Find Me

Helpless

There are many types of pain. I have felt the dull pain of sore muscles, and the grating of scraped skin, and the crushing pricks of panther's teeth. I know the aches of hunger and fever. But nothing has ever felt like this broken bone. It does not hurt when I am still, but a wrong movement will send a pain so sharp that the slice of the sharpest obsidian knife is as dull as a punch compared to it.

At first, I can lie in my tree. I am calm. It feels good to rest and sleep. But then I grow thirsty, and I drag myself outside. I try to stand, and walk with my spear as I did when I returned from the deserted village of my people. But as I grab my tree and strain my arms and breathe through the screaming pain in my leg, I decide that standing is not worth it when I must kneel to drink. I crawl like a wolf, dragging my useless leg behind me. I drink, then I lie in the wind and the clouded sunlight, and I shiver though I am not cold.

I once saw a doe who had been hit by the White Man's lightning-stick. She was lying by a pool of water, her eyes glazed with fear and pain. When she tried to stand, she fell with a strange cry. Blood was everywhere. I placed my hand on her head, thanked her for her sacrifice, and slit her throat with my knife. She gave a last cry, but it was not frightened. Her cry was one of gratitude, for I had ended her suffering.

Was this how she felt?

I cannot walk. I cannot hunt or fish or gather edible plants. If I were attacked, I would not resist. I lack the strength to defend myself.

Long ago, I resigned myself to the fate of dying young. I knew of the forest's harshness, of the fierceness of animals and the wrath of winter storms. And once--just once--I thought of starving to death. I wondered if hunger would hurt, or how hard my body would fight to stay alive even when there is no hope for it. I thought I would never know the answers to the questions I had.

But if winter comes, and I am not well enough to prepare, then I will die.

Something warm lies next to me; I reach out and feel Sebewesha's coarse fur. She touches a cold nose to my face, then snorts. I look at her eyes, and they say, "I am sorry for your fate."

"Can I fight my fate?" I ask her. "What benefit will I have to the world if I die?"

"You are not strong enough to be a warrior," Sebewesha tells me, "but you can still protect others. You are too weak to hunt, but you can still provide. And even if you are small, you can be great."

"How can I protect, if I cannot fight? And what can I provide? And for who?"

With a smile, Sebewesha lays her head on my chest. "You will find a way to do anything for those you love."

My people do not think much of love. We pursue courage and wisdom, discipline and hard work. But it is all from a sense of duty, not of love.

And yet there was love in my village. I saw it in Nimaamaa when she taught me to sew; it was in Nokomis when she taught me medicine. It was even in my brother when we had snowball fights, and raced wooden snakes in grooves in the snow.

But that love was hidden. Perhaps the greatest love I have ever seen was when I fell ill with the White Man's disease, and John had come through the woods just to sit in my tiny tree and care for me.

Suddenly, I feel alone. It is a loneliness that hurts worse than my broken bones, sharper than the tip of a spear. But this is not the kind of loneliness I have often felt, the kind satisfied by any human. I want John. I miss him.

"John has his own life," Sebewesha says, as if she knows my thoughts. "Let him live it. Do not be selfish by wanting him for yourself."

"Does he think I am selfish?" I ask. "Because he does so many things for me, and I can do nothing for him."

Sebewesha smiles again. "Esiban is selfish because all his thoughts are of himself. You think often of John, and of Esiban and Oginii and me. You are not selfish, small one. You are weak. Yet there is strength in asking for help when you need it."

I run my hand over Sebewesha's head. "Can you help me get food?"

I hear grass rustling, and a paw presses into my shoulder. I turn my head to see Esiban. He drops a crayfish on my chest, grumbling, and turns to wash his hands in the pond.

"You are not selfish, Esiban," I smile. "You are like a grouchy old man with a kind heart underneath."