Reindeer Reflections by Jerry Haigh

Author:Jerry Haigh
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: RMB | Rocky Mountain Books
Published: 2021-11-15T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 18

A Shaman’s Treatment

As we climbed, the trees became scattered and stunted. A lone larch, golden in its autumn colours, signalled the top of the tree-line. We crested a ridge and there below us were rocks that varied in size from soccer ball to dishwasher. After a rest for both horses and humans, Bayanmunk pointed with his chin down the slope to the valley. He advised me to let go the reins and tie them up so the horse wouldn’t get caught up in them. The horse picked its own way without hesitation. He’d done it all before.

The valley curved gently to the right and then the camp came slowly into view. A small number of stunted larch trees had somehow grown roots and survived. We collected blood from the few animals that were already tethered. Bill Coyle had taken on the task of administering all the deworming injections. Then it was time for more ramen noodles, some storytelling and sleep.

As usual, like many men of my age, the urgent need to get up early to check if my kidneys had done their job overnight had at once to be dealt with. I emerged through the tent flap to a landscape that looked as if it had been dusted with icing sugar. The entire tethered herd stood quietly among the orange-coloured larches and the shrubs that had long since lost their leaves. Just visible through mist-like falling snow, the steep slope at the head of the valley looked fuzzy, as if seen through a plastic curtain.

I turned and saw Bill, holding his satellite phone to his ear, a grimace on his face because of the cold. When he clicked it off, he explained he was calling home to Colorado to change the sprinkler settings on his turf business. I’d no idea that one could do that remotely, but he assured me he could do it at any time from anywhere.

The work continued, but I was having real difficulty with my part of the procedure. Over the last two days my right forearm, between my elbow and watch strap, had swelled to double its normal size. I had no idea why. I’d not hit it against a rock, I hadn’t fall off the horse, but it was so sore I couldn’t even hold my bowl of tea. That’s serious for a guy almost weaned on the brew. Two doses of paracetamol had made no difference. When I told Byamba of it, he at once suggested a visit to Soyan, the shaman who lived in the adjacent urts.

The 103-year-old was sitting quietly. Byamba did the introductions and explanation for our visit. Before we got any further, the old lady said, “If that man has a bad knee, he can point his feet.”

We were sitting across the urts from her, three metres away. Since last year’s trip, I’d had more bits of cartilage (nicknamed “joint mice”) removed from the joint, so obeying the protocol that requires no foot pointing was impossible. The white discs of Soyan’s advanced cataracts were plain to see.

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