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“I have no clue to what you’re referring, but I’ll ask,” Samuel says. Samuel asks both men if they have something of value from people who visited the village before Samuel. The chief tells Samuel the stone mountains are unhappy that he took Rose without a formal blessing. And now they are being punished. Ignoring the comment, he asks the shaman again. The shaman meets his gaze and gives a curt nod.
Samuel speaks to the shaman in their native tongue, so the outsiders don’t understand their conversation. Samuel asks him what’s of value and who gave it to him.
The shaman explains there was a man before Ivy, but since Ivy, there were no visitors until Samuel. He stands and walks to the back wall. He reaches into a twine basket and retrieves a brass vase. Samuel has not had the privilege of seeing this vase. The shaman tips it, and a chain falls into his hand. On it dangles a huge gold nugget. He tips the vase again, and a strand of pearls lands over the nugget. He tells Samuel the pearls were Ivy’s.
Samuel explains this is all the shaman has, but the pearls aren’t authentic, hoping the travelers disregard them.
The gun fires.
Samuel, the chief, and the shaman drop to their knees in response to the explosion. Samuel uncurls his body and checks the chief beside him who’s hunched with his hands over his ears.
“Wakü?”Good?
The chief’s eyes are wide, and beyond the fear, he gives a curt nod. The shaman moans. Like him, he has fallen to his knees. A hand rests over the left side of his abdomen. He flops backward. His brow pulls tight, then he lowers his gaze and lifts his hand. Dark blood cascades between his fingers and down his stomach toward the band of his skirt.
Fuck. He shot him!
“Don’t take me for a fool.” He angles the gun at Samuel. “Don’t tell me lies.”
The other guy pushes the chief, and he falls to the dirt. Samuel’s heartbeat thumps behind his ears. He wills his panicked thoughts to calm, but he can’t take his eyes off the shaman. Mentally, he’s assessing the puncture wound and his blood loss.
“Bring me the box and chain.” The man’s sinister expression turns into a smirk as though he’s enjoying the power. “And no tricks because the next time will be you.”
Suddenly the gunman’s face turns gray before he falls flat on his face, the gun spinning from his grasp. His eyes are wide with instant death. A small dart in his back is to blame. Samuel and the other low-life turn to the doorway. Another dart hits the accomplice in the chest. Tïmenneng lowers his poison blowpipe.
It takes a moment for Samuel’s thoughts to catch up. “Shit,” he shouts and rushes to the shaman. He rips his T-shirt over his head and presses it to the wound. With his free hand, he lifts the shaman’s head so he rests on his lap. Behind him, the men’s bodies are dragged from the hut by the young warriors, and the chief is rushed away. Terrified screams come from outside the hut and then Kaikare appears in the doorway. Through the silence, there’s quiet panic in her eyes.
“Pyjai,” Samuel tells her.Medicine.He explains he needs her to go to his hut and gethismedicines. Without question, she does what he asks.
Seconds later, Asoo appears at the doorway, his eyes as round as a full moon.
“Kaikare is getting the first-aid box. I need the women to concoct some heated leaves to stop the bleeding and help with the pain. Can you go to the ladies cooking over the fire and give my request?”
Samuel looks down at the shaman. He hums a harmonic tune as though he’s singing to the forest. He can’t give up. It isn’t his time. Samuel’s chest tightens with panic. The musky rust scent of blood fills his nostrils. Samuel adjusts his T-shirt, and with the pressure, the material soaks up blood faster than Samuel can manage to control it. He needs emergency surgery. Something he can’t perform here. Major blood vessels and organs are damaged, and without medical equipment to scan the shaman’s wound, the extent of the damage is unknown. Managing blood loss, shock, blood pressure, and infection are his priority, and one T-shirt will not be effective in saving his friend’s life.
Samuel tells the shaman he’s getting his white man’s medicine.
The shaman lightly shakes his head. He explains to Samuel the forest calls him.
Samuel keeps the conversation positive, telling the shaman his medicine will act quickly. Samuel looks to the door wishing for Kaikare to appear.
“Come on, Kaikare. Please hurry,” he murmurs.
The shaman’s breathing becomes heavy, labored, and sweat beads over his forehead and face. Blood streams from beneath the material and pools on the dirt. He’s suffering, and yet the shaman’s expression remains stoic. With one hand, he reaches up, and a rough skinned palm cups Samuel’s cheek.
“Airö, upetoy.”Goodbye, friend. “Wewe pyjai,” he rasps.Trees call the shaman.
Samuel shakes his head in a desperate attempt to remain positive.
“Mosìpe nono oma.”Long earth path.The shaman lifts a weak finger and points to Samuel. “Urekon.”We.“Aina,” he murmurs.Hand.
Samuel takes his hand and squeezes it. Is it his way of giving his word in the Western world in the form of a handshake? Samuel stares into the shaman’s eyes. His lifeforce is fading. Samuel’s chest tightens knowing there is nothing he can do. The realization is a dagger to his heart.
He has the knowledge of both world’s medicine and yet he feels helpless, a failure again.
Panting in the doorway diverts his attention. Kaikare is out of breath as she runs toward them.
“Thank God,” he rasps.
