“Of course.”
Wren drew out the soot-coated teapot and tripod and set them up at the edge of the flames. Picking up the bowl, she ran to the nearest snowbank, packed it full, and returned. She scooped the snow from the bowl into the pot, and sat back to prepare herself for what came next. More than anything else, she remembered the gouts of blood as her mother severed fingers.
She glanced into the pot. The melting snow sizzled. “Rumbler, do you just want a drink, or does the water have to be hot? Did you want tea?”
“I—I just need water.” He sat forward and struggled to remove the large copper gorget he wore around his neck. The engraved image of a gnarled uprooted tree shimmered in the sun. Beneath the gorget, a leather Power bag hung. Shaking, Rumbler handed the necklace to Wren.
“Here, Wren. Please. Open my Power bag.”
Wren took the magnificent necklace, slid the copper gorget aside, and loosened the laces on the bag. Inside, three smaller painted bags nestled in a clump, one red, one green, and one blue. The green one had another uprooted tree painted on it in white.
“What are these, Rumbler?”
He sucked in a shuddering breath and through the exhalation said, “Pull out the r-red one, please.”
Wren did. “What now?”
“Place a pinch of the mixture in a cup of water, and … and stir it.”
Wren pulled a cup from her pack, poured it full of melted snow water and set it on the ground beside her. As she unlaced the red bag, an explosion of fragrance assaulted her nose, bittersweet, like withered fruits. She lifted the bag and peered inside. The contents had been finely ground. “What is this, Rumbler?”
“Papaw s-seeds.” He gestured weakly to the cup. “I must drink it. Before we begin.”
Wren took a pinch of the powder and put it in the cup. “Is that enough, Rumbler?”
He nodded. “S-stir it well.”
Wren pulled a twig from the woodpile and blended the tea until the liquid turned a pale green-brown, then she handed it to Rumbler. He tried to take it, but his shaking hands wouldn’t grab hold. Wren pulled the cup back, walked to his side and knelt. As she held the cup to his lips, she said, “This smells awful, Rumbler. Does it taste bad?”
He finished the tea in five swallows and made a face. “Yes, but the seeds numb the b-body, and free the souls.” He leaned back against the sassafras trunk again, and stared down at his hands. “This will take … a while, Wren. Before I’m ready.”
“That’s all right. It will give me a chance to get ready, too.”
Wren pulled a branch from the woodpile and stoked the fire. Garlands of sparks winked and flitted up through the lances of sunlight. When she had more coals, she would scoop them aside into a pile. In the meantime, she needed a flat stone.
Wren walked away. Rocks thrust up everywhere, but most were frozen to the ground. She kicked at a stone about the right size, but it didn’t budge, so Wren headed on. The trail had been churned up by hooves. She might find a loose rock there.
As Grandfather Day Maker sank lower in the sky, the shadows reached eastward like long sharp talons. High above, a hawk drifted against the blue sky, her wings blazing in the sun.
Wren tried to stay on top of the snow that lined the trail, but her moccasins kept slipping into the mud, sucking with each step. By the time she reached the first boulder her calf muscles ached. She braced a hand on the tall rock, and rested a moment. Orange lichen splotched the surface. Wren traced the beautiful patterns with her fingers. Over her shoulder, she glanced back at Rumbler. He stared off into the recesses of the forest … but he seemed all right.
Chunks of stone lay around the base of the boulder. In the summer, water seeped into cracks in the rock. When it froze, it often split the stone and cracked off spalls. She toed the mushy snow with her moccasins, but didn’t see any flat spalls. Then, as she stepped around the boulder, she placed her hand in a new spot and the stone grated beneath her palm. Wren tugged the spall from the boulder and studied it. About the size of four of her hands put together, it would work, she thought. Clutching it to her chest, she made her way back toward their camp.
As she entered the sassafras grove, she called, “Rumbler? How are you?”
“Ready. I—I’m ready, Wren.”
He turned, and she could see that his pupils had dilated to fill his eyes like glowing suns. The sight stopped her dead in her tracks. He’d given her that same look in the council house fourteen days ago. She forced a swallow down her tight throat. Had he eaten ground papaw seeds that day? To ease the pain of the rope cuts?
Wren gathered her courage and started forward again. She sat cross-legged next to the fire and placed the granite spall on the ground between them.