Free Medicine Walk by Richard Wagamese

“Nothin’, I guess,” was all he said.
    He shouldered the pack then grabbed the halter and walked the horse out of the camp and down the trail that led north and west along the creek. His father struggled to sit the horse and settled for clutching the saddle horn two-handed again.
    “Try and feel her step,” the kid said. “You have to move with her.”
    “Ojibways weren’t horse Injuns.”
    “Still. Better if you read her step. Don’t tire out that way.”
    “I’ll tire out anyhow.”
    The creek was boisterous from rain in the higher elevations and it drowned out the sound of the land. The kid kept an eye on the trees. Cougars were known in these parts and they bore no fear of man. There were tracks in the mud of the trailside: deer, raccoons, skunks, rabbits, and one sudden, bold, clear print of a bobcat. He looked up at his father to point it out to him but he was slumped in the saddle with his chin bumping his chest and he called to him. His father raised a hand limply from the saddle horn then let if fall. He was weaker. There was a different odour coming off him now, something like old leaves mouldering on the forest floor, and the kid wondered if the moment was close by. The thought raised a lump in his throat and he gritted his teeth and mouthed a silent curse at himself for it. He punched his thigh and scowled. He walked the horse more carefully up the pitch of the trail. His father’s head lolled and he moaned now and then and the kid wondered about binding his hands to the pommel and his feet to the stirrups.
    The trail left the stream after three or four miles and began a long, meandering climb around the jut of ridge. The trees were farther apart here, the bed of soil a mere four inches thick, and he could see the roots of them pushed across the skin of the mountain like veins. They climbed steadily for the rest of the morning and when the sun had reached its zenith he looked for a level place to stop. They came to a clump of pines with one thick root poked out of the grass and gravel and he took the horse into it and helped his father down and set him with his back against the root until he was comfortable. Then he strode off and returned in a short time with mushrooms and greens and berries that he crushed up and fashioned into a paste. He gathered a clump of it on a stick of alder and held it out to his father.
    “You don’t want me to eat that?”
    “It eats better than it looks.”
    “It’d want to.” He took a mouthful and washed it down with water from the canteen and looked at the kid with surprise. “Don’t taste bad.”
    “Sometimes I’ll put some pine resin in with it if I got a pot and a fire. Makes a good soup. Lots of good stuff in there.”
    “Old man?”
    “Yeah. At first he brung me out all the time when I was small. Showed me plants and how to gather them. Everything a guy would need is here if you want it and know how to look for it, he said. You gotta spend time gatherin’ what you need. What you need to keep you strong. He called it a medicine walk.”
    “Hand us that crock.”
    The kid reached across to the pack and rooted around for the bottle. His father drank in small sips and peered out through the trees at the territory they were in. The kid rolled them each a smoke and they lit up and sat silently. Now and then his father would close his eyes and let his head fall forward and then push it up again with one hand. Then he leaned his head back against the root of the tree and closed his eyes and the kid could hear him breathing. It was ragged and forced at first and his hand clenched and unclenched at his side and he put the other to his belly and groaned. Gradually he eased and his breathing grew shallower and quieter. His mouth hung open and he huffed and clawed around at his pocket for the smokes. The kid leaned over and dug out the pack and shook one out and held it to his lips and lit it for him. His father smoked without using his hands and kept his eyes