By the time Westie reached the top of the hill, she was bathed in sweat and breathing so hard she thought one of her lungs might have collapsed. She crumpled to the ground in front of the fire opposite the chief and grabbed the water skin from her belt, taking deep gulps.
Big Fish wore coyote hides and a colorful woven hat that fit tight to her skull. She looked up at the sky in a trance, unaware Westie was there. Her eyes darted from side to side like a cat following a bird in the trees. Westie followed her gaze but saw only lazy stars. Big Fish was seeing the creator, she knew. Westie sat back on the blankets by the fire, waiting it out. Finally the chief fell out of her stupor.
“Westie. It has been too long,” the woman said, offering the pipe to her.
Big Fish was the oldest person Westie had ever seen, with deep wrinkles creasing her face and skin like parchment. Some in the Wintu village claimed she was over three hundred years old, though Westie reckoned it was closer to ninety. She was old and frail, and smaller than some of the mountain dwarves Westie had seen, but there was nothing frail about the woman’s mind.
Westie shook her head and waved the pipe away. “My days of spirit talking are done.”
Big Fish smiled and nodded.
“The creator tells me you seek something. I’m told you have a darkness growing inside your heart,” Big Fish said in Wintu.
Westie picked up a clump of dirt, smashed it between her fingers, nervous.
She replied in her own tongue, self-conscious about saying the Wintu words properly. “I have a whole lot of dark things growing in my heart these days, but I’m here to tackle just the one.”
“You want to ask the creator for help?”
What she planned to ask Big Fish was no small favor, and she felt guilty for even asking since it had been months since her last visit.
“Nah,” she said, “spirits don’t like me much. I was hoping you would help me out.”
“Oh?” Big Fish raised her brows—only the loose skin around her eyes kept her from looking surprised.
Westie buried her chin in her chest, avoiding Big Fish’s clear, wise eyes. “I was hoping you could give me an elixir, something to stop me from . . . from . . .”
“The poison you crave,” Big Fish finished for her.
Westie looked up then, meeting her gaze. “Yes.”
The chief nodded and frowned. “I am sorry, young one, but there is no herb or spell for sobriety. It takes time and perseverance to overcome such a craving. There is no instant cure.”
Westie picked up a rock and crushed it with her machine. “That’s not true.” She sat straight, suddenly remembering a rumor she’d heard long ago. “There is a cure.”
Big Fish leaned over the dying fire and gave Westie a hard glare. “What you speak of is illegal, and immoral. The creator looks down on such perversions.”
Westie stood up, feeling angry. Mostly at her own self for even asking. “I reckon if the spirits don’t care for me, I don’t care for them much neither.”
The old woman looked ready to throw Westie over a knee and give her a good paddling for talking bad about her beloved spirits, but her anger was soon replaced with a look of concern.
“Westie, I pray you reconsider. There is no cure. What you speak of may stop the body’s cravings for a time, but it is your mind that is diseased. You must rid yourself of the darkness in your heart. Only then will you be free.”
Westie took another swig of her water. “Don’t you worry about that. I plan to.”
Seventeen
Being denied a cure by Big Fish was a blow Westie hadn’t been expecting. She wasn’t angry, though. Nigel had told Westie the Wintu’s healing spells weren’t working, and she was sure their elixirs needed magic. Or maybe Big Fish just wanted Westie to figure it out on her own, only she didn’t have time for that. If she wanted to get sober and regain Nigel’s and the sheriff’s trust, she’d need to figure out a faster way.
A year ago, while in the Tight Ship, she’d heard a drunkard talking about his wife leaving him and how he planned to stop drinking in order to win her back. Everyone just brushed him off and went back to their spirits and gambling. No one thought he could do it until he showed up at the saloon one day, bathed, shaved, and dressed to the nines. Without ordering a drink, he paid his tab and wished everyone well, hardly recognizable except for the shiner he’d gotten in a fight only two nights before. When asked how he’d cleaned up so quickly, he told everyone, “Sheer willpower, my friends,” but rumors spread that Doc Flannigan had given him vampire blood on the sly.