Kim Robinson - Shaman

—I know.

—So you have to remember.

One morning at dawn Thorn woke after a hard night, in which he had never once settled comfortably. He looked around at the camp, the hills, then at Loon.

—I’m getting weaker. I can feel it.

That day he rested more easily. He drank as much water as Loon would give him. That afternoon he looked at Loon and said,

—You have to remember the story of the ten-year winter. Also the story of Corban getting blown all the way across the great salt sea and then walking back home over the ice to the north. Also Pippi’s story of the man who walked east to find the end of the world. Those are the ones I liked best. Then also, how summer was pulled out of the other world into this world. And the swan wife, that’s one you can really tell. And the bison man.

He studied Loon’s face.

—I’ll be sorry not to see what happens next, he said.—I wish I could stick around a few more years.

—Yes, Loon said.

—You have to remember. Take care of the kids. They’re the ones who matter. You have to teach them everything I’ve taught you, and everything you’ve learned on your own. It will only go well if we keep passing it all along. There are no secrets, there is no mystery. We make all that up. In fact it’s all right there in front of us. You have to have enough food to get through the winter and spring. That’s what it all comes down to. You have to live in a way that will gather enough food each fall to get through winter. And you, you have to live your life, youth. You can help Heather. Be sure to do that. The old witch will need it. She’s getting on herself. She won’t like it, but she’ll need help. You’ll have to see that without her asking.

—I’ll try.

—Good. Listen to me now. Bad things don’t just grow on one path, they’re everywhere. So don’t blame yourself when those things happen. Don’t let yesterday take up much of today. You’ve always been good at that. Just keep telling the stories around the fire. That’s what needs to be carried on.

Then he couldn’t get comfortable; he writhed on the bed, sweated and gasped. Heather made him drink more tea, and chew a paste under his tongue. After that he was less conscious, though his body still arched and twisted in its hunt for a better position.

A couple of days later he came to and lay there calmly.

—Weaker still, he said.—I can feel it.

—Do you want some water?

—Not now.

The morning passed; no clouds, little wind. Birdsong filling the forest, the chatter of a squirrel telling someone off.

—I wanted everything, Thorn said.—I wanted everything.

—I know you did.

—I worry what’s to become of you all. What’s going to happen when Heather dies? There’s none of you old enough to know everything you need to know. You’ll be limping along like it’s the dream time again. It’s fragile what we know. It’s gone every time we forget. Then someone has to learn it all over again. I don’t know how you’ll do it. I mean, I wanted to know everything. I remembered every single word I ever heard, every single moment of my life, right up to a few years ago. I talked to every person in this whole part of the world, and remembered everything they said. What’s going to become of all that?

He stared for a long time at Loon.

Finally he said,—It’s going to be lost, that’s what.

—We’ll do what we can, Loon said.—No one can be you.

They sat there. Thorn’s breath was shallow and fast, and he started to sweat and squirm again. Heather showed up and Loon was glad to see her.

A long time went by, two days or three: Loon lost track. It was all the same moment, over and over. Thorn’s breath got shallow, he panted and gasped. Heather wetted his lips with a wet cloth, pulled it away before he bit it. One time this seemed to rouse him, and he struggled harder, he writhed under their hands. He croaked out some words they couldn’t understand, his tongue big and dry in his mouth, his throat parched. With a twist of the head he cried out indistinctly,—Oh Heather, I don’t know if I can do this!

—What did he say? Heather asked Loon.

—I don’t know, Loon lied.

He moved around to the other side of the bed from Heather to keep her from seeing his face. He held Thorn’s right hand, and Heather picked up and held his left hand. His body lay more comfortably there between them. From time to time Heather continued to drip water from the wet cloth into his mouth, just a drop or two at a time. Thorn did not respond to this in any way. He was no longer there with them.

Only once more did he regain awareness. Heather was away doing something. He opened his eyes a little, but could not focus them. He clutched Loon’s hands, and Loon said,—I’m here. Heather will be right back. She’s here too.

Thorn nodded. He closed his eyes.—Wait, he whispered.—I see something. Then he squeezed Loon’s hand, and went back to sleep.

Heather returned and took up her seat. They sat there holding Thorn’s hands. For a long time they sat there while Thorn breathed. His breathing slowed, it got harsh in his throat. His eyes were closed, and sunken very far into his head. His mouth was a lipless hole, jaw and cheeks stubbled white with beard hairs, nose a beaky blade. The old black snake, more reptilian than ever. Asleep and more than asleep. As they held his hands it seemed to Loon that Thorn’s spirit was near them, but not in the body they held. Maybe looking down on them, as the body kept breathing its last breaths.

—Go get some more water, Heather told Loon.

—But…

—Go.

Loon took up a bucket and rushed down to the river, at first hurrying to return, then glad to get away.

He stood in the shallows filling the bucket, looking around at the yellow air of an ordinary sunset, thinking, Someday I will not be here for this. That was the truth, he could feel it.

He didn’t want to go back up. He lingered by the sunset river. But then he thought he heard something, and he turned and hurried back up to Heather’s nest.

When he got near he could hear from the center of camp the harsh rattling in-breath of Thorn, like the crackle a raven sometimes makes. Then there was silence and he ran hard to Heather’s spot. Heather was sitting there, still holding Thorn’s hand. She looked up at Loon briefly, a little reproachful for the length of his time away, but Loon got back in position on Thorn’s other side and took up his right hand again, and Thorn pulled another great gasp of air into him, crackling in his throat again. Several moments had passed since his last breath, and Loon jumped when Thorn seized his hand as part of this effort to breathe. Thorn was still alive, somehow, although shrunken into himself completely, and looking just as he would when he was a corpse only. But then with another startling effort he breathed again. The death rattle; then another; and in between he lay there motionlessly, and Heather and Loon sat across him holding his hands and watching him, not looking at each other except once, when Loon said,—I wonder what he is thinking in there.

Heather shook her head.—He’s not there.

—But he’s still breathing.

—Yes, his body keeps trying.

It was true. Again and again he stopped, lay there; seemed dead; then jerked, sucked air into himself in a paroxysm of effort, gasping, crackling, rattling. The part of him still alive was making a huge effort. Then another stillness.

—Couldn’t you give him something? Loon asked.—Help him out somehow?

She shook her head.—Let him go his own way.

Loon felt the stab of that, then went numb again. They sat there and waited. When Thorn breathed, they clenched his hands. They were both hunched over with the effort of listening to him.