woven fabric. The ancient medicine bag was full. I had never gone through it, never searched the contents. It had seemed disrespectful, until now.
Carefully, I opened my father’s bag. It was so old there was only the hint of scent. Rotting deer hide. Tannins. Inside was a small length of jawbone, the teeth attached, a child’s teeth. Mine, if the memory and my brother were right. I didn’t remember and he hadn’t been alive when I was hit by a white man hard enough to break my jaw, to knock the bone chip from my face. Five-year-old me had tried to kill him for raping a Cherokee woman. He had tried to kill me right back and nearly succeeded.
I shivered, my spine frozen, my face and chest and hands warming at the fire. One-handed, I rearranged the rocks ringing the fire. One rock was actually a rounded-out bowl, shaped and smooth. Another rock was long with a rectangular cleft, like a tunnel down the middle. Ceremonial objects. Still one-handed, I set them to the side.
My bone and teeth felt alien and oddly menacing in my other palm.
Slowly the sweathouse warmed and my shivers decreased. Time passed. I sweated. I woke once to find myself lying by the fire and added logs to it.
I dreamed and, in the dreams, I hunted as Beast. Deer, turkey, catfish, alligator, were all my prey. Blood and fury flashed through me as I tore out the throat of a man who was cutting down the trees of the forest and denuding the mountains. I mated with a strong male, the pain intense and tearing, followed by the contentment of knowing I carried kits. I raced along high ridges and leaped down cliffs onto small ledges to climb into a tiny a den. I suckled a litter, hungry, and knowing there was nothing to eat, not anywhere.
Scents changed. I smelled the warmth of spring and fresh blood and the glory of the hunt. I smelled the memory of my first shift, the excitement and the fear sweat. I chased my first rabbit as We-sa. I tasted my first fear-soaked blood and ripped the steaming meat from the carcass.
I dreamed the memory of fighting tlvdatsi. And stealing Beast’s body and her soul.
I heard the door of the sweathouse open and I sat up. Grit from the floor was crushed into my face, along with the teeth of my childhood. My brother stood in the opening. He entered and closed the door on the icy night. The firelight illuminated him. Tall, dressed in jeans, snow boots, a down vest, and a peacoat. The clothing was deeply wrinkled, as if it had been balled up and put away for months. He peeled out of the coat and removed his boots and socks.
I brushed the grit from my face, gripping the teeth and bone in my palm. The dream was lucid, intense, rich with texture, scent, sound, vision. I could even feel the irritation of the sweaty grit beneath my fingers.
Barefooted, Ayatas FireWind, my brother, came to the fire and bowed his head to me. He said, “Nuwhtohiyada gotlvdi.”
I tried to swallow but my throat tissues were too dry. I croaked softly, “You asked that once before. I said no. Why ask again?”
“I came to you with an impure heart. I came to you udalvquodi and with kanalvisdi—arrogant and in secret anger. I came with the jealousy of a foolish boy. I deserved no gift of peace from you. No welcome. I carry the shame of my weakness and I beg forgiveness of the elder sister, the beloved woman of my clan.”
Beloved woman. A Cherokee phrase for war woman. I gave him a tribal shrug and a soft grunt. It communicated that I was listening, and that, while I wasn’t accepting all he came to say, I was hearing his words, allowing his presence, and I wasn’t going to try to kill him. Yet.
“May I sit at your fire? I have brought nodatsi aditasdi. It is the recipe made by our mother. It will quench your thirst.”
Nodatsi aditasdi. Spicewood tea. One made strong, of sarsaparilla and other herbs, with notes of vanilla, caramel, wintergreen, and licorice. I remembered. My mouth wanted to water and would have if I hadn’t been sweating for hours. I inclined my head. Ayatas sat across the fire from me and stretched an arm up, removing a pack that had been slung around him on a single short strap, hanging at his back. The bag smelled