We are coming up to a massive boulder-like rock formation. A nearly invisible path winds behind it, and right there in the middle of nowhere, but invisible from the main road, stands a shack.
I screech to a stop between the shack and the boulder, hiding the car from anyone who might drive by. Jumping out, I run around to the passenger’s side and open it. Miles is lying on his back with his legs bent. There’s blood all over the place: I can’t even see where it’s coming from.
“Oh, Miles,” I whisper. Though I’m used to hunting—to seeing blood and gore—I feel powerless.
“Do you think you can walk?” I ask.
“I’ll try,” he says. His voice is weak. That scares me more than all the blood.
Be calm, I think. You have to be strong. Now is not the time for emotions.
“Let’s get you inside the cabin,” I say. “The Jeep flipped onto its side, but they might be able to get it back on the road.”
“When he finds out you’re gone, Dad will be after us too,” Miles says.
“Don’t worry about that,” I say, and prop him into a sitting position, pulling his legs to swing them around and out of the car. I loop his arm over my shoulder and heave him up. We half stumble over the pebbled ground toward the ramshackle house, Miles groaning and pressing his hand to his side. I get him up onto the porch and, seeing that the door is ajar, kick it open. I take a look around. There is nothing inside. No sink. No furniture. No electricity. Just one small room with beer bottles and cigarette packets strewn about.
I help lower Miles to the floor, then rip off my jacket, fold it a couple of times and place it under his head. I run back out to the car and pop the trunk to drag my bag and the camping gear in, in case there’s anything in there that will be of use.
It’s dark inside the room, so I light some of the camping candles and put them around Miles’s body. I don’t take the time to unbutton his cotton shirt, I just rip it and let the buttons fly. The T-shirt beneath is so thoroughly soaked in blood I have no idea what color it was originally. I take scissors out of my pack and cut straight up the middle of the shirt through the neckline, and then down through the sleeves, so he is lying bare-chested and the bullet hole in his side, between two ribs, is exposed.
Miles lets out another groan and, wrapping his arms around his chest, writhes in pain.
“Shh, Miles. Try to stay still,” I say, and bring a candle closer so I can see his wound. It is a round hole the size of my fingertip, with blood oozing from it. I touch it, pulling the flesh apart enough to see that the bullet is embedded a couple of inches in. I don’t know what to do. I glance around the room once more, assessing what I have available to me.
I should call someone to come help us, but there’s no phone in this shack. “Miles, you didn’t get a new phone, did you?” I ask. He shakes his head no. I wonder how close the nearest hospital is. I doubt I’d even be able to find it in time. And I could try to flag someone down on the road, but I have no idea if Whit and his men have their Jeep back up and running.
This is up to me, I realize. Miles’s life is in my hands. I inspect the bullet hole again, and then, digging through my bag, pull out my bowie knife. I’ve dug thousands of crossbow arrows out of dead prey, but never a bullet.
Miles starts babbling something about a dream, and I can tell he hasn’t got long before he will pass out. Which would probably be a good thing, because this is going to hurt. I could sedate him with some brugmansia but don’t have the time it would need to take effect. I’ve got to do this now. I turn the knife blade inside the candle flame and summon all my courage.
Holding Miles’s wound open with my left hand, I insert the knife tip into the hole alongside the bullet and follow it down. Miles lets out a tortured scream, convulses, and then falls unconscious. His movement has made the knife slice slightly to the side. I straighten it and then quickly dig down, wedging the blade tip under the bullet, and pull upward. Once it is partially through the skin, I pull it out the rest of the way with my fingertips. Blood begins to pour out of the hole.
I pull off my long-sleeved shirt, leaving only my tank top, wad it up to press against the wound, and roll him back and forth to pass a shirtsleeve underneath his torso. I tie it off and sit back to inspect my work.
The bullet’s out, but he’s lost a lot of blood. And although my knife was clean, I know he could get an infection, unlike me and my clan, who heal quickly and cleanly from the occasional accident. His skin has become ashen, and if he wasn’t breathing, I would think he was already dead.
My heart beats so hard I feel it pattering in my throat. What else can I do? And then it occurs to me. There is something I can do. Although I’ve never performed it alone, I know that I am able. I have a moment of hesitation: will it even work on someone who has not grown up with the Yara? Then I remember—Mother and Father didn’t grow up with the Yara, and it worked for them. Whit was going to sell it to the outside world, so he must at least think it will work on anyone. Besides, I have no other choice but to sit and let Miles die. One look at his bloody form and my decision is made.
I carefully empty my pack until all its contents are spread across the floor, making sure I have everything I need. I begin picking up stones and bunches of herbs and lay them out in lines. I take a packet of mixed plants and minerals and place it next to Miles’s head, along with the agate cup and the ceremonial blade.
I put a large moonstone in each of Miles’s hands. I arrange the candles in a halo around his head. And I begin the Rite.
I think of what I am doing and wonder how much of it is necessary and how much just for show. Until Miles’s dad began going on about the ingestion of medicine before we stopped aging, I hadn’t questioned the Rite. No one questioned the Rite. Only Whit and I knew how to do it, I having taken the place of my mother before me. He told me that it had to be performed by a woman, that he was just there for show, but I wonder now why he wasn’t able to do it himself.
And although I know now that most of what I’ve been taught is in effect a smokescreen for the drug, it makes me feel better to perform the preparations for the Rite as I always have. Unfortunately, in Miles’s case, I don’t have all the time in the world, like I usually do.
Working quickly, I strip off the rest of Miles’s clothes, and then, taking two gold nuggets, I bind them to the underside of each foot using strips of cotton cloth. I sing as I work, the song the children sing outside Whit’s yurt, where the body will lie during the death-sleep. I sing about death and rebirth. I sing of sleeping and awakening; the winter hibernation of the animals and the renewal of life in spring.
I screech to a stop between the shack and the boulder, hiding the car from anyone who might drive by. Jumping out, I run around to the passenger’s side and open it. Miles is lying on his back with his legs bent. There’s blood all over the place: I can’t even see where it’s coming from.
“Oh, Miles,” I whisper. Though I’m used to hunting—to seeing blood and gore—I feel powerless.
“Do you think you can walk?” I ask.
“I’ll try,” he says. His voice is weak. That scares me more than all the blood.
Be calm, I think. You have to be strong. Now is not the time for emotions.
“Let’s get you inside the cabin,” I say. “The Jeep flipped onto its side, but they might be able to get it back on the road.”
“When he finds out you’re gone, Dad will be after us too,” Miles says.
“Don’t worry about that,” I say, and prop him into a sitting position, pulling his legs to swing them around and out of the car. I loop his arm over my shoulder and heave him up. We half stumble over the pebbled ground toward the ramshackle house, Miles groaning and pressing his hand to his side. I get him up onto the porch and, seeing that the door is ajar, kick it open. I take a look around. There is nothing inside. No sink. No furniture. No electricity. Just one small room with beer bottles and cigarette packets strewn about.
I help lower Miles to the floor, then rip off my jacket, fold it a couple of times and place it under his head. I run back out to the car and pop the trunk to drag my bag and the camping gear in, in case there’s anything in there that will be of use.
It’s dark inside the room, so I light some of the camping candles and put them around Miles’s body. I don’t take the time to unbutton his cotton shirt, I just rip it and let the buttons fly. The T-shirt beneath is so thoroughly soaked in blood I have no idea what color it was originally. I take scissors out of my pack and cut straight up the middle of the shirt through the neckline, and then down through the sleeves, so he is lying bare-chested and the bullet hole in his side, between two ribs, is exposed.
Miles lets out another groan and, wrapping his arms around his chest, writhes in pain.
“Shh, Miles. Try to stay still,” I say, and bring a candle closer so I can see his wound. It is a round hole the size of my fingertip, with blood oozing from it. I touch it, pulling the flesh apart enough to see that the bullet is embedded a couple of inches in. I don’t know what to do. I glance around the room once more, assessing what I have available to me.
I should call someone to come help us, but there’s no phone in this shack. “Miles, you didn’t get a new phone, did you?” I ask. He shakes his head no. I wonder how close the nearest hospital is. I doubt I’d even be able to find it in time. And I could try to flag someone down on the road, but I have no idea if Whit and his men have their Jeep back up and running.
This is up to me, I realize. Miles’s life is in my hands. I inspect the bullet hole again, and then, digging through my bag, pull out my bowie knife. I’ve dug thousands of crossbow arrows out of dead prey, but never a bullet.
Miles starts babbling something about a dream, and I can tell he hasn’t got long before he will pass out. Which would probably be a good thing, because this is going to hurt. I could sedate him with some brugmansia but don’t have the time it would need to take effect. I’ve got to do this now. I turn the knife blade inside the candle flame and summon all my courage.
Holding Miles’s wound open with my left hand, I insert the knife tip into the hole alongside the bullet and follow it down. Miles lets out a tortured scream, convulses, and then falls unconscious. His movement has made the knife slice slightly to the side. I straighten it and then quickly dig down, wedging the blade tip under the bullet, and pull upward. Once it is partially through the skin, I pull it out the rest of the way with my fingertips. Blood begins to pour out of the hole.
I pull off my long-sleeved shirt, leaving only my tank top, wad it up to press against the wound, and roll him back and forth to pass a shirtsleeve underneath his torso. I tie it off and sit back to inspect my work.
The bullet’s out, but he’s lost a lot of blood. And although my knife was clean, I know he could get an infection, unlike me and my clan, who heal quickly and cleanly from the occasional accident. His skin has become ashen, and if he wasn’t breathing, I would think he was already dead.
My heart beats so hard I feel it pattering in my throat. What else can I do? And then it occurs to me. There is something I can do. Although I’ve never performed it alone, I know that I am able. I have a moment of hesitation: will it even work on someone who has not grown up with the Yara? Then I remember—Mother and Father didn’t grow up with the Yara, and it worked for them. Whit was going to sell it to the outside world, so he must at least think it will work on anyone. Besides, I have no other choice but to sit and let Miles die. One look at his bloody form and my decision is made.
I carefully empty my pack until all its contents are spread across the floor, making sure I have everything I need. I begin picking up stones and bunches of herbs and lay them out in lines. I take a packet of mixed plants and minerals and place it next to Miles’s head, along with the agate cup and the ceremonial blade.
I put a large moonstone in each of Miles’s hands. I arrange the candles in a halo around his head. And I begin the Rite.
I think of what I am doing and wonder how much of it is necessary and how much just for show. Until Miles’s dad began going on about the ingestion of medicine before we stopped aging, I hadn’t questioned the Rite. No one questioned the Rite. Only Whit and I knew how to do it, I having taken the place of my mother before me. He told me that it had to be performed by a woman, that he was just there for show, but I wonder now why he wasn’t able to do it himself.
And although I know now that most of what I’ve been taught is in effect a smokescreen for the drug, it makes me feel better to perform the preparations for the Rite as I always have. Unfortunately, in Miles’s case, I don’t have all the time in the world, like I usually do.
Working quickly, I strip off the rest of Miles’s clothes, and then, taking two gold nuggets, I bind them to the underside of each foot using strips of cotton cloth. I sing as I work, the song the children sing outside Whit’s yurt, where the body will lie during the death-sleep. I sing about death and rebirth. I sing of sleeping and awakening; the winter hibernation of the animals and the renewal of life in spring.
