A Dark and Promised Land by Nathaniel Poole

Author:Nathaniel Poole
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Dundurn
Published: 2014-11-03T16:00:00+00:00

Iskoyaskweyau pushes aside the bearskin that serves as a door to the sweat lodge. He dribbles some water from a skin flask onto the fire, and steam rolls toward the roof of the habitation, looking in that dim light like thunderclouds. He kneels a moment in silence beside the fire, as if praying. After a time, he approaches Lachlan, who, alarmed, tries to sit up on his elbows, but the bolt of pain that screeches up his side knocks him onto his back. He lays staring at the roof, panting, lightning bolts flickering across his blurred vision. He doesn’t notice Iskoyaskweyau remove his bandage or pull out his long knife.

There is a tugging and an even sharper pain at his wound. “Oh, dear Christ …” he gasps, tears filling his eyes. The swimming shape of the Indian looms over him, and something soft and wet presses into his mouth. He begins chewing, the taste of his own flesh revolting him. He tries to spit it out, but Iskoyaskweyau shakes his head, and thrusts it back between Lachlan’s lips. Gagging, Lachlan swallows. The Indian lifts his head and gives him a sip of water.

Laying the Orkneyman back down, Iskoyaskweyau reaches into his bag and pulls out some short willow twigs. Using his knife, he shaves one, and, with his teeth, peels off the thin white inner bark. He chews this a moment, and then leans over and spits into Lachlan’s wound. He does this several times, and the Orkneyman can feel the cooling saliva running down his side.

Chew, spit, chew spit. It seems to Lachlan the most absurd farce imaginable, and he yearns for the strength to strike the big, dumb brute. Soon most of the twigs are chewed, and Iskoyaskweyau wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Soon you feel better,” he says to Lachlan, ordering him to chew a bit of the bark himself, but to swallow, not spit. As Lachlan does so, he is surprised to feel the pain in his side diminish slightly. He contemplates the significance of this when he feels a pattering across his breast. Looking down he sees that Iskoyaskweyau has tossed some tiny bones on top of him, bones from some kind of bird. With that, the Indian picks up his drum.

He begins to chant a deep and melodic entreaty to his God to save this poor fool of a White man who is so far from his home and is in need of help and guidance and healing. The drum beats are slow and thoughtful, laying a deep, deep foundation to the man’s sad song. Lachlan suspects the song to be a dirge.

The chanting carries on long into the night, Iskoyaskweyau’s eyes distant and unseeing, his body covered in sweat, glowing in the light of the coals.

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