He crossed the room and reached for his mask, fussing with the clasps behind his head while she went to investigate.
Opening the door to an empty hallway, Westie looked both ways. There was no one.
Thirty-Three
That night Westie sat beneath the stars on a flat patch of sand next to the river. It was one of the Wintu’s most sacred sites. A bonfire was built, its flames reaching up toward the dome, pointing light at all its flaws. The men wore eagle-feather bustles, beaded breechclouts, and headpieces called roaches in the shape of Mohawks, made of porcupine quills and deer-tail hair.
There was drumming and singing. Some voices were a low chant, while others reached a high, desperate pitch, giving Westie chills down her arms. She watched in awe as beautiful broad faces and bronze bodies moved in ways steeped in thousands of years of tradition.
She’d been to only one other healing ceremony before, when Bena had found her in the woods after she’d escaped from the cabin. The stump of her arm had been infected, and she’d lost a lot of blood. Big Fish, clad in full regalia, had used a fan made of feathers, blown smoke in her face, and used words Westie didn’t understand to bless the ceremony. When the music had started, she’d felt the pain in her arm move into the center of her body. She’d screamed as it tried to force itself through her rib cage, as if something above her had reached into her chest to grab it.
The agony had caused her to pass out not long after, but the next day her fever had broken, the pain was gone, and her arm had started to mend. She had been welcomed into the tribe after that.
Other native tribes in the surrounding areas had joined tonight’s ceremony. With magic disappearing, the Wintu needed all the help they could get. Big Fish was the only one who could control the amount of magic needed to build a ward, but such a concentrated amount of magic required a full tribe to lift her request to the spirits.
Several men from the other tribes walked past Westie wearing dangerous frowns. She fought the urge to give one right back. Instead she looked past them, at the fire, knowing how difficult it must be for them to see anything beyond her white skin; the same skin as those who’d cut their tribe numbers in half.
The dancing stopped and the song fizzled into a low murmur as Big Fish entered the circle. After blessing the ceremony, she began the ritual. Back before settlers brought their violence and illness to the Americas, magic had been limitless. It was said that early Wintu could read minds, conjure fire from the air, and even fly. Now that there were so few people left in the tribe and magic was weak, they could only perform smaller feats like bringing rain to a drought, creating wards, and healing, in addition to their individual talents of talking to the earth—which Westie realized they could no longer do after seeing the dead plant in the foyer of Nigel’s house.
Others in the tribe began to chant their prayers. Westie prayed too. She prayed mostly for forgiveness in the hopes that the spirits wouldn’t hold her being there against the Wintu.
After the prayer, Bena sat beside her. She wore a basket cap and a beaded tunic, but nothing as elaborate as the rest of her tribe. They watched the ceremony in silence until the dancing resumed.
“What is your next plan?” Bena asked her.
“Concerning the Fairfields? I don’t know. For now I’m just going to keep an eye out, make sure they don’t hurt anyone. Nigel told me to stay out of the way.”
“You are going to listen to him?”
“Don’t look so surprised,” Westie said, folding her knees to her chin. Now that it was cold out, she wished she’d worn the hunting attire Bena had given her after all. She hadn’t wanted to offend anyone from the other tribes, so she’d worn a simple dress instead. The breeze coming off the river had found its way beneath her skirts, making her shiver, and she was too far away from the fire to feel its warmth. “I’ve made a mess of things. Maybe it’s time to let Nigel figure it out. He’s a brilliant man. I’m sure whatever he comes up with won’t end up blowing up our faces.”
Bena nodded without conviction. “He doesn’t have your fire. You may not make the best decisions all the time, but at least you make them.” Westie smiled. It was no wonder she and Bena had become such good friends over the years. They both shared an impulsive mind. “Nigel thinks we should be patient and wait for the Fairfields to slip up, but we are out of time,” Bena continued. “He says people with secrets can’t keep them hidden forever.”
Bena’s words triggered a memory. “No, they can’t, can they?” Westie said. She stood up, brushing the dirt off the back of her dress. “Not unless they’re keeping those secrets in an iron safe with three locks on it.”
Bena frowned. “What are you talking about? You have that look in your eye.”
“What look?”
“That terrifying glow you get when you have a plan.”