Autumn 1842 – Weaving New Curses With Elderly Fingers

Wrong Medicine began to chant. Unlike the rest of him, his voice was clear and straight, almost a bird’s song. His eyes looked into another distance. He waved the knife, slowly and fluidly at first, then with greater precision, as if cutting patterns into the air. 

The smell of spring earth grew stronger now. Beneath the richness of growth and good soil was a hint of decay, of secrets thawing after a hard winter. The air around the knife’s tip began to glow. The patterns began to have visual form.