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“The deer woman appears to lonely hunters as the most beautiful, graceful woman in the world. She seduces men, invites them into her wigwam, and spends the night with them.” Darrow says something harsh to his companion. “After that, the hunter becomes an eternal seeker because the next morning, the deer woman is gone. In reality, he’s not searching for her, he just doesn’t know it. In truth, he is pursuing his soul, which she stole from him during the night of love.”
“I don’t want to seduce him.” Impatience rises in me and I have to pull myself together so I don’t raise my voice. “My friend will die if he doesn’t get help, deer woman or not.”
Darrow asks me to take him to our camp, so I walk toward the glowing flames, which flicker eerily in the night, making Bren’s skin appear even paler. Their shadows dance across his face like an omen of approaching death.
“He has blood poisoning and a fever—an injury has become infected,” I quickly explain his condition.
In the distance, Amarok stands with blue war paint on his face, watching us silently. Every time I glance at him, he looks away with difficulty, but he has lowered the hand with which he covered his eyes.
Darrow frowns at Bren’s wound, squeezing his arm here and there while I hastily recount how Bren has been for the past few hours and how I’ve searched in vain for water. Darrow listens, leans forward, and sniffs Bren’s injury as if that could help him learn more about his condition. In the faint glow of the fire, I notice he has a round, friendly face, broad cheekbones, narrow eyes, and a strong broad chin. His raven-black hair falls like fine threads to his hips, but he wears the front in narrow braids on both sides of his cheeks. The beads woven into it are a shiny river green and peach in the firelight.
He catches my eye. “That looks bad. The wound goes deep. We have herbs in our camp that can help him.”
“Herbs won’t help him,” I disagree. “He needs antibiotics.”
Darrow rotates Bren’s forearm, examining every inch of skin. “He’ll be dead by the time you get to the next town.”
Again, I feel the tightness in my chest. The young Indian seems to notice because his tone softens. “At this stage, the poisoning can probably be fought without your poisons. I’ve seen a lot of injuries like this—trust me!” He adds the last words after I’ve stared at him for a while but said nothing.
It’s not like I have any other choice. They’re the only ones here who can help. Darrow talks to Amarok in their language. They seem to be arguing, but in the end, Darrow seems to prevail. Maybe since he’s the older of the two. I estimate him to be in his mid-twenties while Amarok still looks almost youthful.
“He says he’ll help me carry your friend to our canoe as long as you’re not looking at him.”
“What? Yes…yes of course!” Relieved and confused, I look from one to the other, which elicits a few angry-sounding words from Amarok. I immediately and consciously look at Darrow. “Tell him thank you.”
As I gently brush a few damp strands of hair off Bren’s chalk-white face, his lashes tremble, but nothing else stirs. “Do you have any water with you? He… Henry…hasn’t had something to drink in ages.” Unfortunately, the missing boy’s name is the first that comes to mind and I silently offer him my apologies.
Darrow shakes his head regretfully. “Our bottles are empty, but we have reserves in our canoe. We drove off an aggressive bull moose.” He gestures for me to back off and only when I’m five feet away from Bren does Amarok approach, alert as a fox. I look pointedly to the side, but when he turns his back to me to heave Bren up, I glance over anyway. Amarok is taller than Darrow but about the same height and stature as Bren. His thick blue-black hair is tied in a waist-length ponytail. Like the other man, he wears dark trousers, ankle-high moccasins, and a shirt made of cognac-colored leather.
“He broke his ribs in a fall,” I say hurriedly, watching them pick up Bren. Amarok grabs him under the arms and Darrow grabs his legs. Bren groans and grimaces. Because of Amarok, I don’t dare approach to calm him down, I don’t want to risk Amarok changing his mind at the last second.
I watch for a moment. I should probably be afraid to go with two men I don’t even know and whose motives I don’t understand. Why are they even helping me instead of just leaving me here? So much kindness toward white people who are on their soil is surprising. Of course, they could simply be pretending to help and then pounce on me later, leaving Bren alone. On the other hand, they could have done that immediately. Darrow seems harmless and Amarok is afraid of me. In the end, it’s probably his fear that dispels my suspicions fueled by last summer.
I quickly extinguish the fire, slip into my shoes, and follow the two. I’m so incredibly relieved not to be alone anymore even though I’m still scared. Herbs aren’t antibiotics, but Darrow seems pretty knowledgeable about natural remedies.
Everything will be fine, Lou. Trust him! Just believe in it!
Which is what I’m doing now because I’m far too exhausted to brood about it any further. For the next few hours, I manage to hide everything that is preventing me from advancing. My dry throat, my sore feet and open blisters, the nagging hunger, my aching ankle, and every other part of my body that hurts. Bren needs water, and the sooner we get to the canoe, the sooner he’ll get it. Worn out, I follow Darrow and Amarok through the dark forest, wondering how they orient themselves in the dark. Bren sometimes tied cloth to spruce branches in the Yukon to locate rabbit traps, but the Indians seem to know each tree and root personally by name.
I don’t know how long we’ve been walking when I start daydreaming with my eyes open, stumbling with fatigue.
“We’ll be there soon.” As if he isn’t the least bit tired, Darrow smiles encouragingly at me over his shoulder. The moon is high up in the sky, casting its faint ghostly light on the needle-covered soil. I nod weakly. I must have walked over twenty miles today without eating or drinking, but I don’t want to whine. On the contrary.
Just as I am about to collapse from exhaustion, the pine forest opens as if by magic. A blue-black lake shimmers in front of us and the land on the opposite bank is flat. The moonlight paints a silvery path across the smooth surface like a bridge of light.
With the last of my strength, I hobble to the pebble beach and cup my hands in the clear water to drink. I feel I’ve drunk half the lake before I straighten up in shock.
Bren! He needs to drink something, but I see Darrow and Amarok are giving him water from a canteen that one of them probably retrieved from the canoe on shore. It’s this image, the concentration and care with which the two pour Bren water while murmuring their strange words that completely wins me over. Whatever happens, they have secured a place in my heart forever today. They carried Bren for hours without a word of resentment or complaint and provide him with water before quenching their own thirst. Unlike me!
Tears well up in my eyes again from sheer gratitude. I want to say something to Darrow, but it’s like I’ve forgotten how to speak, I’m so exhausted. When his gaze falls on me, I smile at him and he nods.
Finally, he lowers the canoe’s outboard motor and the two lay Bren on the bottom in front of the prow bench with his back against it. Darrow offers me the seat on the front bench so I can hold Bren. I carefully drape my legs around his torso and support his head while Amarok takes the rear seat. Luckily, the canoe is big enough, probably twenty feet long or more. Darrow pushes it further into the water with ease, jumps in, and uses a paddle to push it off the bank.
Only when he is sitting on the middle bench and the boat is floating gently on the surface of the lake does Amarok start the engine. It is quiet, barely disturbing the stillness, the canoe gliding almost ghostly over the smooth water.
Darrow fishes out what appears to be a leather pouch from his pocket before reaching in and sprinkling a few crumbs into the lake. Judging by the looks of it, it could be tobacco. From Jay’s stories and old movies, I know about the offerings Indians make to the nature spirits—to put them at ease. Jay also told me about Indian villages that don’t have traditional roads, only beaten tracks or water routes. Still, I thought that was more of a myth. I had a different picture of Native Americans in my mind: they live alone on their reservations, supported by the state but still excluded. Most have no prospects and many are addicted to alcohol and drugs. The wild Indian romanticism is only saved for tourists in Monument Valley at horrendously high prices.
The two Indians in the canoe don’t fit into my worldview.
