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You catch your foot before it slides off a submerged ice slick. A quick shift of weight to your left knee and the momentum becomes just another step. Half a day in and you’ve proven a dozen times that your feet are nimble enough to outpace whatever preconceptions the Maidu Braves may have had. The group goes up, always up, into the true deep places. These are the rooftops of the world and the cold here is beyond you. Nights in the Sonoran were brittle, a cigarillo for a campfire hidden in your glove, but up here is a conquering strut.
The Young Chief keeps pace with you, every bit as fleet as yourself, while the Boy does his best, but is flummoxed by bowling wind and deep snow. You’ve tried to talk, to learn something about your situation and the Black Shaman, but the Boy has refused to speak on your behalf, suffering fits and starts of pique with every glance in your direction. Eventually the sun re-asserts itself in a few hours of violent tug of war with the wind. The whole party slows and begins a leisurely pace.
There is only so much silence to be suffered, and it is the Young Chief who breaks first. He prods the Boy to translate his questions for you, which he does with a pronounced distaste.
“Uncle says he does not see White Men bring Sapwi up the mountain,” he motions to the braided tusks you’ve draped around your neck, “He says you must have been swindled out of much money to try and trade among the People.”
Here it is, their boredom has gifted some chance at conversation. You take your time, avoiding the carcass of some squirrel that hadn’t made it to its tree last night.
“Well…I do believe the Injun that parceled me out these here has done his fair share o’ low commerce. Though I may have been spared owin’ to my lack o’ lard fer barter at the time.” You drift a foot or so closer to the two of them. “Now I did come here with sincere intention, but in also a lack o’ expectation. What could I change these Sappowy fer in that big village o’ yers?
The Young Chief listens to you secondhand and begins to list off several words. The Boy replies, “You can trade Sapwi, or tools, or strange food like kaifiyat. Maidu’wail are the best of Mother’s weaving people. Our baskets are beautiful and strong, and we make shell necklaces that glitter like blue sunlight.” The Boy’s chest puffs with pride and keeps inflating the more he translates. “We know almost all the medicine in the world and take it all from the ground, and of course we trap many animals for their warm furs.”
You figure allowing them both to take a moment of satisfaction in their people can’t hurt. Even you’ve heard of the Maidu healing unguents, pristine furs command premium prices, and are harder to get than ever with the country growing as it is.
