Where the Lost Wander_ A Novel - Amy Harmon Page 0,139

I gather her hair in my hands and knot it up again with a bit of rope, gazing down over her bowed head at the dreamscape she’s created. She looks up at me, almost startled, and touches her hair.

“I have paint in it, don’t I?”

I crouch down beside her. “Yeah. You do. And everywhere else. But it was worth it.”

She sits back on her knees and studies the painting. “I’ve never done anything like this before. But . . . I’m finished.” The details of the vision are in clusters of action that focus, then fade, following the path of Washakie’s narrative. It’s blurred but not dreamy. It’s harsh but not hopeless, and she has captured Washakie’s despair and desire in the swirling lines and discordant scenes. Color, confrontation, and connection merge in Washakie’s image.

“I can see his face,” I exclaim, stunned. “It’s not obvious the first time you look at it, but now I can’t see anything else.”

“It emerged as I went. His face—more than anything else—tells the story. It’s his vision.”

“Naomi and her many faces,” I say. “It’s—” I pause, trying to find the right word. “It’s . . . transcendent.”

She smiles at me, her eyes wet, her lips soft. “Do you think he’ll . . . like it?” she whispers.

“It’s not that kind of a picture, honey.”

She smiles at my endearment and pats my cheek. “No. I guess it isn’t.”

“But maybe it’ll give him comfort . . . or courage . . . or a place to lift his eyes when he starts feeling lost.”

“You’re a good man, John Lowry.” She leans into me, her hands on my jaw, holding me to her as she kisses my mouth. “You’re a good man . . . and now you have paint all over your face,” she says, giggling. “I’m sorry.”

“So do you.” I laugh. “But I know where we can fix that.” It’s late, no one is wandering about, and I’ve been dreaming about that hot spring since we walked into the valley.

We strip off our clothes and wrap ourselves in buffalo robes and tiptoe out of the sleeping camp up to the pool secluded in the trees. We scare an owl and something bigger away but slip into the heat with a gasp and a moan. I brought a lump of soap, and we remove all the paint from our faces and Naomi’s hair, but her hands are too stained to fix with soap and water.

“My hands are hopeless,” she says, holding her palms up to the lantern light.

“I love the stains. I noticed the stains on your fingers that very first day. Remember?”

“I do. I saw you staring. You didn’t know what to think.”

“I still don’t,” I whisper, teasing. “But you wouldn’t be Naomi without the stains.”

“I have so many,” she says, quiet. And I know she isn’t talking about paint. She plops her hands back down in the water and sinks beneath the surface, a baptism of sorts. When she comes back up, she’s focused on me.

She wouldn’t be Naomi without the stains, and she wouldn’t be Naomi if she didn’t make good use of the hot springs. We descend the slope an hour later, overheated and freezing, the ends of Naomi’s wet hair already stuck to her robe. We hurry along, our feet crunching on the snow. We have extinguished the lantern to save the oil. We don’t need it. The moon is high and huge, and it reflects off the snow, making the night soft and gray.

When dark shapes loom to the south, rising up over the pristine expanse, I freeze, pulling Naomi behind me. Two figures, bundled against the cold, ride toward the wickiups. They aren’t Crow come to steal the horses; there is no stealth in their approach, only haste, and two men would not carry out any kind of attack. It’s late, nigh on midnight, and I can’t conjure a reason for their presence, but they ride straight into the village.

“Washakie!” a voice calls out before the horses even stop. “Washakie!” the man shouts again, urgency ringing through the camp. “Washakie! I need Face Woman. It is Biagwi. I have Wolf Boy. He is sick.”

Naomi and I change into our clothes in rushed silence. Washakie has ushered Weda and Biagwi into his wickiup, but we do not wait to be summoned.

When we arrive, Weda and Biagwi are standing just inside, still wrapped in the buffalo robes of their journey. Hanabi has stoked the fire, Lost Woman is making a poultice,