Читать книгу Shaman's Dream: The Modoc War - Lu Boone's Mattson - Страница 7

By dawn, he had finished, but the girl lay dead. What if at the outset another doctor did sicken her, because of some hidden hatred for Jack? Or what if the women were right and she did dream of herself and not dance? None of that mattered, and he was sure of it. The last fault was his own. Had he quit last night to make peace with Ghost Spirit, she might have lived. Another kiuks could have been called to save her. By proper action, Compotwas Doctor could have made it right. Instead, he had thrust on toward this shaman’s death.

He had plunged into the curing ceremony sure he would find the clear splinter, the pain icicle shot into the girl by some spirit at the hidden doctor’s bidding. He had called on his own aides to find and grasp it: Fish Hawk and Osprey with strong talons; Pelican, with pouch and beak; Mouse, who could squirm into small places. He himself had tried here and there on the patient, seeking the hiding place of the object: her head, her stomach, her breast. He had sucked until he feared her skin would break, but he did not receive into his own mouth the blood around the object or the object itself. When he spat into the basket, the issue was not a bloody poison, only his own spit. Try as he might, his mouth would not taste the familiar flavor of healing. And later, when he should have been able to draw the green bile from the site, again only spit. Once more he tried the ablutions, dipped his finger into the water basket, cleansed his tongue and lips. Then he fell again to sucking, but nothing came. The girl grew cooler, and at last he understood that the breath had left her heart, gone out through the top of her head.

It had been as if he had forgotten how to do it, as if he had never known. Even now, lying here in the night and waiting for what must surely come, it was as if those ancient actions were gone from him, vanished even as his spirits. He had stood up, his sight darkened, not sure where he was. And The Invoker had shouted to the people:

“Leave now! Leave this place! The spirits, Ghost Spirit….”

But The Invoker had not been able to finish. The people, terror-stricken at the last name and the death of the girl, had cast him aside as they fought one another to climb the ladder through the roof hole, had tumbled through the doorway out into the night. Except for the girl’s mother and Jack. They had grasped the body, the woman wailing, “The doctor was Compotwas Doctor! The doctor was Compotwas Doctor!”

He himself turned and fled, less from the site where he had failed than from the place where he had been deserted. Outside, the people had stopped running. They waited at a distance to see what he would do. The horse still stood where it had been tethered. Crossing to it, he flung the blankets to the ground, untied and mounted it. The horse was his now, rightly. No one would stop him. But one would follow, leading others, and he knew it. Not now, but after the body’s burning and after the five days of ritual mourning. The reservation could not save him. He accepted that nothing could. But he must return there. There were things to finish before the next nights ended and Keintpoos came to find him.

He gathered the bitter rope reins in his hand and turned the horse north, toward the place where he could ford the river.