Free The Spirit Keeper by K. B. Laugheed

awakening landscape. Every day brought a new crop of fragrant blooms, and e’en when the skies were gray and gloomy, the ground was glowing with glorious greens and yellows and pinks and purples. For miles and miles the three of us flew across a forest floor literally carpeted with flowers. The abundance was so o’erwhelming I began to feel as if God Himself was bestowing me with blossoms to apologize for the dismal nature of the first seventeen years of my life.
    One evening shortly after we departed Tomi’s village, I laid my bearskin upon a thick patch of violets and sat back to marvel at the spectacular sunset taking place across a meadow of purple and yellow flowers on the other side of the creek. The twilight sky was awash in reds and oranges, and all those fragrant blooms filled the air with an intoxicating perfume. Hector had just returned with two raccoons, which he was skinning as Syawa built the fire. They talked as they worked, but because I was too tired to decipher their words, I chose to enjoy the rare opportunity to bask in a perfect place, a perfect time. Surely, I thought, the Garden of Eden could not have been so blessed, or Adam and Eve would not’ve dared any action which might risk their expulsion.
    I know not how long it took to realize the tone of my companions’ voices had changed, but at some point my attention was abruptly wrenched from the sunset.
    Syawa and Hector were arguing.
    I had heard Hector complain before, but ne’er had I heard the men exchange harsh words—certainly not in the way they were doing now. I strained to make out what they were saying, but tho’ my comprehension of their language was steadily improving, they spake far too rapidly for me. Ne’ertheless, I was sure I heard both say “Kay-oot-li,” and assumed they were arguing about me. What else did they have to argue about?
    I crawled o’er to Syawa and gestured, asking what was wrong. He ignored me as he and Hector continued to bicker, their voices raised and rancorous. Suddenly, Hector threw down the raccoon and stomped off toward the creek. Syawa watched him walk away, the expression on his face impossible for me to read. Then he looked at me and shrugged, smiling apologetically.
    “Why he angry?” I gestured.
    Syawa looked into the fire. A long moment of uneasy silence passed. Then he sighed and gestured that Hector was unhappy because I was not helping with meal preparation. “Among my people,” he said and gestured, “men provide the game, women do the rest. My friend has never enjoyed doing women’s work, but now, with you here . . .”
    I nodded, the problem clear to me. Any of my brothers would rather die than be caught working in a kitchen. “I—I not know how help,” I gestured. Just as when Hector complained about my body odor, I was surprised, embarrassed, and ashamed.
    Up to this point, I felt my primary duty was to learn Syawa’s language—a view I believe he shared. Thus, each evening when Hector was off hunting or fishing, Syawa started a fire, set up our camp, and chattered away, but he neither asked for my help nor seemed to expect it. When Hector returned, he and Syawa skinned, cleaned, and cooked the food with the clockwork precision of people who had been working together for years—wordless, efficient, companionable. It was clear to me that should I attempt to interject myself into their routine, I could only muddle things up, and, at any rate, I had no idea what to do.
    The problem was not that I was untrained—indeed, no girl could be considered marriageable who was not a fair hand in the kitchen—the problem was that I had neither the ingredients nor the tools I was accustomed to using, and without them I was lost. I had no milk, no eggs, no flour, no grains. I had no pan, no kettle, no spoons, no iron spit. All I had was the knife I packed when planning to run away.
    The implication that I was somehow slacking cut me to the quick. I am not a lazy person. I worked in my