Michael took his patient’s pulse, wiped a dribble of water from her chin, and realized that Shaman’s Wife had grown weaker during the night. If some sort of magical curative compound mingled in the air over this place, it had not yet affected this woman.
If a cure actually existed.
He looked up as the sound of children’s giggles reached his ear. A mother and two little girls were walking toward him, a bowl of fruit in the woman’s hands. She presented the bowl with a grave air and Michael accepted it, hoping he wasn’t unwittingly participating in some sort of courting ritual. Nothing happened when he took the bowl; the woman only smiled shyly and led the little girls away.
Unusual, to find generosity in such a primitive culture. They had certainly seen no sign of it among the Angry People.
He picked up a piece of papaya and held it dripping between his fingers, wondering how he was supposed to feed his patient. She could barely swallow, let alone chew, and he risked choking her if he tried to force feed even a small piece. Alexandra had been able to mash bananas to an easily swallowed consistency, but papaya had more substance.
A woman and her toothless infant provided the answer. Michael watched as the young mother slipped a piece of papaya into her own mouth, chewed it up, then spat the nearly liquefied fruit into a gourd and offered it to her child.
Well, when in Rome. . .
Michael bit off a chunk of the papaya and began to chew. Its solid texture reminded him vaguely of cantaloupe—a bad cantaloupe, but a melon nonetheless. When he had chewed so long he feared swallowing the food out of reflex, he picked up the empty water gourd and followed the mother’s example.
An hour later, he wasn’t sure his patient had actually received any nourishment, but she’d had her mouth well-rinsed with papaya juice.
He looked up as Alexandra approached with Delmar and the shaman. Stopping by the travois, the old man greeted Michael with a smile and a respectful bow of his head.
Alex sank to the ground near Michael, then gestured for Delmar and the shaman to follow suit. “We need to ask him about Shaman’s Wife. I knew you’d want to be a part of this conversation.”
“Good idea.” Propping his hand on one bent knee, Michael looked at Delmar. “He knows we brought this woman to them for healing?”
Delmar nodded. “He knows.”
“Will you ask him, then, if the keyba can help her?”
Delmar spoke to the shaman, who answered with many gestures and grimaces, then slowly lowered his hands.
The Brazilian shook his head. “He says she is too sick. She cannot approach the keyba.”
“So it doesn’t always work.” Alexandra uttered the words in a hoarse whisper, as though they were too terrible to speak in a normal voice.
The shaman must have intuited her meaning because he spoke again, repeating certain phrases and gestures. Michael watched in bewilderment as the old man’s hands pantomimed reaching upward again and again.
The old man’s hands fell into his lap as his eyes rose to meet Michael’s. Those hazel eyes were filled with infinite distress . . . and something that looked like pity.