Hell Snake

by Bernard Schaffer

  “Is this true?” Folsom asked Mirta.

  “No one can hide from me if I want to find them,” Mirta said.

  “Very well,” Folsom said. “Then we must go now.”

  “Hang on,” Odell said. “Wait now. Before we do anything else, we have to get Connor to a doctor. He needs help. So first things first, do you know where we can find a doctor?”

  “I have been all over this area and I have not seen one,” Folsom said.

  “Damn,” Odell said. He ran his hand through his hair and sighed with defeat. “I don’t know what else to do. This boy’s going to die on me and I’m just going to sit here and watch it happen.”

  Folsom could hear the young man in the back of the wagon moaning. The fever was strong in him and Hank Odell was right. Soon it would take him. “I do not know of any doctors,” Folsom said. “But I do know someone who may be able to help. He is very old and very weary of this world, but perhaps, just perhaps, he may help your grandson.”

  “Well, hell,” Odell said, brightening at Folsom’s words. “I’m very old and weary of this world too. Maybe me and him will get along good.”

  Folsom looked from Odell to Mirta and said, “So we are agreed, then? We work together to find those we seek?”

  “Yes,” Mirta said.

  “I like this plan,” Odell said with a smile. “Us all ganging up. Makes me feel like the old days. We need to make it official. Here, both of you hold your hands out like this,” he said. He held out his left hand under his chin and told them, “Except you both use your right hands.”

  Folsom and Mirta did as he showed them.

  “Now spit in ’em,” Odell said, and spat into the center of his palm.

  Mirta scowled and went to lower her hand, but Odell said, “I’m serious. This is how we did it.”

  Mirta spat into her palm and held it out toward Folsom. Folsom looked at their hands in mild disgust, then spit into his palm and laid his hand on top of Mirta’s. Odell laid his own wet hand on top of theirs and said, “There. Now it’s sealed.”

  * * *

  * * *

  They entered Honey Hook by the early afternoon. The rank odor of filth was heavy in the air. They passed a man who had one hand planted on the wall of a building to keep himself upright as he vomited down the front of his shirt. A drunkard stumbled down the middle of the street, his pants down around his thighs. He tried holding them up as he walked but would lose his grip, take several more wobbling steps, and have to pick them up again.

  All around them, men wearing filthy clothes and women with open sores occupied the sidewalks and alleyways. Large rats chased one another across the street. The saloons were dark and no music played inside any of them.

  Hank Odell turned toward Edwin Folsom. “This is where we came to get Connor help?”

  “Hey,” someone called out. “Hey, hang on.”

  A ragged man with bone-thin arms and sunken cheeks came down off the sidewalk toward the wagon. Mirta did not stop but he walked alongside her. “You didn’t pay the toll,” he said. His skin was yellowed and spotted with brown circles. His gums and remaining teeth had dried blood crusted on them.

  “I will pay you nothing,” Mirta said.

  The man stuck out his hand and said, “Give me a dollar, you prissy little bitch.”

  Mirta’s foot shot out to the side to kick him in the face. His head snapped back and he landed on the street so hard that a puff of dirt came up past the sides of his head. People walking past did not even bother to look at him. They stepped around his unconscious form and kept walking.

  “I like this place already,” said Mirta.

  They rode until they reached the last building on the street. It leaned to one side and most of the boards holding up its outer walls were rotted. A sign on the front door read bailiwick hotel, no baths—one chamber pot per room. Another read privy in back—for guest use only.

  Folsom brought his horse to a stop, and Mirta and Odell stopped with him.

  “So where is your friend?” Odell asked.

  Folsom turned around in his saddle, searching the street. “I am not sure. I saw him near here the other day.”

  “Oh, that’s just fantastic,” Odell said. “First you bring us all the way here into this cesspool of a town to find your friend and now you ain’t even sure he’s still here. Come on, Mirta,” he said. “Let’s go back the other way and see if we can’t find a doctor somewhere else.”

  Behind her, Connor was groaning and Mirta said, “No. We are staying.”

  “There’s nobody here who can help us,” Odell complained.

  “Officer Folsom said his friend is here and we agreed to work with him. You made me spit in my hand and touch his hand after he spit in it,” she said. “We are staying.”

  Odell frowned and shook his head. “Fine,” he said. “But not for long.”

  A group of men came walking back to the Bailiwick wearing damp union suits and carrying armfuls of clothes that were soaking wet. There were ropes strung from the side of the building to trees and poles, and they draped their clothes over them to dry.

  “There’s no baths here, so they bathe in the nearest stream,” Odell said. “Clean their clothes there too.”

  Folsom sniffed with derision. “I am surprised that men who live in a place like this would care about cleanliness.”

  “When I came out of prison, I couldn’t afford to live in a place even this nice,” Odell said. “I slept in a room with a bunch of filthy mattresses on the floor where people would steal your boots if you took them off. The fleas bit the hell out of you all night. I wanted to see my daughter and Connor and his father, William, and I was ashamed to let them know how I lived. So before every time I went, I’d stop and bathe in the nearest creek and wash myself and my clothes as good as I could. Maybe some of these men have family they want to go see too,” Odell said.

  “There is honor in what you speak of,” Folsom said.

  Odell laughed. “If you say so. They were just bad times, that’s all. I don’t know about any honor.”

  “I do,” Folsom said, watching as a new group of people began crossing the street toward the Bailiwick Hotel. Most of them were drunkards who clung to one another and sang incoherently. The women screeched with laughter as they kicked their legs high in the air to show how well they’d danced when they were younger. At the back of the group, with his arms folded across his chest and his head tucked low beneath his hat, was Istaqa.

  He was thin and frail-looking and dressed in the same clothes Folsom had seen him wearing the last time he saw him. His long white hair was tucked into his shirt so no one could see how long it was. The other men in the group pulled at him to sing along with them, but Istaqa ignored them and kept walking.

  “There he is,” Folsom said. “Wait here.” He slid off his horse and walked toward the Bailiwick’s entrance to wait. When Istaqa finally spotted him, he turned away and began walking up the street, away from the hotel. Folsom hurried after him, calling, “Wait!”

  “Go away,” Istaqa said.

  “It’s Edwin!”

  “Leave me alone!”

  Folsom grabbed him by the arm and spun him around. “Look at me!” Folsom cried. He latched on to Istaqa’s shoulders with both hands so that he could not escape.

  “I don’t want to!”

  “Why not?” Folsom shouted.

  “Because I don’t want you to look at me!” Istaqa’s face fell. “When I first saw you in the alleyway before, I thought you were Siissiiyei, come to take me. I knew what he would think of me when he saw what I have become. Leave me be, Edwin. I cannot bear the shame.”

  Folsom squeezed the old man’s shoulders and felt how bony and weak they were. He stood two inches taller than Istaqa now. “All I see is the man who saved me as a boy,” Folsom said. “Who rode with my father and was a
t his side when he died.”

  “It has been many years since those days,” Istaqa muttered. “I am not the man you remember.”

  “I do not believe that.”

  “That is because you still have the mind of a child,” Istaqa said. “The heart of a child. You see things like an innocent and do not accept the truth of what is in front of you.”

  “I am no child, old man,” Folsom said. He touched the badge on his vest and said, “I have worn this badge for many years and serve our people the best that I can.”

  Istaqa bent forward and squinted at the badge. “Indian Police officer?” he read. He sneered and spat on the ground at Folsom’s feet. “What is that? In our day we were chosen by the leaders of the Five Nations to protect the people. What do you do? You work for some—for some—what? Government agent who tells you to fetch and stay like his dog? Your father would rip that badge off and smash it in the street if he were here!”

  Folsom’s eyes drew to narrow slits. “If Siisiiyei were here, he would help me find the missing girl I am looking for, and he would not be standing in front of me, sniveling and stinking of whiskey, in this white man’s place of despair.”

  Istaqa blinked several times and his eyes glistened with tears. “Well, he’s not here, is he?”

  “No, but I am and I need your help,” Folsom said. “Please. You are my only hope.”

  Istaqa sniffled and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “If that’s true you are even more pathetic than I am. Begone from here.”

  Folsom looked over his shoulder and shook his head to let Mirta and Odell know he had failed. They stared at him in disbelief.

  Folsom decided to try once more. “The girl’s name is Kakìdsha. Her father is Tuìksh and her mother is Lèdsha. She was taken from them by a false priest who corrupts all that he sees. Not the good kind of false priest who rescues children, if you remember that,” Folsom said, hoping the reference would elicit some response from the old man. It didn’t. “I have come here to get her back, but the only ones who can help me find her need a healer. They need a wakan witshasha,” Folsom said. “We need you, old friend. I need you. I’m asking you. Come to my rescue, one last time.”

  Istaqa would not look up from the ground.

  “So be it!” Folsom threw up his hands. “You know, when I was a child, I was afraid that your hair would never grow back. That you had sacrificed all of your wisdom and honor and courage to save me and it would never return. Now I see that I was right to be afraid.” He backed away from Istaqa and said, “You wear it long, but that is an illusion. It never really grew back at all.”

  Folsom started back toward the wagon and horses and had nearly reached them when he heard someone coming up behind him. Istaqa was panting as he kept pace with Folsom, walking with him toward the wagon. “Slow down, I am an old man now,” Istaqa said.

  * * *

  * * *

  Lay him on the bed,” Istaqa said.

  Folsom and Mirta and Odell hoisted Connor onto the bed and stepped back so Istaqa could come forward and inspect him more closely. Istaqa laid his hand on Connor’s forehead, then across his cheek, and finally, inside Connor’s shirt, flat against his chest. He closed his eyes and muttered to himself, then bent low and put his ear to Connor’s mouth and nose and listened to him breathe.

  “How long has he been like this?” Istaqa stood up and asked.

  “Days,” Odell said. “At first it was just some shivers and sweating, and we thought he just needed some rest, but now it’s far worse.”

  “Yes it is,” Istaqa said. “He will die soon.”

  “What?” Mirta and Odell cried out together.

  “Is there nothing you can do?” Folsom asked.

  Istaqa frowned. “Not much. His is a sickness of the body and spirit. It will be difficult. How much money do you have?”

  Odell rolled his eyes. “I knew it. You brought us to some snake oil peddler, Edwin. Let me guess, for the right price, you’ll just happen to remember some fancy spell that will heal him.”

  Istaqa went to the table in the corner of the room and found a scrap of paper among all of the things piled up there. He rummaged in an old cigar box and found a nub of a pencil there. He bent over the table and wrote out a list of items, then handed it to Folsom. “These are the things I need. There’s a store next to the saloon that should have most of it, if you can pay. Bring me those things and I will do what I can. If you cannot, we will bury the boy by nightfall.”

  Mirta snatched the list from Folsom’s hand and headed out the door. Odell looked at the two men, then back at Connor. The crazy old drunk was right about one thing, Odell thought. The boy would die soon if he didn’t get help. He pointed at Folsom. “You better be right about this, Officer. Hang on, I’m coming with you,” he called after Mirta. “I have money we can use.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Once they’d returned with the materials, Istaqa lit a bundle of dried sage and, chanting, waved the smoking embers over Connor’s crumpled form. Flecks of hot ash dropped from its tip and fell on Connor’s arms and face, sizzling as they struck his flesh. But the boy did not stir. Great clouds of smoke soon filled the room, engulfing Connor and the bed and the old man standing over him in fragrant mist.

  Behind them, Mirta was grinding the rest of the herbs into a stone bowl with the large pestle they’d bought at the store. She grunted with effort as she ground. Sweat poured off her face and Odell went to check on her. “Are you all right? You’ve been at it awhile.”

  “I’m fine,” she said as she continued to grind.

  Edwin Folsom approached from the opposite side of the bed and reached into his vest for the eagle feather that he had found at the reservation what felt like weeks ago, the thing that had seemed like a good omen, but had been the harbinger of nothing but misfortune ever since. He caressed the feather and smoothed out its barbs. He closed his eyes and tapped it against his forehead in prayer, then handed it to Istaqa. “For strength,” he said.

  Istaqa slid the feather inside his shirt, then raised the sage to his mouth and blew on the tip to make it smoke even more. “Is the medicine ready, girl?” he asked over his shoulder.

  Mirta wiped her face with her arm and raised the bowl to inspect it. “I think so.”

  “Add it to the water,” Istaqa said.

  Mirta carried the bowl over to a pot sitting on top of the stove. The water was bubbling and hot. Mirta turned the bowl upside down and tapped the underside of it to make sure everything came out of it, then picked up the wooden spoon near the stove and stirred the mixture.

  Istaqa held the sage upright and smacked it gently with the flat of his rough, callused hand, until the red embers went dim. He picked at the ash with his finger until it was dark, then he drew lines across Connor’s forehead and down the sides of his face.

  Connor groaned at the touch of Istaqa’s finger. Istaqa turned the sage upside down and used it like a pencil to draw a line down the center of Connor’s chest. The ash smoked against Connor’s skin and he cried out but did not open his eyes.

  “Don’t hurt him,” Odell said. “Please.”

  Istaqa picked up a ladle from beside the stove and dipped it into the pot of foul-smelling black liquid. He carried the ladle back to the bed and cocked his head at Folsom, to lift the boy up.

  Folsom sat Connor up and cradled him in his arms. He tilted Connor’s head back against his forearm and opened Connor’s mouth with his thumb.

  Istaqa carefully lowered the ladle to Connor’s mouth and tipped the liquid into the boy’s open mouth. He tilted the ladle quickly to get as much of it into Connor’s mouth as he could before Connor flailed against it. “Do not let him spit it out!” Istaqa commanded.

  Folsom pressed Connor’s mouth closed and bore down with all his weight until he saw the muscles in Connor’s throat constrict and he r
elaxed. Connor coughed and trickles of the liquid came out the sides of his mouth, but as Folsom tried to lower him back down, Istaqa said, “Not yet. He must drink more.”

  “How much?” Odell asked.

  “Enough to give him the strength to fight off the spirit that has overtaken him.”

  Istaqa returned with another ladleful and bade Folsom raise Connor up and drink once more, then again, and again after that, until finally Connor was choking and black fluid came out of his nostrils and mouth and Mirta had to forcibly hold Hank Odell back from intervening. The pot was more than half-empty.

  “Now you may lay him down,” Istaqa said. He set the ladle down on the stove and went back to his cigar box on the table. He opened the lid and pulled out a gnarled length of bone with dried roots and feathers wrapped around its length.

  “What is that?” Odell asked nervously.

  “Be silent or leave,” Folsom said.

  Istaqa shook the object and it rattled loudly. Chanting again, he walked back to the bed, shaking the rattle back and forth. He held it over Connor’s face and shook it, then moved his arm up and down Connor’s torso, and by the time he returned it to Connor’s face, Connor’s eyes flew open and he lifted up from the pillow to let out a bloodcurdling scream that rose to the rafters of the hotel room.

  Connor’s eyes rolled back and his head collapsed onto the pillow. He lay motionless once more.

  “Now what?” Odell cried.

  Istaqa set the bone rattle down on the table. “Now we wait.”

  Odell ran his hand through his hair and felt that it was soaking wet. His legs were shaking. He needed a place to sit down. Mirta guided him toward the chair at the table and put her hands on her hips. “While you are waiting, I will go look for your Red Priest,” Mirta said.

  “Now hold on,” Edwin Folsom said. “You’re not going after him alone.”

  Odell lowered his head and muttered, “Here we go.”

  “Do not ever tell me what to do, lawman,” Mirta said. “I will cut out your heart and grind it up for this old man to mix into his next potion.”