Inside the wigwam of the sick, the singer continued to run his hands over Pure Blossom’s body, himself now breaking into song, the song of the mountains, a holy song to the Navaho.
He paused, drew the blanket back over Pure Blossom, up to her chin, then sang again. His hands seemed to be moving in sign language, while he sang the words aloud.
The deep resonance and feelings of the medicine man as he sang his prayer songs touched Leonida deeply. She fought back the urge to cry, fearful that it might break the spell of the singer. He seemed magical, as though capable of bringing Pure Blossom out of her coma, yet Leonida had seen others who had drifted off into the same sort of unconscious state. Sadly, none of them had ever survived. Not even the most skilled physicians had been able to discover the mysteries of comas.
As for the Navaho, the singer conducted the ritual of his healing ceremony to compensate for some power which was attempting to destroy their harmony. They believed that they must live in harmony with nature and that when their people became ill it was not because of a germ, but because they had fallen out of that harmony.
Leonida silently scoffed at this belief, knowing that Pure Blossom was not the cause of her own debilitating ailment. In truth, nature had wronged her as far back as when she had been carried within her mother’s womb and her frail body had begun to take its shape.
But Leonida continued to stand stiffly beside Sage, accepting this Navaho healing ritual as something she must get used to, since she was now an integral part of Navaho life. She watched with much interest as the singer spread a white buckskin on the floor of the wigwam and, slowly and evenly, covered the buckskin with pure white sand.
Then the medicine man began singing again as he sifted colored earth and yellow pollen through his fingers onto the sand to make a bright, sacred picture. His fingers were skillful, and Leonida, who loved art and poetry, saw a great deal of beauty in the formations of the figures and designs on the sand. She knew that because of the sacredness of the depiction, it must be completed, used, and destroyed within a twelve-hour period.
The singer continued to construct the elaborate sand paintings designed to cure the patient, now saying prayers to Changing Woman, the most important Navaho god. She was the one who did good things and tried to help people. Her husband, the Sun, wasn’t always so helpful, and the singer made prayers asking the Sun to do good instead of evil.
The ceremony to win the help of the gods lasted far into the night, the steady rhythm of the medicine songs pulsing and groups of singers outside on opposite sides of the fire vying with one another in endurance. Like the central pile of burning logs, the songs flared unextinguished until the stars faded.
At dawn, the singer ceased his songs and prayers. He gazed down at his painting, then destroyed it.
Leonida was leaning against Sage, completely drained of energy as the singer left Pure Blossom’s wigwam. Dutiful wife that she was, Leonida had endured the long night of standing with Sage during the curing ceremony.
She gazed sleepily down at Pure Blossom, anguished to see that Sage’s sister was no better than before. She still lay unmoving, in a sound sleep.
Leonida looked at the entrance flap of the wigwam, and realized that the singers had finally ceased. Everything was quiet in this temporary village. Even the pulse of the drums had faded away.
Sage knelt down beside his sister and put his hand on her brow. With a sudden smile he looked up at Leonida. “Her face is cool to my hand!” he said, his voice breaking with joy. “The singer has brought her back, on the road to recovery.”
Leonida wanted to share his enthusiasm, yet she feared the worst—that even though the fever had broken, it had already done too much damage to Pure Blossom’s frail body for her to become healthy and vital again.
She knelt beside Sage and placed a gentle hand on his cheek. “Darling, that’s wonderful,” she murmured, forcing a smile. “That’s so wonderful.”
Sage gazed down at Pure Blossom again, then leaned over her and drew her up into his powerful arms. “Pure Blossom,” he whispered into her ear. “It is I, your brother. Did you hear the songs and prayers? They were for you. They were to cure you. Come back to me, little sister. The world would be a lonely place without you.”
Leonida heard his pleas. She wiped tears from her eyes, watching Sage put his sister back down on the pallet of furs and gently draw the blankets over her again.
Sage turned to Leonida. He placed a hand at the nape of her neck and drew her lips to his. He brushed a kiss across her lips, then helped her up from the floor. “It is time for us to rest,” he said. He led her to the door. “Others will take our places beside my sister while we rest and fill our bodies with nourishment.”
“Right now going to sleep is all that sounds good to me,” Leonida said, clinging to Sage’s side as they walked out into the brightening light of morning. “If I ate, I don’t think I would even taste it, I am so tired.”
“We will sleep, then eat,” Sage murmured, guiding her toward their small wigwam.
Runner, who had given in to sleep long ago, raced out of the wigwam, wiping his eyes. “How’s Pure Blossom?” he asked.
“She is better,” Sage said, patting his head.
Leonida bent down and put her hands on Runner’s tiny waist. “Sage and I must get some rest,” she softly explained. “Go to Sally. She will give you some breakfast. Stay with her while Sage and I sleep.”
Runner gazed up into Leonida’s eyes somberly, then he flung his arms around her neck and gave her a fierce hug. “I love you,” he whispered, then broke away and took off in a mad dash toward Sally, who was just accepting food from some of the Navaho women who had cooked it over the open fire all night.
Leonida and Sage went inside the small temporary dwelling. Runner had not known how to keep a fire going, and Leonida was glad. She did not want any light in the wigwam to disturb her rest. She did not want any heat next to her skin except that which radiated from her husband’s flesh. Even though she was so tired, she knew that if Sage asked, she would willingly join him in lovemaking.
But Sage didn’t say anything about making love, nor did he approach her sexually. In the shadows of the small dwelling he stretche
d out on his stomach, and the wigwam was soon filled with his easy, measured breathing.
Seeing that he had not removed his moccasins, Leonida took it upon herself to do that so he could be more comfortable. Once they were set aside, she caressed his feet lovingly for a moment, and then she removed her clothes and stretched out beside him on the thick pallet of blankets.
Snuggling close, she felt the lethargy of sleep quickly claim her. Soon she was wandering through a wonderland in a dream—a land of flowers dotted the landscape, their fragrance filling the air like some rich French perfume. Birds were in abundance, soaring through the air, singing. Small animals scampered here and there, the squirrels the feistiest as their tails whipped nervously up and down, supporting them as they jumped from tree to tree like monkeys.