Medicine for the Dead

by Arianne Thompson

  The half stopped about ten paces away. “Hello,” he said in Marín.

  That alone was surprising enough for Vuchak to straighten again, his knife still tucked away in his boot. He kept the horse in front of him. “What do you want?”

  “Three,” the half said, holding out three fingers as if he weren’t sure he’d used the right number. Then he pointed at the front hooves. “The horse feet bads,” he said.

  Vuchak did his best to ignore the vulgar gesture. “I know.” Where was this going?

  Three fingers became two. “You water need,” the half said, and mimed drinking from an invisible bottle. “Him water need,” and more pointing at the horse.

  Vuchak chose to ignore the disrespectful you-form as well. “I know,” he said again. Did the half think either of these things were unknown to anyone here?

  Two fingers became one, and then his obscene pointing-arm went further afield, aiming at something behind Vuchak’s shoulder. “Weeyseey me –”

  That was too much. Vuchak rounded the horse and strode forward. The half backed up and dropped his arm before Vuchak could slap it away. “Don’t point with your hand,” he snapped. “Your chin. Use your chin.” And he tapped his own chin before turning around to demonstrate. “The horse. The cart. The rock.” He jerked his head up at each thing in turn, and then glanced over at the half. “Understand?”

  There was no telling whether he did or not: his face was that usual marbled mix of ignorance and fear. But some of it left him as he nodded. “Understand,” he repeated. And then, as if determined to prove that he was a civilized person, he lifted his chin at Weisei’s hunched, distant figure. “Him me sorry.”

  Vuchak frowned. “You’re sorry that he’s sick?”

  The half frowned too, fearful again. “No understand,” he said.

  Vuchak glanced back at Hakai, and opened his mouth to call him over. But no, nevermind: this was not a conversation for slaves. “Sick,” he explained, putting a hand over his stomach and tipping forward, as if he would vomit. “You’re sorry that he’s sick?”

  That triggered immediate wide-eyed nodding. “Yes, yes. You’re very sorry,” the half assured him.

  For half a second, Vuchak’s temper flared. Then he understood that the half was repeating words back to him, his mind too weak to know the difference between estoy and estas. He meant that HE was sorry.

  And Vuchak had no idea what to do with that.

  Was he saying that yes, he was the one making Weisei ill? Could he even know a thing like that? Had he done it deliberately and regretted it, or was this him taking responsibility for something accidental? “Sorry for what?” he said, advancing on the half, suddenly desperate to know. “Sorry for MAKING him sick, or sorry that he IS sick?”

  The half backed up, instantly dissolving back to dumb animal fear. “No understand,” he stammered. “Sorry – very sorry.”

  Vuchak stopped, and did not speak until he had mastered his frustration. One deep breath helped to clear his mind, if not his headache. “I know,” he said at last. Then he beckoned the half forward.

  At first, Vuchak got nothing but a hesitant, mistrustful expression. That gave him time to think about what he was doing – to consider this huge, wrongly-made man with his creased native eyes and freeloaded native clothes and long, bony Eaten-face – to think about who might want to see him today, and what she would do when she did.

  Perhaps the half was thinking that same thought. At any rate, he discarded his reluctance and came forward, stopping just outside Vuchak’s reach. He smelled terrible.

  He had no natural marks, of course. He had been raised in ignorance of any native custom, leaving him as blank and ungifted as that Pohapi boy. But Weisei had not been wrong: for days now, the half had had no razor, no sharpened clamshell to pluck his chin, and yet his cheeks were as smooth as those of a woman... or a man with divine heritage.

  Vuchak stared at the half’s nearer arm, and that horrible horseshoe-shaped scar where his Eaten master had branded him. He tried to picture what it would look like covered in fur, like Wi-Chuck or Walla-Dee or the other Washchaw he’d seen in Island Town. Would great O-San allow him to paint himself with the blood of a royal bear? Would it even do anything if she did?

  Well, until that happened, he belonged to the a’Krah. Vuchak dragged his gaze back up to the half’s face. When he was sure he had his attention, he lifted his chin at Weisei, who was finally heading back. Marhuk’s son waved at the sight of the two of them there together, plainly delighted to see them getting on so well.

  The half narrowed his eyes, straining against uncertainty and the blue-black horizon to make out whatever he was supposed to see.

  “If he dies,” Vuchak said, slowly and clearly, “you die.”

  The half looked down at him, suddenly enough for Vuchak to have confidence that his message had not missed the mark. But just to make absolutely sure, he drew his thumb across his throat. “Understand?”

  The half nodded, and this time the fear on his face was wholesome and correct.

  “Good. Now dress the horse.” Vuchak tipped his head at the animal before going away to fold up the tent-skin.

  No, there was no knowing what would be waiting for them at Yaga Chini, or what would happen when they found it – but Vuchak felt calmer and steadier than he had in days, his mind settled by shared understanding and fresh, mutual certainty.

  BOOTJACK WOULD KILL him. Elim was sure about that much. He hadn’t been clear about exactly all the words, but the way the pigtailed Sundowner had looked him dead in the eye and pulled his thumb across throat said everything Elim needed to hear: he’d meditated on it, gotten sure about it, and was perfectly ready to do it, if he decided it needed done.

  Just like that, all Elim’s panic came roaring back. So did his notions of escape: he’d signed up to take Do-Lay home and be held to account, not to get beefed by the side of the road on some angry Sundowner’s whim. Bootjack had changed the rules, and Elim wasn’t about to play by them.

  So he’d do what he should have done on that very first day out of Island Town. Nevermind that they were easily fifty miles out now. Nevermind that Ax’s feet were going bad. Carrying three hundred pounds of man and water on his back wouldn’t hurt him any worse than pulling a thousand pounds at his shoulders, which was what the Sundowners were going to keep doing to him if Elim left him here. He could nurse a few dozen more miles out of that horse’s hooves, if their lives depended on it – and Bootjack had just promised him that they did.

  So Elim only had to bide his time until they made it to that watering-hole. Once they’d had a drink, filled the skins, and taken Ax out of his harness, Elim wouldn’t need more than a minute to throw on a blanket and light a shuck out of there.

  Which meant that the first question was how to keep Bootjack from coming at him in the meantime. And the first answer, helpfully provided by Bootjack himself, was to keep Way-Say alive.

  As it happened, that had a lot to do with keeping the rest of them above-ground too.

  So as the land got rougher, and the trail got steeper, Elim found himself behind the wagon again... but this time, it was on his own initiative. He bent nearly double, the heels of his hands digging hard into the back edge of the frame, and pushed.

  It was a miserable job. All he could see above the tail-gate was Way-Say, wrapped up and shivering in his heathen cloak, a hunched-over black blot amidst the baggage. All he could smell was the appalling stench from Do-Lay. And although his poncho kept the sun from his back and skull, it did nothing for his stinging sweat, or the flies that strayed from the coffin to crawl over his face and arms.

  Way-Say helped with that, though. He brushed the flies from Do-Lay, and from Elim whenever Bootjack wasn’t looking, and spoke in a soft, pleasant voice, one barely above a whisper, in what Elim could only calculate was an effort to keep his nephew calm and still in the box.

  Elim couldn’t have said how much that did – but after last night, he was glad for it
.

  Up front, Bootjack led poor Ax with a patience Elim never would have guessed he had in him. A town-dwelling drygrocer’s horse at heart, Ax had never been asked to pull a load on such a steep grade, and would have had a tough time of it even on his best day. Today, sweaty and sorefooted as he was, Will’s meek-minded gelding looked to have spooking nowhere on his agenda, and to trust just about anyone willing to sweeten his ears with promises. And all the while, Hawkeye walked beside the wagon, keeping track of both the front-end and the back, making sure that –

  “Wait,” Hawkeye said.

  Elim let up, for the sixth or seventh time that morning, as Bootjack coaxed the horse into continuing. And that was all right – that was fine. “You’re doin’ good, buddy,” Elim said, taking advantage of the time to straighten up and pop his back. “You’re doing just right.”

  The backwards turn of one bleached black ear promised that he’d been heard, and with painfully short, choppy strides that Elim could all but feel through the wagon, Ax started forward again.

  And that was how they went. Everybody managed his own mind. Everybody did what he could. And this strange, careful peace gave Elim plenty of time to think, and to plan for what he was going to do if – when – it all fell apart.

  “WAIT,” HAWKEYE SAID.

  Elim stopped. But Actor kept going, until he felt the full weight of the load dragging him back. Then he halted with an ear-pinning groan.

  “Hihn ene yekwi?” Bootjack snapped, for the third time in as many hours.

  Elim had to work at biting his own tongue, even though he wasn’t the one getting rough-sided just then. Every slip-up and slow-down was another delay, another minute between him and water.

  “Kitsaan, maga,” Hawkeye said. “Ne tlangu.”

  That sounded like an apology – and that would have to be good enough to go on. Elim leaned into the tail-gate again, not hard enough to force the horse forward, but just enough to ease the weight from Ax’s collar, so that he would be more inclined to trust Bootjack’s incomprehensible urgings.

  Finally, the horse picked up his feet, and the wheels rolled forward again. Elim waited until the trail leveled off enough for him to straighten a little before he risked a glance at Hawkeye.

  The back-and-left view didn’t show much besides the wet stain under his right arm, the hanging black tails of his blindfold, and that gray-streaked hair tied at his neck. Then again, it wasn’t as if Elim had ever been able to reckon anything even with a clear view of his face. But the man was holding to the side of the wagon, which Elim hadn’t seen him do before, and he’d been tripping over stones and holes all morning.

  “What’s wrong?” Elim grunted.

  Way-Say stopped talking to the box and looked up, as if he might have missed the sound of his name.

  Hawkeye turned his head. “I don’t feel especially well,” he said, “but thank you for asking.”

  A cold shiver of guilt trickled down Elim’s spine; he pushed harder to smother it. “Not you too,” he said. “Tell me I didn’t make you sick too.”

  That got a laugh – an honest-to-God laugh so sudden and startling that Elim almost let go.

  “Weh’ne eihei!” Bootjack scolded.

  Hawkeye bowed his head in deference. “Kitsaan, maga,” he said again. “If you did, it will be the greatest irony of my life.”

  Elim couldn’t figure that out, but he was not at all unclear about Bootjack’s tone. He shut his mouth and pushed.

  But it was hard uphill going, at a pace that dripped sweat into his eyes and pounded blood at his temples, and the dry clumps of manure that he kept stepping around reminded him that he was not the only one desperate for a drink.

  “Please tell me we’re close,” he said, when he couldn’t hardly stand it anymore.

  “Count twenty more steps,” Hawkeye replied, in a tone that neighbored encouragement.

  Elim could do that.

  Twenty, and he started counting.

  Fifteen, and he swiped his forehead against his arm.

  Ten, and he ground the toe of his moccasin-shoe into a road-pit to steady himself.

  Five, and he dared to imagine the taste of water.

  He still had two left on the count when the road flattened out and Hawkeye piped up again. “There – now what do you think of that?”

  Way-Say twisted around as if he would answer for him. “Vuik, vichi! Vuik, u tsandetsi, ke!”

  Elim straightened, and then plumb forgot to push.

  It was beautiful, that was what.

  From the top of their dry little hump of earth, the whole desert opened up before them – and front and center, not more than a rifle-shot away, was the biggest and grandest mesa Elim had ever laid eyes on. It was huge, dizzying, a rippling curtain of rock as tall as an angel’s fall from heaven, as stark as a ship-wrecking cliff on the high northern seas, and as white and glittering as the proverbial city of salt. And growing all around the bottom, prettier than anything yet, was a grove of trees – not shrubs, not brush, but actual man-height, spring-green trees. After days of nothing but dirt-red and shit-brown and dead-grass-gray, Elim was helpless to do anything but stare, resting his seared eyeballs on a lush, living paradise.

  Thank God.

  Thank you, God.

  THE NAME, YAGA Chini, was given by the children of Grandfather Coyote – but the place was older even than them. It had stood in the desert, pure and proud, since the beginning of the World That Is, and its cliffs had been marked by travelers for thousands of years. Arrogant Eaten despoilers had marred the white sandstone with their names, but there were Washchaw claw-marks and a’Krah constellations and even inscriptions from the few unlucky fishmen who had been stranded there when the rains died. In some places, the stone had been gouged by migrating giants, who had scraped their lumpy quartz armor against the rock like bears rubbing themselves against an ancient tree. Older than everything were three enormous swirling handprints, so huge and high and weather-worn that even the unbelievers could not explain how any human person could have made them.

  But in this moment, Vuchak had little attention for the present, visible parts of Yaga Chini. More troubling by far was what was missing.

  He had given the horse’s lead to the half-man when the ground leveled out, and gone forward. The trail looped languidly around to the north side of the cliff, forcing the others to take the wagon the long way around, and leaving Vuchak time enough to scout ahead on his own. With his bow in one hand and the first arrow in the other and his senses stretched to their utmost, he crept through the piñon trees, ready for anything.

  He didn’t find it. The shade was pleasant, as was the smell of juniper on the warm breeze. But there was no animal dung, no fire-pits, no hint of any recent visitor at all.

  And there was always someone at Yaga Chini. Before the drought, it was already well in use. Now, even those who didn’t come for water would lie in wait for those who did. Yet in this present moment, it was as if Vuchak were the last man living.

  If seen from above, the mesa was shaped like a sideways-turned eagle head, and the road passed just above its eye. The pool was on the other side, tucked away at the bird’s chin. Vuchak turned at the piercing tip of the beak, into the shady hollow made by the north side of the cliff. As he moved forward, its vast shadowy white face swallowed the noise of the wagon and horse still walking the trail, and ended his ability to look back and see them. For the time being, at least, he was alone.

  Maybe.

  Vuchak scanned the dipping branches of the trees, the shade-dappled ground, and the rocky edges of the cliffs above. He felt the long grasses tickling his shins, and the doubled leather of his moccasin soles smothering the stones and pebbles underfoot. The air was low and heavy with the buzzing of insects, the tzeep-tzeep of gray-wings, and the occasional chattering kee-kee-kee of cup-weavers. Nothing was –

  A juniper branch quivered in his periphery, but Vuchak had no time to wonder why: in an instant, he was assaulted by clawing talo
ns and beating wings. He gasped, shutting his eyes and dropping his bow to beat back the pecking, screeching thing. One lucky hit knocked it to the ground. By the time he straightened to look, the angry, bristling ball of blue feathers had righted itself enough to take off again, shrieking as it went.

  Vuchak wiped his forehead, breathing hard, willing his runaway heartbeat to slow again. Then he glanced from the smear of blood on his fingers back to the vanishing dark blot over the treeline. What had prompted that? It wasn’t the nesting season for scrub jays.

  Regardless, nobody had taken advantage of the opportunity to put a weapon in his face or his gut... which might mean that there was really no-one here to do it.

  Which would also mean that there was no-one left to explain why.

  Vuchak picked up his bow and arrow and went on, his gaze darting between the trees and the cliffs all the while. Weisei had said that he saw no people when Marhuk first granted him vision, but today, before morning, he’d been ecstatic about his dream of people waiting for them at Yaga Chini. One of those things was almost certainly wrong.

  By this time, Vuchak was near enough to smell the algae. His dry throat constricted in want. He followed the inscription-carved wall until it bowed open, exposing the hollow, water-stained curves of stone eroded by thousands of years of rain runoff. Vuchak did not allow himself to savor that first, tantalizing blue-green glimpse at foot level, but looked up to the mesa above. Anyone with death on his mind could do no better than to lie up there behind those old stones and wait for some thirsty traveler to drop down on his belly and drink.

  So he stopped in front of the pool, nocked an arrow, and fired nearly straight upwards. It arced up and gracefully down again, landing somewhere up on the mesa.

  The only answer was the gusting of the wind.