61

In the dream (we must distinguish our real worlds from dreams, though we live as long in one world as the other), I stood before the council of old men. I had done some wrong, somehow I had gone against the rules of the fugitive village.

A young man steps forward to defend me. I do not know who the young man is. His hair stands tall like a wild forest. He asks the old men why not issue me a warning first; he says that a warning would be sufficient, that they need not take more drastic measures.

“She is not the sort of woman to heed a warning,” the old men say.

The young man tries to bring my merits before them: the bravery I showed in the last battle, that I fought as bravely as any of the men.

The old men answer that I used my magic; I bewitched them into believing I’d given a brave fight when actually I’d chickened out, turned tail and ran. Magic vapors from my medicinal plants made them hallucinate me brave.

“She intruded where she should not have,” the old men say.

The young man says that it was merely words I gave them.

“Words we have no use for,” say the old men. “Words that should never have been spoken here.”

“Maybe it’s possible that she didn’t know that her words would have had such power to offend . . . Now that she knows . . . She’d walk on eggs . . .”

“That’s just it. If she were a proper medicine woman her words would have defended us. We could have gone into battle armed with our weapons and her words. She bewitches us into belief in her when she’s nothing but a harm in the world!”

The young man stands waiting beside me.

“Do you have a headache?” he whispers.

“Yes, and I’m nauseous too.”

“Reach behind you.”

I reach behind me. He passed the weed to me, and I pop it in my mouth.

“See, she chews her cud like a cow; she must be evil.”

“Horned and hoofed,” declares another.

“And that crocodile growth on her back pinpointed her for us. We didn’t have to look any further when we found that. If she were a proper medicine woman she’d heal herself before making claims about what she can do for our daughters!”

“Bewitcher!”

“She’s dwelt among us all these years,” defends the young man.

“Since you had your milk teeth, brat. Out of here!”

The young man stays his ground.

“He’s stuck on her, look at him! He’s sticking to her like a beauty spot!”

“Or like ugly!” shouts another.

“Maybe we ought to banish that irritating fellow too!”

“No, gentlemen, that’s just what he wants. The best punishment for this upstart would be to let her go and keep the bugger here!”

Guards come and escort the young man away.

“I suppose you had us hallucinate him too,” says the chief of the elders. “You have no champions here! The terms of your punishment, Sancha, Bewitcher, are as follows: You’ll be sent out of the village, down the mountain, a woman alone, and you know what that means, dearie.”