The Snake River

by Win Blevins

  It worked. He felt a mad glee. It worked. He’d done it. Now he knew that he’d doubted he could do it.

  The next would be the hardest part. He put a stick in his mouth and clamped down hard. With his fingernails and his knife point he loosened a corner of the square.

  Then he got a good grip on the corner, opened his eyes wide and staring into the night, and pulled. Steadily, his mind screaming, he peeled the patch of flesh off his breast.

  It was in his hand. He had done it.

  His chest welled blood, and it spilled down his belly.

  He realized he was half-lying in the dust. Instead of yelling, he said a quiet thanks to Spirit for giving him the strength to do what he must. Then he cast the patch of skin to the earth.

  Then he cupped his right hand over his bleeding left breast, pulled his blanket over his body and slept.

  At dawn he saw something simple and practical. He realized it was past time to get Mom-pittseh, Owl the Messenger of Death, some real water. The poor old horse had been forced to lick at the seep for two days. With the river right there within sight, though through a hell of a broken gully. Web needed to get Messenger down to the river. Probably he could lead Messenger carefully through the gully. A quick trip down and back.

  But leading the horse down there turned out to be tricky. It was all lava rock, jumbled and crazy. Messenger went gingerly. It was a skittish, unpredictable horse and probably wouldn’t have gone at all if it couldn’t smell the water. They squeezed between boulders, watched their feet around cracks in the lava rock, clambered over boulders. It was goddamn awkward.

  The exile talked to this pony, stroked its muzzle, kept it calm, kept a good hold on its bridle. Web could feel the trembling urgency of the horse to get to the river, within sight, within smell. Web began to feel a little better about himself—he was doing the right thing for Mom-pittseh, and doing it well. And now they were through the worst, to where the floor of the gully was mostly clear.

  The light changed. That was what he thought afterward. The quality of the day’s light shifted somehow—darkened maybe and came back tinged with red.

  Mom-pittseh, Owl, appeared in the sky.

  Transfixed, Web watched owl flap down the gully toward them, from the south.

  It was the middle of the day, when owls don’t fly. It was a region where owls didn’t live. Owl was huge, twice the size even of the great horned owl, which was as big as the war eagle. This was Magic Owl.

  Web could not move. He was rigid with fear. And if Magic Owl was flying toward him, he didn’t want to move. He mustn’t show fear. He stood at attention. He held the horse Mom-pittseh, named Owl the Messenger of Death, tightly. He watched the spirit-bird come.

  Magic Owl flew directly at them, fast as an arrow and straight, unvarying, not at all like an animal. He seemed to be headed for Web’s face. The exile stood fast. He gritted his teeth, but he refused to let Owl see him flinch.

  At the last instant Owl veered off slightly. His wing slapped Messenger the pony impostor in the face.

  Messenger tossed its head and bolted.

  The jerk threw Web off balance. He stuck out one foot to catch himself. And stuck it straight into a lava crack—in above the ankle.

  He let go of the bridle with one hand to keep from falling…

  Messenger’s hindquarters bumped Web. The exile went over hard.

  Falling, he thought Owl had truly brought death.

  The rim of the crack snapped his leg.

  “Ataa!” he roared, a cry of pain. And lost consciousness.

  His mind rose through waves of pain. All was shimmering, unclear, like the air next to the ground on a hot day. He was swimming in pain.

  Web came up from the little death. The little death had taken him for a while, he knew. Owl brought it.

  He blinked, and cleared his mind a little. Lifted his head.

  Pain knocked him back down.

  But the little death didn’t get him this time.

  He wanted to lift his head enough to see his leg. Maybe that would tell him the big sleep was going to take him.

  He was sure he would get far enough past the pain of moving to get his head up. After two more tries he did. His leg lay crooked on the rock, bloody and bent at an unlikely angle.

  Web thanked Duma Apa. The leg was broken, but it was not caught forever in the crack. Maybe no big sleep yet.

  He rested, then lifted his head again.

  Pain. His head fell.

  Gingerly, he lifted his head again and looked. The horse named Messenger of Death was in the river, drinking. He wondered if the horse would drink too much and kill himself. He supposed it didn’t matter.

  His tongue hurt already, dry, yearning for water. Later today or tomorrow it would swell and crack. Until he got to the seep.

  He intended to survive. Or at least do everything needed to survive, and leave his life in the hands of the powers.

  He would get back to the seep, whatever it took. There he had water and food. There he could survive for weeks.

  He would do that much. Then he could give himself up to the powers. And submit to the big death with honor.

  He would rest first. And hope that Messenger came back, and he could at least hold on to the saddle and drag himself up the gully.

  He lay still. His mind wandered, drifted, half-dreamed.

  Messenger didn’t come.

  Yu-huup didn’t come. Rockchuck didn’t come. Black Shawl didn’t come. Goddamn Hairy didn’t come. Owl didn’t come.

  He heard a snuffle. Messenger. Out of reach. Looking at Web.

  Impossible. How could he have heard the snuffle and not the clops of hooves?

  Didn’t matter. He would catch the reins. Get Messenger close. Use the stirrup to try to pull himself up.

  He talked softly to the horse, gently, winningly.

  Messenger stood off a few feet, sideways to Web, still, looking at the rider.

  Wariness was in the horse’s stance. It didn’t eat, didn’t look around at the world. It eyed the exile warily.

  Web cooed at Messenger. He spoke to the horse seductively.

  Web’s grandfather said the four jobs of a horse are grazing, drinking, mating, and running. If a horse wasn’t doing one of these, he said, it was looking or listening or smelling for something to run from. And you better figure out what.

  Web tried to think about what the horse was wary of. His mind didn’t think of anything well. Its answer to all questions, right now, was pain, pain, pain. Maybe Messenger was scared of the pain.

  Web almost managed a smile.

  Well, maybe it was the blood. Maybe Messenger smelled Web’s blood and was afraid of it.

  “Mom-pittseh, ne punku haintseh,” Web addressed the animal softly. Messenger, my horse friend. “You are my life. Come here. Let me touch you, let me stroke your muzzle. Don’t trot away with my life.”

  The horse put its head down and began to nibble at grass. The reins lay on the ground now, puddled. It jerked at grass with its teeth, chewed grossly, and swallowed. The jerking seemed rough, unnecessarily rough. The pony did not even look at Web, but tore at the grass, indifferent.

  It swung its head a little away from Web. Shifted its hindquarters toward him. Tore at other grass.

  Web come-hithered the horse again. Messenger ignored him.

  Web felt desperate, and his desperation felt crazy-funny.

  Maybe he would have to move to get the reins. Shift, slide, roll, move somehow.

  He would try to move and see if he could do it.

  He waited. He held his breath.

  He rolled his shoulders.

  Pain raged.

  He lay still and tremulous. He did not pass into the little death. He could not permit that now. He had to catch Messenger.

  He watched the old horse.

  His tongue parched in his mouth.

  He watched and occasionally cooed.

  He woke suddenly. Messenger was near. The reins lay an arm’s leng
th out of reach.

  He waited. He breathed deep and steeled himself against the pain.

  He rolled and lunged.

  He felt the leather of the reins.

  Messenger jerked its head up.

  Web clutched hard.

  Messenger threw its head.

  Web lurched into the dust.

  The reins were gone.

  He held himself and shook with dry tears. He noticed he had broken the scab on his left breast, and blood dripped. It was bright red and silky on his chest, dark red and glutinous in the dust.

  When he woke from the little death, Messenger was standing near the river. Looking up the gully in Web’s direction. The horse stamped its hooves lightly, hesitated, and began to trot. Trotted out of sight.

  Web dragged himself.

  It couldn’t be called crawling.

  He couldn’t use the right knee to crawl because of the pain. He threw himself onto the right hip while he brought the left knee up.

  At first he dragged himself up the gully once or twice or at most three times, a foot or so each drag. Then he decided to count the drags and force himself, regardless of the pain, to make five drags before he rested.

  Between rests, he advanced about the length of his own body. Once or twice, resting, he went into the little death.

  He knew a man could go four days without food, water, or sleep. Men who sacrificed themselves in the drystanding dance did that. He thought he would die of thirst before he could get back to the seep.

  When he rested, he asked for help from Duma Pia and Duma Apa, Mother Earth and Father Sky, from the directions of the four winds. He asked also mercy from the sun, tapai, that it not dry him out fast.

  A simple thought rose in him: Rest during the day. Drag yourself at night. He thanked Duma Apa for the thought.

  He dragged himself sideways into the shade of a big boulder. He lay back and let his body feel the cool of the shade. He turned his head and touched his lips to the cool rock, and imagined the cool was wet.

  Now he would sleep until twilight. Then drag himself through the night. He knew he didn’t have the will, within himself alone, to drag himself to the seep. So he would ask Duma Apa for the will. He would ask aloud sometimes. At other times, when he rested or slept, he would make every breath a prayer. Tonight when he dragged himself, he would make two rhythmical efforts, alternating. He would exert his body to gain a few inches upward. Then he would ask the powers for the will to exert again, and again.

  The thought of asking, the thought of giving his life into the hands of the powers, gave him sweet solace.

  Sweetness. Thought of drink. Of putting his lips to the seep. A sweet fantasy.

  After he drank, he would sink into the little death, or the big one—it did not seem to matter, they were the gifts of Owl—and he would dream.

  Time came apart, loose fragments in his hands, like strands of a willow basket falling apart.

  Night, day, dawn, sunset, noon, midnight, Web couldn’t tell one from another. Sometimes he dragged himself. Sometimes he slept. From time to time he would remember to ask for power. Then he would lie still and speak his prayer aloud, and then breathe it with every draft of air.

  He dragged himself perhaps half of the first night, half the second day. After that he could not guess. Periods of light and dark passed at random, not in the magisterial half-day intervals dictated by Duma Apa, Our Father, but arbitrarily, nonsensically, in great shards and in tiny splinters.

  He dragged himself. He prayed. He breathed.

  His existence was nothing but this, his consciousness nothing but this. Glancingly, once in a while, he thought it odd that he suffered no thirst, no hunger. He hardly noticed.

  He would have guessed it was on the sixth or seventh day, but it was in fact on the fourth, that Owl came to him.

  Owl did not appear mysteriously, obliquely, glimmeringly. He flew up in a matter-of-fact way, perched on a rock close to Web’s ear, and spoke like a friend. “I will help you,” he said.

  Web broke into sweet tears.

  “You must heal. You must begin to walk again. Prepare yourself in the proper way. Then build a trap and bait it. Wait beneath the trap four nights without eating or drinking, or especially falling asleep. An owl will come to eat. Catch it by the feet with your bare hands. While you hold it, here is the song you must sing.”

  Now Web was frightened. No Shoshone would touch an owl, a taboo bird that tells of death. If he must touch an owl, maybe he must never again be a Shoshone.

  But an Owl went on. “First you will call in the animals of the four winds.

  Hiyo koma wey, Hiyo koma wey

  Hiyo koma wey sheni yo

  Hiyotsoavitch, Hiyo tsaovitch

  Hiyo tsoavitch sheni yo.

  Then sing to the owl:

  Mom-pittseh, Mom-pittseh,

  Mom-pittseh, Mom-pittseh,

  Coming to me through pieces of light and dark.

  Mom-pittseh, Mom-pittseh,

  Mom-pittseh, Mom-pittseh,

  Coming to me through pieces of light and dark.

  As Owl sang the song, he did a little dance on the ground, darting back and forth, fluttering his wings, hopping, weaving forward, circling, repeating the series of motions.

  Web’s eyes were opened, his ears alert. Owl’s notes clanged like gongs, and his movements burst on the eyes like sun rays.

  Web understood the challenge being given. He saw the danger if he lost the owl, even in pain from the pecking and jerking and beating. He saw the poha, animal-spirit power, being offered. He wept with gratitude.

  “When you have sung and danced,” Owl went on, “you will wring its neck with your bare hands. You will cut its heart open and hold it high overhead and let the heart’s blood run down your arms. After that, when you fight, you will paint yourself with owl’s blood where it runs on your arms.

  “You will cut off the owl’s feet,” he went on, “and tie one on each upper arm, between the chest and arm, claws into the arm.”

  Web understood that he was being given the power to grip strongly.

  “You will take the heart and the skin and keep them in a bundle.”

  Web knew that if he lost the bundle, he would not only lose the power but also would become crippled or otherwise handicapped.

  Owl began once more to sing the song:

  Mom-pittseh, Mom-pittseh,

  Mom-pittseh, Mom-pittseh,

  Coming to me through pieces of light and dark.

  He did the dance, weaving, hopping, fluttering his wings, going up the gully, back to the south, the home of the Owl. The moment he flapped his wings and lifted off the earth, Web saw him no more.

  Seemingly, without lying down, sitting down, or even falling down, Web passed into a restful sleep, free of dreams.

  Chapter Nine

  Flare eyeballed it. He wondered why the others didn’t see it. He always wondered. The wondering stirred him to high-flown thoughts. The mission folk kept their heads so high in the sky, hunting for Truth, that they couldn’t see what was around them. Which was a bleedin’ horse with a bleedin’ saddle and. no rider standing a couple of hundred yards out.

  To Flare the missionaries were a source of infinite variety and amusement.

  The saddle was Indian. Flare couldn’t see what tribe it was this far away. But it meant trouble for some poor critter.

  He looked around. They were all jawing away, as usual. Their eyes must be on heaven, ’cause they surely weren’t on earth. Mother of God, you run from the Holy Church in Ireland and get caught by Protestants in the deserts of the New World.

  Funnier yet: There was no God in this forsaken country, that was clear enough. And Michael Devin O’Flaherty, who’d spent his life getting away from God-ridden people, who’d left civilization to live among the pagans, was bringing Jehovah to the country, in the form of superstition-bound missionaries. Mother of God, but it was rich.

  He looked at Miss Jewel, who had some sense to go with her fine,
plump bottom and fine, rounded bosom. Which made him want to get her into his blankets and jolly her good. He smiled ironically. Faint hope of that, me lad. She was discussing the doctrine of transubstantiation with Dr. Full.

  He nodded slightly at her. “Miss Jewel, I’m going to get that horse.” Don’t explain, just inform.

  She looked, saw. “Yes, Mr. O’Flaherty. Of course.”

  She probably didn’t see the saddle. Well, it wouldn’t do its owner any good anymore. But it would tell a story. And someone would want to know.

  Miss Jewel stopped her horse. Flare would never quite get over her forked there on the saddle—he’d seen no other white woman do that. The whole party stopped, wondering what was on the mind of the guide who pushed and pushed and never let them stop. He reined away and walked his horse. No sense spooking the lost critter.

  Funny, though. The lost critter didn’t act spooked. Waggled its head back and forth, making the reins flip about. Trotted a few yards. Stopped and looked back at Flare. Trotted again, looked back, trotted. Finally headed for that gully.

  “What do we have here?” asked Dr. Fool.

  Flare just let it sit.

  “A fallen child of nature, to be sure,” said Dr. Fool. “But aren’t they all fallen?”

  He knelt over the boy and started mumbling. Over the weeks of the trip Dr. Full had become pure fool to Flare. Or sometimes Flare called him Dr. Full-of-Himself. Like the Brits, fundamentally not worth thinking about.

  But Flare was not amused by Dr. Fool’s officiousness now. Time to do some doctoring.

  The boy had a broke leg. Maybe Dr. Fool could set it and save the lad’s life. If they could get enough water in him in time, and fever didn’t get him. If Dr. Full would stop praying and start setting. If Dr. Full could get his mind out of his notions long enough to see not a child of God, a creature of Darkness, a fallen angel, or a sinner in need of grace, but a lad with a broke leg—Shoshone lad, surely a breed lad.

  The lad moaned.

  Flare squatted next to the lad and squeezed his wet handkerchief. Water dripped into the boy’s mouth. He didn’t react, didn’t move lips, tongue, anything. After a while Flare saw his Adam’s apple bobble. Flare squeezed a few drops onto his forehead, thinking ironically, I baptize thee, in the name of the Holy Mother-bleedin’ Church….He wiped the face and forehead and laid the handkerchief on the lad’s hair line to cool him a little.