He put down his bowl of masato and continued. “There was a time when the plants and animals of the forest were at my command and did my bidding. My potions cured my people. My enemies grew sick and died from my word alone. At night, I made love to the spirit of the river, who waited for me with open arms like a woman starved. But when the Frannies gave me this wheelchair in exchange for my promise to throw my healing stone into the river, my powers left me completely. They said the stone was blasphemy. The spirits of the plants and animals stopped speaking to me. I have never been so lonely. My family is silent, my family shuns me. I hate myself for this bargain I made.”

For some reason, his story made me remember how, when I was a kid, I’d made friends with kids I didn’t even like, knowing they always had food on their dinner tables, which is when I would conveniently appear. It didn’t matter what they dished up. I ate it. I felt Splitfoot’s sad, intense gaze on me and on the bowl of soup, as if perhaps he would have enjoyed the opportunity for seconds.

I took a sip of masato before picking up the monkey arm by its tiny wrist. Turning the fingers away from me, I raised it to my mouth.

THIRTY-NINE

MiddleEye spun like a top, around and around us as we ate, eyes rolling in the back of his head, sweat flying and staining the dusty earth. He pounded his chest, gurgling out bizarre groans and whimpers. Dropping to the ground, he rolled in the dirt, quivering as if electrified, before jumping up to resume his furious dance.

He grabbed me by the wrists and yanked me from the table. I stood, swaying, as he ran in circles around me, shaking his head, eyes jangling. I sought out Omar; his face said, Stay calm. MiddleEye fell to his knees and pounded the ground near my ankles, where he crawled, raving, possessed. Once again on his feet, he jumped from side to side as if on hot coals as he made his way to Splitfoot. Pointing at me, he whispered in the chief’s ear, then sprinted from him, drunk with his own madness.

Splitfoot turned to Omar. “The spirit of the plant has spoken. The woman is not worth saving.”

Omar got to his feet and towered over the old shaman, a picture of youth and strength next to the shriveled man in the chair. “MiddleEye is no medicine man. The plants have never spoken to him. You know this,” he hissed.

The shaman shrugged, drank his masato, and rubbed his small, tight belly before continuing his meal.

My skin crawled with sickness and fever. Omar stood closer to the old man, put a hand on the desiccated leather armrest of his chair. They locked eyes.

“What do you want from me?” Splitfoot gestured at Omar with the remains of his monkey paw before tossing the twisted thing into the flames, where it popped and sizzled to nothingness. “The plants have spoken.”