Upon this doeskin I placed a bundle of cranesbill geraniums that Burnt Belly had uprooted and washed several moons before. The aroma of smoke filled the lodge, for the old healer had just lifted a red-hot stone from the fire with a chokecherry fork and placed a few dried fir needles upon it. As my mentor had instructed, I dissected the stalky little flower, making separate piles for roots, stems, and leaves. Burnt Belly was chanting under his breath, producing a low hum that was not unpleasant to listen to. Suddenly, his chant ended, and he reached for the small jug of trade whiskey I had brought to him. He pulled the stopper and tipped the mouth of the jug up to his lips. I did not see him swallow, but he held the whiskey in his mouth until he replaced the stopper and put the jug aside. Then, he leaned forward and spat the whiskey out on the fire, making it flare and sizzle. He laughed a raspy old chuckle, obviously pleased with the way the whiskey fueled the flame. “That is good.”
