Looking back, I must have been near death by the time I reached the mission at Los Santos Angeles de Guevavi…. The medicine man at Atí had told me that if I didn't leave the swampy, humid area [around Atí] I would certainly die, and I trusted him….

     My symptoms began abruptly, after seven years of perfect health, and they included fevers and bouts of chills that lasted for hours, sometimes a day or two before abating, headaches, muscle and general body aches and nausea…. I would seem to recover from a bout of this illness only to relapse a month or so later. Once the process had begun, I never really felt well, but always had the sensation that there was some underlying menace hidden in my body that would return, as it soon did. Nor did I regain my original strength and vitality. Towards the end, my converts told me that the whites of my eyes had turned yellow, making an odd contrast with my blue irises. My robes hung loose on my wasted frame….

     * * *

     I could not afford to delay, but rode on through that day, half delirious, my robe soaked with sweat…. I think it was the third day, though it might have been the fourth, when we arrived in Tumacácori, one of four Indian villages served by the mission at Guevavi. I don't remember how we got there, and have only a vague recollection of being helped down from Conejo and given cool water to drink. I revived a bit after that and saw the entire village crowded around me as I lay on a blanket in the shade of one of the huts.

     "It's a Black Robe, probably the new priest!" someone said in the Upper Pima dialect.

     "Is he drunk?" asked another. My predecessor, Father Gustav Kurtzel, had been removed from his post at Guevavi for drinking anything alcoholic he could lay his hands on. The stress of our lonely mission life had broken him, it seemed.

     "No, idiot, he's sick!" a woman's cross voice said, "He needs the medicine man! Send someone for Gevho, the maakai."

     "The healer's at Sonoitac. We'd better get the priest to the mission at Guevavi. Gevho can go there. It's closer," said the original voice.

     I was lifted onto my mule again, and once they were sure that I would not fall off, they led a cavalcade to my mission, about sixteen miles away…. I tried to dismount, nearly fell off instead, and was seized and half carried through the gate of the compound and into a cell in the half-finished convento. The tiny room was full of blown-in sand and debris: a tumbleweed, straws, sticks, and cobwebs in the corners. I suspected they harbored black widow spiders. I could see a dusty combination fireplace-oven, a warped and rickety table and chair sitting crookedly on the earthen floor, and a bed in the corner. It was a solid structure consisting of dried mesquite branches, unpeeled but with thorns removed, bound together with rawhide strips to make a frame. Rawhide thongs also spanned the width of the cot to form a support for whatever mattress one could concoct. For the moment, only my saddle pad and my blanket were laid over the rawhide; my saddle was wedged in at the head of the bed, and I was picked up bodily and stretched out on that uncomfortable surface. I lost consciousness then, only half rousing from my stupor from time to time as a wizened old woman bathed my face or lifted my head to pour a few drops of water down my throat.

     When I became fully conscious, it was night, the room lit by a fire in the open oven in the corner. Without moving my head, I looked around me, able to see that three people were in the room: the wrinkled old woman occupying the one chair in the shadowy corner next to the oven, and, near my bed, a man and a woman. I thought I was hallucinating. The woman-or girl: she was still quite young-was striking rather than beautiful, part Indian, tall and slender, with high cheekbones, a prominent nose, and dark skin. But, incongruously, she had chestnut red hair pulled back and tied in a knot behind her head, a soft forest of wisps framing her face. Her eyes were a dark blue.

     I blinked to make sure I was focusing right, then turned my eyes to the man. He was slightly shorter than the woman but powerfully built, with broad shoulders and massive arms. His chest was bare except for a necklace of bears' claws interspersed with macaw or parrot feathers imported from much further south. He wore wristlets, one of colored feathers on the left arm, bear or wolf claws on the other, and a mask hid his upper face. In one hand he held a rattle; in the other, a pipe that was lit and exuding a peculiar-smelling smoke, unlike the tobacco I was familiar with. I blinked again. Surely this pair was a figment of my fevered mind? The man began to move in rhythmic fashion, uttering guttural sounds and keeping time with the rattle. From time to time, he filled his mouth with smoke from the pipe, and blew it directly into my nostrils and mouth. I could not avoid inhaling it. Before long, I began to feel as if I were floating, my body light and somehow distant, as if I were detached from it and its ailments.

     "Give him the potion," the medicine man ordered the red-haired woman in perfectly clear Pima.

     As she moved toward the oven, the old crone rose and handed her a clay vessel full of liquid. Warm vapors rose from it when the young woman raised me by the shoulders with surprising strength and pressed it to my lips. The contents were at once extremely bitter and cloyingly sweet. I gagged, then gulped it down, and lay back with a sigh when she released me. The warm potion felt good and somehow soothing inside my raw stomach.

     The medicine man continued his weaving dance, fanning me with an eagle wing, intoning a chant in what seemed to be an archaic form of the Pima language. He appeared to be invoking the names of gods unknown to me, gods of the earth, of the storm, the ruler of all flesh, all of whom were to come to my aid. As if from a distance, I took note of my emotions. If this were Devil-worship being performed over my helpless body, I should have felt fear and loathing, but instead I felt a visceral attraction to this man who held my life in his hands. I was like an infant, totally at his command. I heard my panting breath as I tried to reach out to him, but I had not the strength. At length the little firelight ceremony was over.

     * * *

     Thoughts of the young woman:

     Our maakai is intoning his incantation-an especially powerful one, I think. That means he believes this man to be gravely ill, on the point of death. He has said that the priest has one of the wandering sicknesses, easy to detect, and not needing a long Dúajida ceremony; I think we Irish call that a "diagnosis." I watch Gevho, thrilling at his beauty, wanting to reach out to him as this poor priest just tried to do. My two natures, Indian and Irish, are at war within me. I am here, acting as the maakai's assistant, his 'nurse' if you will. My mother, Hohoi, a full-blooded Pima, wishes that I carry on her family's traditions, even though she now goes to church and takes communion with my father, Patrick. I am here thanks to her, determined to learn everything I can about Gevho's art and his faith. For he has a faith-a deep and abiding one, that rivals and in some ways contradicts the one the Spanish have brought to this land, and the one my father believes in. I'm not sure just what my mother believes, in her heart of hearts.

     I am torn in many ways. I believe in the power and the authority of nature and what nature tells us. And yet, the missionary I knew best, Father Gustav Kurtzel, told me to resist my natural impulses. Sad for him that he did not-could not, perhaps-resist his! I am just sixteen years old, and have lived a great deal; had many experiences that involve the overwhelming power of nature. Many of these lessons have not been taught by my Indian relatives and friends, but by the Spanish or the Irish, who profess not to believe in them! My uncle Michael, for example, was one of my most important teachers. He has been gone for three days, now, and my father is frantic about him, I can tell. He hasn't said much to me, but he walks the floor and is generally restless. The maakai tells me he knows where he is. But he refuses to tell me more.

     I watch Gevho weave his spell over this new priest. I thrill to the beauty of his body, his smooth, dark skin, shining with sweat, revealing the undulations of his powerful muscles. His chest, his arms have a hypnotic effect upon me. He knows how to use his body to fascinate and to heal.

     Now I examine our patient. The priest is also beautiful, if a dying man-a skeletal form-can be considered so. His face has perfectly molded features: a prominent, hawk-like nose that gives him character, good cheek bones and a strong chin and jaw line, yellow hair. I haven't seen hair quite like that before: lighter, finer than Uncle Michael's or my father's. His eyes are a pale and clear blue, appearing much larger than normal because he's so thin, striking in color even though the whites are yellowed with his illness. His mouth is wide and curving, as if he would smile a lot if he were well.

     He has a strange aura around him: he seems to radiate determination and strength of character together with gentleness and innocence. If he recovers, I think he will be a worthy adversary for our maakai-if he recovers. But he is dreadfully weak. Right now, he again seems to want to reach out and touch Gevho, but he is too feeble even to lift his hand more than a few inches off the cot. The maakai blows another puff of that new medicine, marijuana, into the poor man's mouth. My master has brought it back from his trips much further south to visit his mother's tribe, the Tarahumaras. Other medicine men here do not know the medicine or its power. The priest is already drunk on the smoke; his pupils are dilated. My teacher wants to lessen his discomfort and put him to sleep, I think.

     My mother has taught me that these missionaries are special human beings, set apart from the rest of us, and not allowed normal human relations. I pity them, and especially this one. I long to mother him, hold him, caress him, sing him to sleep. With me, he would not need a drug. The maakai is asking for the potion with the white powder, which I give to the priest. I lift him ever so gently, my arm under his shoulders. How thin, how light he is, poor man! He drinks the potion, choking and making a face at first, then accepting it. Jacinta has made it sweet enough that it is tolerable. Now, at last, Gevho is through with his cure, and I sit on the cot next to the priest. I tell my teacher that the priest is handsome. I cannot resist touching him. I stroke his face, my index finger outlining his lips, touching his nose, tracing his eyebrows. I smooth his hair back out of his eyes. He looks at me with a question in those clear, blue eyes, his blond eyebrows raised a little. Now, he relaxes; his eyes close. I know that with me, he would not need a drug.

     * * * *

     Ignaz resumes his narrative:

     "He'd be handsome if he were not such a skeleton, don't you think, Maakai?" I heard the young woman say. She received a mere grunt in reply. She sat on the edge of the cot and caressed my face, smoothing my hair out of my eyes, her fingers soft and cool on my fevered skin.

     "Handsome if you like bleached-out skins and corn-silk hair," the maakai replied.

     I blinked at him. Maakai, I recalled vaguely, means healer. She was using it like a title-like Father or Doctor. His name, if I had heard right was Gevho, the name of an animal, a bobcat or lynx, probably his spirit or totem animal.

     The healer now removed his mask, revealing rugged features with a heavy brow ridge and a jutting nose, his black eyes peering out with a fierce gleam beneath overhanging brows. He seemed to be a man in his mid forties. "I'll leave the powder and the syrup here with Jacinta," he continued, nodding toward the old woman. "She must give him daily doses. He has the repeating fever, and has had it for a long time. Traveling for days, as he must have done in the heat of the sun with a raging fever would have killed a stronger man than this one. Touched by the sun as well. He may be too far-gone for the spirits and the powder to help him. Only time will tell."

     He rose and turned to Jacinta. "Give him more of this tomorrow," he raised the cup, "and see if you can get him to eat something. Posole for sure, and boil some of his jerky and give him the broth. If you have chia seed, grind it and mix a handful into his posole every day. He must have food that he can keep down if he is to improve." He glanced at the red-haired woman and jerked his chin toward the door. She rose in almost reverent obedience from my side, but only after looking into my eyes with a half-smile and caressing my cheek briefly with one gentle finger.

     "Goodbye, Father Whatever-Your-Name-Is, may we meet again in happier times. I wish you strength and healing."

     I tried to reply to her, to tell her my name, but I had floated too far away, wafted on a billow of pipe smoke. I remember that I looked with vaporous longing and regret after their departing forms as they crossed the threshold, and then there was only emptiness and the white moonlight. I asked my drifting and distant self if they had been real. But did it matter? Did anything matter?

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