The warrior with the big scar is standing with a group of men. He has Magwich’s horses, and he is waiting for us.
“Oh, no, no, no,” I moan. The lifeless girl is gone. In her place is the girl who has been waiting to wake up, waiting for rescue, waiting for hope, waiting to forget. This is not rescue or hope, and I begin to beg, clinging to Magwich’s arm. If he gives me away, I will never see Wolfe again. I will not be able to watch over him, even from afar. As bad as life is, the knowledge that it can be far worse crashes over me.
Beeya is back. She has my satchel. My pictures. My precious faces. She runs between me and Magwich and the scarred chief, waving my loose pages and babbling, babbling. Magwich roars, and the chief frowns, but he takes the pages from her. His men crowd around him.
The scarred man studies them, one by one, raising his eyes to me every once in a while. He hands them to his men, and they do the same. Magwich has grown quiet beside me, but he hasn’t released my hair.
The scarred warrior hands my drawings to Beeya.
“Those are mine. That is mine!” I hiss at her, hanging from Magwich’s arm. But the scarred man shakes his head and points to me. He wants me, not the pictures. He speaks, and Magwich answers. Back and forth they negotiate, and Beeya clutches my satchel to her chest, her eyes swinging between the men. The scarred one signals for two more horses, and Magwich releases my hair. He folds his arms and walks along the animals, thinking. Then he shakes his head, takes the satchel from Beeya, and hands it to the scarred warrior, a note of finality in his voice.
My vision swims. I expect to be taken, dragged away by a new set of hands, but the scarred warrior turns, my satchel in his arms, and his men lead the horses away.
Magwich pushes me toward our camp, but my legs are limp, and I almost fall. He barks at me and takes my arm, but his grip is firm, not bruising, and he urges me forward. Beeya is smiling and cooing, hurrying along behind us. I don’t know what happened. The warrior improved his offer, but Magwich changed his mind.
Beeya brushes my hair and sings a song that has no tune. We do not leave the wickiup again, though I can hear the swell and the fervor of the scalp dance beginning. She is happy Magwich has not traded me, but I am shaken. I don’t understand anything, and my pictures are gone. I have nothing left.
When Beeya lies down to sleep, I do the same, staring up through the hole in the wickiup at the gray-black heavens. The sky is even bigger here, and I am much, much smaller here.
Put your energy into rising above the things you can’t change, Naomi. Keep your mind right.
I hear Wolfe cry; it is distinct and unmistakable, like every child’s cry, and I sit up, straining to hear him. I am in the grass again, waking up to find him missing, but it is not John who holds him; it is a stranger. It doesn’t last long, a few angry bellows, and he quiets. I lie back down, but I don’t stop listening. The sky is bigger here, and I am much, much smaller here, but this is where Wolfe is.
Magwich returns while I am still awake. I don’t expect him, and I jerk upright when he enters the wickiup, drawing his eye. He walks toward me, his hands on his hips, and stops beside the buffalo robes. I avert my eyes so he won’t get angry, but he stoops down and grips my chin so he can study my face. His breath is sharp with spirits, and I lean away. He puts his hand on my chest and pushes me back so I am lying down again. Then he bunches his hands in my dress and flips me over onto my stomach.
I cry out, but I don’t dare fight. If I fight him, I will lose. If I fight him, he will give me away. My heart has fled my chest, and it pounds in my head, pulsing against the backs of my eyes. I can’t breathe, but his breath rasps in my ears. He grips my hips and hikes me up to my knees, shoving my dress up around my waist. I have nothing underneath. I removed the leggings before I lay down to sleep. Beeya rolls over, muttering in her dreams, but if she were awake, she would not help me. She would be glad. Magwich has decided he wants me.
It hurts, but I do not fight.
I do not fight. I do not scream. I cry silently, and I endure.
I distract myself with what I want most.
He is not gentle, but he is quick, and he finishes with a grunt and a shiver and pushes himself away from me, staggering to his feet before falling onto his own pile of robes on the other side of the wickiup with a long, belching sigh. He is snoring almost immediately.
I walk out into the night and into the creek, lifting my skirt as I sink into the water to wash him away. I sit for a long time, waiting for the cold to make me numb. A dog barks, but there are so many dogs that no one listens. Distant singing. Distant fires. The sky is bigger here. I am much, much smaller here, but this is where Wolfe is.
“I gotta get my mind right,” I whisper. “Gotta find transcendence.” But I’ve already begun to float away.
JOHN
The valley is teeming with tapered tipis and domed wickiups on the morning we arrive. Camp after camp, thousands of people, thousands of horses, and a billion dogs. It is worse than the hills of St. Joe during the jump-off season. Washakie and his chiefs move up into the lead as we slowly proceed through the Gathering. A slice of the valley has been left open for him, one that extends up from the surrounding creek to an enormous circle in the center, where the people seem to congregate. I cannot help but scan the faces, searching desperately for sight of Naomi, but the numbers are too vast, and though we wind our way through the camps, Washakie and some of his men greeting other leaders of other bands, I do not see her. Washakie says that we are the last to arrive, but he does not prolong my agony.
“I will not go to Pocatello’s camp, but Hanabi and some of the other women will visit. There is good feeling among the Newe, even if their chiefs do not see eye to eye. They will look among the women for your wife and her brother. If they are here, I will call a council. We will not cause panic or raise an alarm. That would not be good for your woman or the tua.”
Washakie and some of the men go to watch the horses race and mingle among the warriors of other tribes. I see to my mules and help Lost Woman set up Washakie’s big wickiup and start a fire for cooking. The women seem to carry the brunt of the labor in the tribe. It is no different among the Pawnee. The men kill the meat, but the women skin it, quarter it, pack it, and drag it home. Then they cut it into strips, dry it, pound it, dry it some more, and pack it up again. They gather the wood and prepare the skins and herd the children and feed the tribe, and the work never relents.
Lost Woman works quietly, efficiently, and she stays close to me. I haven’t spoken more than a few words to her since I arrived, but she sleeps in Washakie’s wickiup, she knows my story, and she senses my snakes.
“You are scared,” she says.
“I am. If she is not here . . .” I can’t finish. If Naomi isn’t here, I don’t know what I’ll do.
“She will not be lost forever,” Lost Woman reassures me quietly, and I pray forever ends today. We wait for hours. I don’t know the customs or the traditions that occur in a visit between tribes, and I even crawl into my tent and try to sleep, exhausted by not knowing. Lost Woman promises to wake me, but I know the moment the women return, and I have scrambled out of my tent before she has time to alert me. Washakie and his men have returned as well.
Washakie’s face has no expression, but Hanabi runs to me.