Three days later, one open to the air lodge of the Paint Clan’s village stands totally enclosed by bark and animal skins. Loaded with extra pelts and rough hemp blankets, its small top opening puffs smoke and steam from a stoked fire within, dampened by water.
     The sweat lodge encloses Ahyoka, on a ground mat smothered by coverings.
     Enoli, on knees beside his mother, holds herbs and oils and stares at Mohi, who beats a drum and shakes rattles over the mother’s head.
     The medicine man’s shaven skull sweats from a hemp tie that encloses a top knot. It resembles a hair geyser. In long deerskin boots, the healer’s symbolic tunic falls to their tops.
     The son’s gaze shifts to the patient’s face, which pokes from covers.
     The woman’s skin displays smallpox pustules.
     Flesh, white from dehydration and wrinkles, salty and moist, drips.
     An assistant enters the lodge with a pottery basin of spring water.
     The senior medicine man whips the coverings from his patient and douses her body with cold liquid.
     Ahyoka convulses from shock into a fetal curl, and the caregiver replaces the blankets.
     Sweat repops from facial pores, and the woman’s eyes roll under half-open eyelids.
     The boy leaps to his feet and hands the bowl of medicines to Mohi. “Your ways murder mother!”
     He lunges out of the heated lodge into the fresh air and sucks oxygen into starved lungs.
                                                                                ***
     The young man stomps from the small cabin up an incline and sits in the shade under a tree. 
     He stares at the shelter.
     Family members come and go throughout the afternoon.
     They enter the dwelling, stay for extended periods, and traditionally crowd the ill relative.
     As the sun sinks near the horizon, Enoli withdraws a pouch of corn and munches. He watches the movement around his sick mother’s lodge.
     A rustle in the foliage nearby attracts the boy’s attention.
     A tree squirrel, Saloli (ᏌᎶᎵ Sa-lo-li, squirrel), with a distinctive flash of white fur on the underside of its tail, sits on hind legs and rubs forepaws.
     The boy flips a grain kernel near the animal. “Why do you have five toes and only four fingers?”
     The small furry head engulfs the food but takes offense. “Why do you have thumbs, Tsalagi (ᏣᎳᎩ Tsa-la-gi, Cherokee?) Don’t mock. Think you are the favored people? Not true; I climb trees much better.”
     The young man tosses another welcomed morsel.
     “Who do you watch?” The rodent wrinkles a nose. “You mope under this tree since midday.”
     “Mother dies from smallpox,” the corn feeder peers at the sweat lodge.
     “You share food, so, welcome or not, I give wisdom.” The furry animal shakes a bushy tail with enthusiasm. “Real people travel little. Because squirrels are much better in trees, we move around and see the world. To the north atop a great rock, the son of Stone Cloud teaches apprentices how to heal humans. He treats those sick by the pox differently. No family crowds, no cramped and hot lodges, no ice-water baths, rattles or shamans who spout chants the spirits forgot long ago.”
     “The medicine man that cares for my mother is Mohi, the Paint Clan’s shaman.” Enoli flips another kernel.
     “A nobody,” the animal scoots its belly on a tree branch, “but most have heard of Stone Cloud and his son.”
     “Stories around the campfire told by old folks.” The young man throws another tidbit.
     “Your caretaker is human and does what humans do best. He murders your loved one to prove a point. The healer chooses not to follow reason,” the squirrel’s whiskers shake. “His brain rejects new ways as radical or experimental. Perhaps he doesn’t even want to help, which my experience and wisdom prefers. He only cares about his professional standing in the Paint Clan.”
     Mohi’s assistant steps out of the sweat lodge below and swings his arm, a motion to come for Enoli.
     “They summon. Go be an accomplice in your mother’s murder.” The squirrel scurries up the tree. “But I wait for your return, with corn.”
                                                                            ***
     The boy jogs from the ridge’s tree and enters.
     His mother lies motionless.
     “Did she die?” He looks at Mohi.
     “No. I have done what I know.” The healer drops to his knees beside Ahyoka. “She does not improve. I watched a White doctor treat in this manner. That patient recovered.”
     “What are you doing?” The youngster turns to the older fellow.
     “They call it bloodletting. It cannot make her worse. She dies unless I do something.” Mohi stares at the boy. “The colonial doctors say blood becomes stale as water in salt flats when someone lies still and ill. Remove the pollutant and the patient freshens.”
     “Freshen? I am ten years old. She is my world. You must provide a cure. My life is useless without her.”
     “We have little choice. Do nothing, she dies. I heard a Raven Mocker beat its giant wings above this sweat lodge. So, I do the bloodletting.” Mohi waves a knife in front of the boy’s face. “If she meets death from the treatment, the White doctors killed her, not I. Do you hear me?”
     Enoli trembles and nods yes. “Mother told me stories of those black raven fliers.”
     The shaman opens an artery which spurts blood from Ahyoka’s left arm.
     The son stares as a red stain grows on the floor of the sweat lodge. 
     With each splat, the pool enlarges, and the boy grits his teeth.
     He fixates on the puddle and rocks back and forth in rhythm with the splashes. “When do you stop it?”
     Mohi looks at Ahyoka. “When she faints.”
     The boy’s hands shake. “She’s gone now.”
     The healer feels for a pulse in his patient’s neck. “No. She still lives. That is good.” With sinew, the shaman tightens a makeshift tourniquet above the woman’s elbow. He presses deer skin to his knife’s bloodletting slice, and the flow lessens.
                                                                            ***
     Later, with the bleeding completed, Ahyoka shows no evidence of life.
     The boy checks her pulse at the neck’s vein and feels slight movement. 
     Alone, the son sits and stares at his mother’s lips, hoping for a whisper. 
     The sweat from the lodge’s heat no longer dampens the woman’s brow.
     An assistant hauls a pottery jug of icy creek water into the lodge.
     He yanks Ahyoka’s coverings and douses the body.
     The shock causes no reaction, and Enoli leaps to his feet. “You’re an ignorant apprentice!” The boy screams as he lunges at the midsection of the attendant. “You are not helping!”
     The two scuffle and attract Mohi, who enters the hut and pulls the combatants apart.
     “Get out! Leave my help alone. You interfere.”
     The battling boys separate, and the older man slings the concerned son out the lodge’s door. “Wait outside. We will call if she dies!”
     The youth stumbles backward. “Not if, when!”
     “She needs more bloodletting,” the healer looks in at his patient, “without your interference.”
     Enoli charges.
     Mohi steps aside. With a moccasin-clad foot, he trips and upends his attacker.
     The ten-year-old rolls.
     “You murder my mother! You’re an ignorant phony!”
     The healer stares hatred and starts a retort, “I told you the White…” He notices others that watch the turmoil and closes the lodge’s entrance.
                                                                            ***
     The boy struggles to his feet, lurches up the hill and drops against the tree to recapture breath.
     In the tree’s branches, Saloli waits for more corn.
     Enoli spies the small furry pest and shoos it away. “I have no food. Find another place to mooch.”
     “I’ve been listening. The medicine man treats your mother with the White man’s bloodletting?”
     The youth nods recognition.
     “With leeches or by blade?” Saloli’s whiskers vibrate.
     “Does it matter?” He looks up at the animal.
     “Yes, Human. I can’t fathom what you don’t know. The suckers take little blood and cause less damage,” the furry one curls a lip with disdain. “Son of Stone Clouds says a good medicine man does the least harm.”
     “You said Mohi only cares how things appear to the Paint Clan?” The boy stares at the sweat lodge. “Now, I believe that.”
     “That’s the result of shaman involved in politics.” The squirrel attempts to sit on its tail. “We bury nuts and make babies. Keep life simple, I say.”
     “Smart. You animals never become political.” Enoli watches the furry companion.
     It descends the tree headfirst.
     “We do, sometimes, when it interferes with meals or children, but it doesn’t do any good. Humans stay busy killing each other, and that makes you hungry. Squirrels pay the price. Many of my kin end life on roasting sticks without skin.”
     “Then why are you talking to me?” The boy stares at the little animal.
     “You are of the Paint Clan, with the birthright of medicine men. I spent years at the place called Cherokee Rock. Son of the great Stone Cloud teaches the shaman’s arts and does no harm there. I sense you are shaman material and think you should go to his school. You can help the favored ones stay well and in peace.”
     “How does that reflect on you?” The boy stares at the animal.
     “Healthy and happy Tsalagi eat venison, buffalo and the White man’s cows. Those meats taste better than squirrel.”
     “Leave me alone. I am only interested in saving mother.”
     “Afraid you are too late.” The fuzzy one sits on his tail and blinks.
     Wails rise from within the sweat lodge, and several extended family members exit the entry flap as puffs of steam and smoke escape.
     Enoli watches Ahyoka’s sisters weep. “Ahyoka, Ahyoka, Ahyoka,” they sing their loved one’s name repeatedly with each breath. 
     Brothers and uncles smear ashes from the tribe’s fire on faces, in hair, and on shoulders.
     Under the tree on the slope above, the little fluffy animal looks at his new friend. “Go to your people. I sense you offer more comfort than the Paint Clan’s medicine man. You have many responsibilities.”
     Enoli’s eyes tear as he stares at the cabin.
     The squirrel rubs paws together before its rib cage. “You begin a journey to adulthood without parents. I am sorry, but step boldly into the future, for I see promise.”
     Enoli nods at his new mentor, then turns and walks from the hill.
                                                                            ***
     An Uncle meets the boy. “You are in worn clothing.” The man hands his nephew a pottery jar of liquid. “As the nearest relative, close her eyelids. This is willow root water. Mohi rests. We will call him when you have prepared Ahyoka.”
     The young son mumbles thank you and slips into the room. 
     He stands alone with the body.
     Smoke and steam from the sweat treatment no longer engulf the interior. 
     The fire lays extinguished by dirt and sand. Wispy tendrils rise from coals and escape through the hole in the roof.
     Ahyoka lies upon blankets, and her blank open eyes point at the vent.
     Her son drops to his knees and cries. He smothers the sounds of pain with both palms.
     The squirrel pads into the lodge, unseen by the boy or anyone. 
     It sits on haunches and watches Enoli’s grief flow.
     When the young man’s tears subside, the little tree rodent shakes a long tail and speaks, “I see you have willow root water. That is an old way. Son of Stone Cloud teaches not to touch the body of one with the pox, even your own mother.”
     “Why do you watch?” The young man realizes another life is in the hut. “I don’t want a father, and sure not a pet. Go away.”
     “I follow because your spirit calls. I do not hear most humans, and they are deaf to my words. Listen to wisdom. Son of Stone Cloud burns sweat lodges with clothes, possessions, and garments. Boil everything to kill the smallpox.”
     “I do not know your exalted medicine man. His father, they speak of as the greatest shaman, but you visited only a son. Did you talk to him as we do?”
     “Yes, that is how I realized you are healer material.” Saloli rolls an upper lip over large front teeth.
     “Who appointed you to serve as his recruiter?” The youth turns to his mother. “I will respect the old way.”
     “And bathe the body in willow root water?” Whiskers on the animal’s nose vibrate. “You take significant risk.”
     Enoli looks at Ahyoka.
     Black, ugly pustules cover once radiant skin, and many ooze pus.
     The boy shivers, bends, and with both hands slip eyelids over pupils. 
     He unstraps her buckskin jacket and lays one collar aside, which exposes more lesions.
     With a rough hemp woven cloth, the son dampens a corner in willow root water and cleans his mother’s neck.
     “I see my newest friend is the same as the favored ones. You have a death wish,” the rodent chit-chits.
     “No, Saloli. I believe the Unetlanvhi will protect while I cleanse my parent’s body.”
     “Then, you do not listen to the teachings of Son of Stone Cloud.” Saloli’s whiskers quicken.
     “You quote the man’s words, and they sound reasonable. But, the entire time of Mom’s life, she believed in the old ways. I cannot change that path at the end.” The devoted youngster continues to wash his mother’s pustules in sacred water.
     The rodent watches in silence.
     “Little one, wait outside while I do this.” The boy waves a cloth as an instruction to exit.
     His friend complies. “I wait in the trees. If you do not die of the smallpox, I know you are most favored by the Unetlanvhi Creator, another reason that I watch over you. While I am gone, I shall ask the animals to intercede, and sometimes He listens.” The rodent pads out of the sweat lodge.
     Enoli’s grief overwhelms youthful adulthood, and with head in hands, he weeps.
     Ahyoka’s sweet song lyrically fills the boy’s brain and memory.
     The voice calms loneliness. “I give you love thoughts for you to keep. I am with you still; I do not sleep. I am a thousand winds that blow, I am the light flash that glints on snow. I am the spring warmth on ripened grain, I am the gentle touch of autumn rain.”
     Enoli opens his eyes and stares at his mother.
     The woman’s pustule defaced face lies on her mat and its  smallpox ravaged visage palls the lodge.
     However, her soul sings in the boy’s ears, “When you awaken in the morning hush, I am the swift uplifting rush of birds in circled flight. I am the soft stars that shine at night. Do not think of me as gone. I am with you still, in each new dawn.”