Page 65 of Trapped: Between Sky And Wind

I look at the other Navapaki, who’s still pretending I’m not here. “Is Nashashuk your shaman?” I ask warily.

Face framed by his braids with shimmering beads, Darrow gives me a piercing look. His war paint glows at me in the form of black crosses and red dashes, and despite last night, he doesn’t appear to be exhausted. “Depends on what you mean by that.”

I shrug, a little disconcerted by his accusatory tone. “Well, one hears so many things.”

“And, what’s that?”

“Shamans dance around campfires, summon the spirits and stuff like that.” I left out the dancing naked part.

“Is that so.” Darrow’s mouth pulls down in derision.

“I didn’t mean to offend you, but you did ask. To an outsider, it always looks a bit showy or like mumbo jumbo, especially in movies or poorly made documentaries.” And it’s easier to believe in it when a loved one’s life isn’t at stake.

“Shamanism is far more than you white people can ever imagine. At times, it’s even more than I can ever imagine.” He glances at the old Navapaki who is still devotedly grinding herbs in the mortar.

“So, what is it?”

“A glimpse from mortal consciousness into the eternal.”

Okay.

“You should trust Nashashuk. At the moment, he may seem to you like an old man who believes in this supposed mumbo jumbo, but in a trance, he can see—with the sight—and he can come into contact with all things and wisdom beyond our world. That is the true art of a shaman, not cheap tourist magic.”

I merely nod even though I’d still prefer a doctor and a blister of antibiotics over Nashashuk and his herbs. Just to be safe.

I stay with Bren all day and only leave the tent to fetch fresh water from the nearby creek. Naturally, every step I take in the camp is being watched from all sides and not all eyes are kind. Darrow says many don’t particularly like white people and keep their distance for that reason alone; I’m fine with that for now.

I regularly refresh Bren’s compresses with the herbal decoction and hay flower after Nashashuk silently showed me how and I applied leg compresses and washed his body with cold water to bring down the fever. Every hour, I give him a tablespoon of the burnet herb extract which is said to fight bacteria, but Bren’s condition doesn’t seem to be improving.

Toward evening, I am so tired, I could fall asleep standing up. When I step out of the teepee, about to head to the stream again, I almost trip over a clay bowl with blueberries the size of cherries. Astonished, I look around and discover Amarok standing at the edge of the forest about fifteen feet away.

He looks at me seriously and I point to the bowl and then to him. He nods.

“Thank you very much!”

“You’re welcome,” he replies in broken English and disappears among the mighty oaks.

“He has never spoken a word of your tongue. So far, he’s successfully refused,” Darrow says, stunned, as he passes by.

I bite my lip. I recall the blond man at the Crescent City Walmart. Hopefully, this situation with Amarok won’t escalate once Bren improves. If he’ll even get better! a fearful voice inside me whispers. All day, I’ve clung to the hope that the natural remedies would work but now I have to face the truth: they don’t. Bren’s blood poisoning is too severe or too advanced. After sunset, his fever rises and the red line on his forearm almost reaches the crook of his elbow.

I light the kerosene lamps and sit next to him, not knowing what else to do to help him. I was told by Darrow that the nearest town is five days away and the only way to get there is on foot and by canoe. No one could carry Bren for that long without taking a break, especially not in his condition. Besides, that would be pure torture for him, he might not even survive the journey. Yet, if he doesn’t get help, he will die.

I’ll lose him. Suddenly, I can’t think of anything else. The appearance of the Navapaki didn’t change the situation. I’m back where I was last night.

I stare numbly at Bren’s face. His skin is clammy and pale, even his lips, and his hair looks black as charcoal. “Bren.” I carefully take his hand. It radiates heat and, dazed with desperation, I place it against my cool cheek. A hundred words fill my mind. A hundred prayers, still, it’s one sentence that I keep thinking. Do not leave me alone! Don’t leave me alone! I can’t utter the horrible, the incomprehensible. I want to say everything to him: wake up, stay with me! but I’m mute with fear. Eventually, Darrow comes up to me and says something about his father, who is currently in civilization with two friends to run some errands. But they cannot be reached since they don’t have a cell phone. I’m sure I only hear half of what he’s saying. But in the end, it doesn’t matter. Even if they had a cell phone, there is no signal whatsoever anywhere around the camp. I checked this morning after recharging my cell phone with the power bank. Reception would have meant being able to get help, a helicopter, an ambulance, or anyone else. But here, there is none. Nothing works. All I can do is sit here and watch Bren struggle, breathing heavily and moving further away from me by the second.

I bend over him, his hand against my cheek, rocking back and forth.

Why did we have to get on those goddamn trains? Why didn’t I jump first, then he wouldn’t have hurt himself? Forgive me, Bren! And while I know he would, always, I could never forgive myself if he died because of it.

What if I lose him?

His heavy breathing fills the stillness of the teepee. Cold fear creeps into my bones. What if he suddenly stops breathing?

Horrified at the thought, I drop Bren’s arm and, instead, put my hands over my mouth to keep from sobbing loudly, still rocking back and forth. Again and again. “Wake up, please, please, wake up!” Although the words come out of my mouth, they’re mere whispers. But even if I screamed, I’m sure Bren wouldn’t hear me. He’s much too far away.

At some point, I realize that I have to do something to keep from going completely insane. As if on autopilot, I renew the compress on his forehead as tears stream down my cheeks. I can’t be without him. Never. It feels wrong, empty, and pointless.

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