Long Snows Moon (16 page)

The raven flitted from branch to branch and
cast a reproachful look.

“Well, it is,” Jameson shrugged. Shadow Wolf
would have thought it was funny.

She was smack dab in the middle of her summer
break and loving being able to roam the woods whenever she chose.
She was glad school was finally out it had been so boring lately.
Only her art teacher made it all bearable. Granville Allbright was
the best teacher Jameson ever had. He was warm and encouraging and
a gifted painter himself. He introduced Jameson to acrylic and
Jameson’s talent flourished under his guidance.

Jameson knew that Granville had a raven totem
like her. This gave them a secret connection. She also knew he put
up a false front, pretending that being terrorized by bullies all
of his life for being sensitive and artistic hadn’t bothered him.
She wished she didn’t see this about him, but she couldn’t stop her
visions, or
knowings
, as she called them. She also
knew
he never told anyone that they broke his finger or that
he taped it to an ice cream stick. As a result, couldn’t bend it so
it stuck out when he used a paintbrush or pencil. This brought on
chuckles from the boys in the class. Stupid boys that judged based
on what they saw instead of what they knew. The crooked pinky
finger made Granville more charming to her if that was possible.
Plus, he had a cool name, Granville Allbright. It sounded like the
name of a renowned artist, although Jameson also knew he would
never be more than a schoolteacher.

Granville was like Two Stars, both lone wolfs
and both with a crooked part.

When she looked at Granville with his sparkly
blue eyes and ruffled hair, she saw him as a twelve-year old child.
She knew when he was with her he felt like one. He was not far from
his teen years, although he seemed a hundred years older than
Jameson did at the age of twenty-two.

Granville would get a good chuckle over the
witch’s tit thing, too. Who wouldn’t?

It was because of Granville she sought her
private place in the woods, partly him, and partly Shadow Wolf. Not
to mention that she didn’t want Doc Jo Jo fawning all over her as
she did any time Jameson drew, painted or created something. She
would be carving her first flute today and she wanted to focus. She
felt inspired when her animals were around her. She felt dozens of
eyes peering nosily at her through the bushes or from the trees.
Jameson enjoyed the company of the Standing People, the trees. It
was especially important they observed her as she transformed one
of their brother’s branches into a musical instrument.

“I will give you a beautiful voice,” she told
the trees, smiling and waving the branch she held. She’d cut and
dried a cedar branch for her flute. She planned to carve the spirit
keepers on it, Mudjewkeewis, Wabun, Shawnodese, and Waboose, as
they represented the four cardinal directions. She wanted to please
her mother with the tribute.

Carving the flute was a challenge she
accepted from Granville when he discovered her sitting beneath a
tree in the empty schoolyard the day school let out for the summer.
She’d been ashamed when he caught her whittling into the tree. She
carved the image of a wolf with a raven flying above it. She
thought back to the day, just a few weeks prior, that inspired her
today . . .

* * * *

Intrigued, he flopped down, all legs and
arms, and marveled at the carving. He informed her she was far and
above the most astonishing artist he ever met at any age and in any
given medium. Jameson laughed at the way his eyes lit up and he
raked his fingers through his shaggy hair in bewildered awe.

“A god-given gift, amazing,” he muttered,
lighting a cigarette and offering one to Jameson.

She took one and he lit it for her not taking
his eyes off the carving.

“What else do you carve? What do you use?” he
wondered as he traced his fingers over the images on the tree.

Jameson took a deep drag and drew her knees
to her chest. “I carve sticks and branches, whatever I feel like. I
use this old pocket knife, it belonged to my dad.”

“Wow, incredible,” he nodded.

“It’s not that great, give me a break.”
Jameson rolled her eyes.

Granville Allbright laughed. “Talented and
humble, it runs in the family, huh?”

“What do you mean?” She studied the ember on
her cigarette.

“Your father was a gifted writer. I have one
of his books, Rhythm of Nations. I’ve read it three times. I heard
he donated all the money he made from his book sales back to the
local tribes.”

“They were the ones who gave him the
knowledge for his books, why shouldn’t he give the money to
them?”

Granville grinned. “Most people wouldn’t
have.”

Jameson didn’t like discussing her
father.

“He wasn’t most people,” she stated. She
snuffed her cigarette out between the blades of grass then stuffed
the butt in her jeans pocket.

“Have you ever tried to carve a flute? It
would such a reverence to make the Standing People sing.”

“The trees sing to me all the time,” Jameson
shrugged, secretly excited about the idea.

“Is there any significance to your carving?”
he asked as he ran his fingers over the images, studying each cut
and scrape of her knife. “Are they your animal totems?”

Jameson smiled. It was cute he knew about
totems.

“No, I just like wolves and birds,” Jameson
fibbed, not willing to tell him the truth. This, too, was personal.
She carved it for Shadow Wolf. The symbol of the raven above the
wolf was a protection for her and a tribute to their meeting. It
was sacred.

Granville studied her with admiring eyes and
a smile that said he knew she lied.

Keep your secrets, my sister, the truth
unspoken is still the truth. I see strength in your reserve.

* * * *

She didn’t have to tell him the truth.
Thoughts relating to Shadow Wolf were sanctified. They were tucked
in a private place in her mind. It was a pure place.

Jameson held the branch above her head.

“Shadow Wolf, I will use the flute I create
to comfort you when you are sad and lonely. When a breeze moves the
trees hear me whisper, I love you.”

Now, the path opened to the small clearing by
the rivulet. Jameson imagined the fawn at the bank except this
time, she didn’t slip into the hungry water.

Run, little sister, it’s not your time.

Remembering the fawn made her feel angry and
betrayed. The memory of the fawn’s terrified eyes as it slid,
flailing into the stream, the memory of the owl’s harsh words.

She belongs to the woods now.

She flopped down on ground and leaned against
a tree. She tucked thoughts of Shadow Wolf away from such a gloomy
image. Although she crossed many other animals since the deer, she
still suffered for her the most. It made her understand to be
maternal. Her anger at herself stemmed from helplessness to ease
its terror. That must be how Doc Jo Jo felt when Jameson got hurt
or put herself in danger. She filed the notion away and would
reference it later, when her mom gave her a hard time about
approaching wild animals like Two Stars. It made more sense now, on
a different level.

Jameson smiled up at her raven that was, per
usual, perched above her.

“I guess I’m maturing,” she declared.

The raven squawked and flapped its wings in
approval.

Jameson set about her task. She arranged her
carving tools on the ground in front of her. She decided later she
would do some inlay work with turquoise and onyx around the finger
holes. That would be a pretty combination on the amber wood. Maybe
she would do a deer with a raven above it near the mouthpiece.

Perhaps an owl.

Jameson scowled at the owl. “Shouldn’t you be
sleeping? I’m busy, go away.”

Your services are needed, my sister.

“No, find someone else. All of this death
ruins my happiness.”

Death happens whether you are happy or
unhappy.

“I know,” Jameson sighed. “It’s just so
sad.”

Perhaps they welcome the opportunity to
cross over and do not fear it as most Two-legged do.

* * * *

Devon was at full attention with the blanket
pulled around her. “Amazing, I saw everything like it was a
movie.”

“See, you can journey and you didn’t even
know it.”

“Journey? You mean the meditation?”

“Yep.”

“Okay. I heard you.”

Jameson chuckled. “I’m glad your ears are
working.”

“I mean I heard you whisper in the trees. I
heard it all the time growing up. Then it went away for a
while.”

“It didn’t go away, you just weren’t tuned
in.” Jameson pulled out a smoke. “Do you mind?”

“Of course not, oh, you roll your own?”

“I grow my own blend.”

“Okay, so what was this owl telling you to
do? What services?”

“I help animals cross over. Sometimes I do
healing on them, but mostly I help them cross.”

“Holy shit,” Devon breathed, taking Jameson’s
cigarette and dragging deeply. “That tastes like pot.” She handed
it back with a grimace.

“It’s an acquired taste.”

“You do save them sometimes, right?”

“Occasionally, not often. Almost never.”

Jameson got up, ran long metal skewers
through ears of corn, stuck them in the ground, and suspended them
over the fire. “I hate it. But I have to do it.” She joined Devon
under the blanket. “It's my gift.”

“Some gift. Did you have to cross your own
dog? Is that why you never replaced her?”

“She is incomparable to me. Berry’s death hit
me almost as hard as the loss of my mother. I will never get over
losing either of them. Their deaths were both sudden. Besides, I
have all of the creatures in these woods as my companions.” She
turned to the woods and whistled.

Immediately, branches began to snap and
rustle. Eyes appeared from the shadows. Devon peered into the woods
her eyes wide with surprise.

“What are they, wolves?” she breathed.

“Yes, and others,” Jameson nodded. She
whistled again and the eyes retreated.

“No wonder you’re not afraid to live in the
woods or to camp out here. You’re protected.”

“I’m not afraid of anything,” Jameson
stated.

“Come on, you have to be afraid of
something,” Devon countered.

“Nope, nothing.”

“Well, I have a fear of frogs,” Devon
admitted.

“My mom was afraid of butter,” Jameson told
her.

“Isn’t that odd?”

“I always thought so.”

“Seriously, you’re not afraid of
anything?”

“Afraid of needing someone, I guess, of
losing them.”

“I can relate.”

They ate their corn in silence, Devon
burdened by the heavy nature of Jameson’s gift.

When they finished, Devon stood and pulled
Jameson to her feet. Together they entered the tent
.

When Jameson changed her sweater for a heavy
sweatshirt, Devon noticed the scar across her abdomen.

“What happened?” Devon asked.

“I was stabbed,” Jameson replied.

“Who did that to you and why? Who could want
to hurt you?”

Jameson shrugged.

“Come on, tell me,” Devon urged. “Who would
do such a thing?”

“For you to understand I need to fill you in
on the nature of my mother’s work.”

Jameson lit a lantern, sat on the floor of
the tent, and detailed the story as Devon listened.

* * * *

When the seeds had begun to sprout and taken
their fill of sun and water, Doc Jo Jo transferred them into their
own pots and tucked them inside the greenhouse. She arranged them
on a long table in the back. She fussed over her the seedlings,
talking to them and feeding them bits of tobacco.

“They look like marijuana plants, Mom,”
Jameson noted, peering over Doc Jo Jo’s shoulder.

“How would you know?” her mother asked.

Jameson shrugged, “College life.”

“Hmm, the things you learn in college,” her
mother scoffed.

“I don’t smoke pot, don’t worry.”

“I know you’re too smart for that.
Nevertheless, you are right about the plants, they are a cannabis
hybrid. This plant has granted me my ten-year stay. I bred the
cannabis with murdannia loriformis and created what I call Mercy
Weed.”

“How did you do that?” Jameson asked. “That’s
amazing.”

“Thank you,” Doc Jo Jo smiled. “It is a feat,
is it not? If only I could sell it legally, the lives I could
prolong.”

“What about cannabis therapy? I thought they
legalized it medically.”

“Government grown, government regulated. I
could go to jail if the wrong person found out about this. So I
will teach you how to grow and care for my wonderful Mercy Weed
just for the sake of posterity.”

“Why bother if we can’t help anyone else?”
Jameson asked.

“Even a crazy medicine woman like me has a
pinch of vanity for her life’s work. Open your notebook and let us
begin. I am going to test you on the herbal teas, so I hope you’re
ready. I won’t accept anything less than an A plus.”

Jameson sighed. “I should have gone back to
school.”

In the weeks that followed, Jameson studied.
She had little time to sleep before her mother had her drying,
curing, pulverizing, and packaging. Together they cooked leaves and
roots and reduced them for tinctures, ointments, and creams.
Jameson wrote down everything her mother taught her. It took
twenty-seven spiral notebooks to hold all the information.

When Doc Jo Jo was satisfied with Jameson's
schooling, they sat and finished the conversation they’d
started.

They enjoyed a cup of tea at the kitchen
table. It was Jameson’s special blend, her thesis, so to speak.

Doc Jo Jo made a grand production of smelling
the tea. “Marvelous!”

She inhaled. “Mom.” Jameson rolled her
eyes.

“Aroma is important in herbal tea, peppermint
very nice.” She sipped. “Oh, cocoa?”