had started up the trouble. He had enemies enough. There were those who said he would not listen, found the path he had started his people down a wrong one when he led them back here to Lost River. There were those who said he wanted not only Old Schonchin but himself to be la`qi, and perhaps he did. Leader, sound of judgment, able to act in an emergency, diplomat. He would need to be all those things. Some said being himself a la`qi would be good only for him and for the Bostons, the white men. Not everyone believed this, but that was the talk back on the reservation. As he chose which of his spirits to summon, Compotwas Doctor must not neglect thinking that someone against Jack had caused this illness in the girl. Yes. He thought of Euchoaks, the kiuks from the camp just across the river, whom they called Curley Headed Doctor. They said he was off now raiding horses, not here as the girl sickened. Did his absence not seem somehow wrong? Compotwas Doctor kept his own counsel in all these things, but he had thought about them as he rode down here to do this healing. He was thinking of them now as he summoned his powers.

He would need Lightning. It lit up Sky and Earth and Night. Nothing that could see Lightning could hide. He shut his eyes and thrust his clenched fist against his lips, mouthing the names of other Spirit-ones jostling unseen near him. He thought of those he knew were watching from afar but nonetheless vigilant to see if he would remember this time to call them. Jealous spirits, resentful, unwilling to be tamed. All of them alert to his neglect. And dangerous.

He began with the first of his songs, each his own, each proven from the day long ago when he first gained that spirit, wooed that power into his service. The people responded, repeating the song to him, until The Invoker entreated the spirit to come:

“It will fly here now, certainly,” the Invoker told them, “from above the cloud. Medford Eagle Spirit is coming now, from the eeyrie in the north, because Compotwas Doctor calls Eagle who sees what is hidden. Listen to Compotwas Doctor,” he cajoled the spirit. “Come here and see this girl, Eagle who never fails. Assist her.”

As The Invoker’s words ended, Compotwas Doctor left off his singing, the words fading, replaced by his scream, the call of an eagle as it circled, hunting. As Eagle Spirit entered the house, Compotwas Doctor called out in slurred syllables, made clear by his Spokesman: “Go wait there, Eagle, now, by that wall, to the north, the direction where you come from!” Then Compotwas Doctor went on to summon the next of his powers.

He commanded each chosen one to a place he named for it: near the door, by the center post, at the hearth, so the watching people could understand and remember when later he called one from the shadows to him. Thus they would know which spirit was yielding power to the kiuks. At last he sensed them, all his spirits, in place, the ones he had chosen, restive, impatient. His others had drawn back into the shadows to be guardians, to stave off the spirits of some other shaman who could come to attack him at this dangerous moment of exposure. At last he was ready to seek an answer: how had it come to pass that this girl was sick, even to the point of dying? Who had done this?

He gestured to the north wall of the house where he had placed Eagle and pointed up the ladder to the roof-hole: “Off! Far-seer. Father air. Flame feather. Look! See if there is someone hiding!” His syllables were guttural, half-formed, choked in his gullet. They issued forth in the half-dark, unintelligible.

His Spokesman helped him and filled out the words, instructing the people: “Compotwas Doctor is sending out Eagle to seek the one who did this, even if he is hiding so he will not be found out.” In chorus the women sang, picking up Compotwas Doctor’s Eagle song.

The kiuks felt Eagle shudder to life, then lift up, sweep the room with broad wings; saw in his heart the flight, arrow-quick, up into the blinding sky of night. Compotwas Doctor heard, too, the people mutter their satisfaction as the shaman turned and gestured next to the place he had sent Rattlesnake. Now Compotwas Doctor would search not just from the sky but in the earth as well. The people’s assent buoyed him. Echoing their agreement that this was right, they gave him strength to command such a spirit.

One by one he called forth the spirits he had chosen from his familiars, sent them out in order: searching, looking for another shaman or another spirit, the one who could have sent the pain into the girl through some sound, some water, some food. Surely he would find who had hidden the object, the pain, in her. His spirits would return, were coming, to argue and tell him. Through his heart their travels; through his mouth their voices until all was resolved: how this had happened. He felt, as the spirits came at his calling, sped away to do his bidding, that nothing could ever stay hidden from these. Ghost Spirit lingered, most dangerous of all, ill-intentioned, friend to none. But able to sweep away all dissention, able to speak clearly when other spirits had fallen to wrangling and would not agree. Ghost Spirit then must be believed and obeyed. The kiuks had not needed to send Ghost Spirit today or in many curings lately, so great were the skills of his other spirits. The others, who were returning even now, so soon, so quickly.

The sounds poured from his mouth as they rushed back, eager to tell what they had seen or heard. Compotwas Doctor gasped out the spirit voices, filling the dark air with half cries. His Spokesman struggled to unbraid the sounds, weave them again into words for the people.

Frog had returned first, said not food. Frog had looked at all she had eaten of, had tasted with that long tongue. Then Fish came back. Not water from the pool. Fish had swum in it, had learned she drank only from her cupped hands, had not dirtied it. Not the Bostons’ kiuks, either. Beaver Spirit had been to the Boston camps along the river, and there were no Sunday doctors with medicine strong enough to command a spirit; only one at the town, and he was just saying words; his medicine was weak. Mountain Spirit said not Curley Headed Doctor; he had not sent the afflicting spirit. He was not hiding, only raiding for horses over on Pit River, as he had said he would do. One after another the spirits returned, each denying any luck. In the thick air of the earth house, the watchers grew restless, worried, as nothing was discovered.

With each disappointed murmur of the people, Compotwas Doctor struggled, urging the next denial from his throat, until not one was left and he fell silent. Reluctantly then he turned and pointed to the west, beyond The Invoker and the clustered heads of the people. Resigned that he must do so, Compotwas Doctor called Ghost Spirit from the place in the house where he had sent it, stood there as the power limped through the space that had opened in the midst of the people. Compotwas Doctor held his head flung back as if some force pulled his hair from behind. From his scarcely parted lips, the word issued: “Doc-tor,” he hissed.

“Doctor!” his Spokesman cried. “Ghost Spirit says a kiuks has done this. No sacred right broken by the girl; no vengeful spirit. A doctor has caused this, has put in the object that pains her.”

Now from Compotwas Doctor’s mouth gibberish flew, the sounds all mixed of Eagle and Crow and Mountain, disputing, then sinking into angry silence. He heard the quick disagreement of the women. When he clapped his hands at them sharply, they, too, fell quiet, waiting to hear Ghost Spirit’s words naming the man. But none came. Again Compotwas Doctor tried to summon the spirit. But if still there, Ghost Spirit was mute, and Compotwas Doctor found no word in his heart. And then he understood: Ghost Spirit thus would chastise him for choosing others to send forth instead. Cruel, the power would now tell the shaman less than all that could be known. Ghost Spirit, neglecting to tell him the fullness of what he needed to hear, would teach him about neglect.

The night was half gone, and Compotwas Doctor had gotten only part of an answer. He stood there, shaken by the silence, wrung out from his efforts. Ghost Spirit’s refusal drew his sweat from him, dried his mouth. He thought to quit, admit he could not go on until he had made peace with the angry spirit. He could not search out the one named, as he always did, and force him to retrieve the pain. Still, his heart urged him to continue. He would proceed alone, not knowing just where to look or what he would find. Shaking his head at his Spokesman, bidding his spirits wait, he sank to the floor at the foot of the pallet. He found again his pipe and the red-willow tobacco. He would rest, then continue. This night would be a long one.