“I should go to her.”
“Yes,” he replied. “And think of what her death will mean for your future.”
The Serpent
We humans spend so much time working to shrink the miraculous to the size of our own pettiness that it’s a wonder we manage to get anything else done.
Our lives are filled with miracles that we do not see. Every time a hawk shrieks or a bear roars, it is the visible breath of the Creator entering our world.
But we look and look away.
Each time a raindrop lands, our world is clothed in the glory of its greatest possibilities.
But we go inside our houses where we can’t see it.
We are too preoccupied with who might be saying bad things about us to care that the wildflowers have bowed their heads in profound gratitude and the vines have spread their arms in prayer.
That is the challenge we face. It is only when we allow ourselves to experience the divine presence each moment that we live our lives to the fullest.
And that is the dilemma. It is a summons to wonder that most of us will turn our backs upon in favor of belittling someone else.
Are we really so terrified to look into the Creator’s eyes?
What do we fear we will see?
The primary purpose of a miracle, after all, is not revelation. It is redemption.
Twenty-four
The night after Back Scratch’s funeral, Salamander blinked his eyes open and listened to the sounds. Birdsong had sent its first melodies through the darkness. Dawn couldn’t be more than a hand’s time from breaking over the eastern horizon. He reached out and lifted the deerhide, aware of Night Rain’s sleeping form where she lay beside him. His second wife was snuggled against the wall, her back to him. She shifted, some sleep-ridden sound deep in her throat as he slipped from the covers into the cool air and resettled the deerhide over her shoulders.
The events of the previous night came tumbling out of his sleep-heavy souls. After Wing Heart had excused herself and gone to bed, he and Water Petal had sat up late, discussing the implications of Jaguar Hide coming to Owl Clan. Did it mean that he had heard of their weakness, or did he still come to them believing that he dealt with the most prestigious of Sun Town’s clans? Assuming the former, did he have designs on Wing Heart, seeking to further damage her standing among the clans? Or would this be the challenge that would snap her out of her endless mourning for her brother and son?
Salamander stretched in the dark shadows and glanced at the door, a bare gray portal to the predawn outside. Moving in silence, he tied a cord around his waist and pulled his breechcloth into place.
Under his bed he found the wooden box that contained his herbs. The sweetgum wood had been decorated with an interlocking owl motif, the wings of one blending into the wings of another to encircle the box. Opening it, his fingers encountered a soft leather bag in one corner. This he lifted and loosened the drawstring. He took a pinch, sniffing to ensure he had the right mixture. A quick glance ensured that both women were hard asleep; he dropped a dash of the powder into the stewpot. Sniffing his fingers again, he confirmed the ingredients: wild ginger, licorice root, dogbane, milkweed, and rue. Both Pine Drop and Night Rain were destined for another day of female discomfort.
He wearily returned the herbs to his box before closing it and restoring it to its place under the bed. From the clay pot beside the box he scooped out a liberal handful of rendered bear grease laced with pine resin. This he smeared liberally over his arms, legs, face, and belly—protection against the hordes of stinging and biting insects.
Finished, he reached for his atlatl and darts. To his dismay, one of the long cane shafts caught on the deerhide hanging from Pine Drop’s bedding.
“Huh?” she mumbled. “What’s wrong?”
He could see her shifting, sitting up under the soft hide. “Nothing. I’m sorry. It’s still early. Go back to sleep.”
“Salamander?” she groaned. “Snakes, the sun’s not even out yet.”
“Shush, go back to sleep.” He started for the door.
“Wait. Where are you going?”
“Out to greet the sun. And then hunting.”
“Have a good hunt.” She started to roll over, then stopped short as if suddenly thinking of something. “Wait. I’m coming with you.”
He froze. “Why?”
“I’m your wife. Can’t I come with you if I want to? You might be able to use some help.”
He could feel his souls sinking. “I might be gone for most of the day.”
“It’s all right. Night Rain can do the chores. I brought us bladderwort from one of the bogs down south. She can boil it and drain it.”
Fortunately, she couldn’t see his face while he waited for her to stand, tie her kirtle around her waist, and grease herself.