Shusterman, Neal - UnStrung

Do it for him, a woman says, her voice quiet but steeped in authority.

Mired in a numbing gray fog, Lev feels her cool fingers on his neck, taking his pulse. His throat hurts, his tongue feels like chewed leather, his left wrist aches, and he cant open his eyes.

Not yet, Ma.

Like his eyes, Levs lips wont open. Who is it who just spoke? Maybe one of his brothers. Marcus, perhaps? No, the voice is wrong. And no one in his family is so informal as to call their mother Ma.

All right, he hears the woman say. You decide when hes ready. And dont forget your guitar.

The sound of footsteps recedes, and Lev slips back into darkness.

When he wakes again, his eyes open, but only a sliver. Hes alone in a large bedroom with blinding-white walls. A red, woven blanket covers him. Beneath him he can feel a smooth and expensive cotton sheet, like the ones he once knew. Hes on a bed thats low to the ground, and beyond its foot he sees the fur of a mountain lion on the slate floor. He shudders at the sight of it. An oak bureau faces him. It has no mirror, and for the moment hes glad.

Forcing his eyes wider, he sees unshuttered windows on the far wall, the light beyond them weakening to dusk. Or is it strengthening to dawn? There is a nightstand next to him. A stethoscope is coiled there, and for a brief, devastating moment he thinks that hes been discovered and taken to a harvest camp. Despair presses him against the cotton sheet, and he sinks into the fog that fills his head, confusing dreams with delirium and making a mockery of time. He drifts through the fog until he hears

When he wakes, get his name. Its a different voice. Deeper. The council cant give him sanctuary without a name.

Cool fingers touch his wrist again. Ill keep that in mind. He senses the woman leaning over him. He can hear her breathing. She smells of sage and smoky cottonwood. Its comforting. Now leave us be.

He feels a prick in his upper arm, like a tranq dart, but not. The world goes hazybut not like the fog. This is a different kind of sleep.

Suddenly hes standing in a yard, near a briefcase covered in mud that lies halfway down a hole. Outside the picket fence, police are sidling toward him. No, its not him theyre interested inits the skinny umber kid with him. CyFis hands overflow with gold chains and glittering stones of every color. Hes pleading with the sienna-colored man and woman, who clutch each other, staring at the kid in terror.

Please dont unwind me. CyFis words are hoarse and choked with sobs. Please dont unwind me. . . .

A cool hand touches Levs cheek, and the memory is sucked in like a mental gasp. He left CyFi days ago. Hes somewhere else now.

Youre safe, child, the womans reassuring voice says. Open your eyes.

When he does, he sees her pleasant face smiling at him. Square jaw, black hair tied back, and bronze skin, shes aSlotMonger! he blurts, and feels his skin flush red. Im sorry . . . I didnt mean . . . It just came out . . .

She chuckles. Old words die hard, she tells him, with infinite understanding. We were called Indians long after it was obvious we werent from India. And Native American was always a bit too condescending for my taste.

ChanceFolk, Lev says, hoping his SlotMonger slur will quickly be forgotten.

Yes, the woman says. People of Chance. Of course the casinos are long gone, but I suppose the name had enough resonance to stick.

He sees the stethoscope around her neckthe one he at first incorrectly thought belonged to a harvest-camp surgeon.

Youre a doctor?

A Woman of Medicine, yesand as such I can tell you that your cuts and bruises are healing, and the swelling of your wrist is much reduced. Leave the brace on till I give you leave to shed it. You need to gain a few pounds, but once you taste my husbands cooking, that shouldnt be a problem.

Lev watches warily as she sits on the edge of his bed and studies him.

But your spirit, child, is a vastly different matter.

He withdraws, and her lips purse ruefully.

Medicine women know that healing takes time, some more time than others. Tell me one thing, and Ill leave you to rest.

He stiffens, reflexively on his guard. What?

What is your name?

Lev Calder, he says, and regrets it immediately. Its been almost three weeks since he was dragged by Connor from his limo, but the Powers That Be are still looking for him. It was one thing to be traveling with CyFi, but to give a doctor his namewhat if she turns him over to the Juvenile Authority? He thinks of his parents, and the destiny he left behind. How could he have wanted to be unwound? How could his parents have made him want it? It fills him with an unrelenting fury at everyone and everything. Hes not a tithe anymore. Hes an AWOL now. Hed better start thinking like one.

Well, Lev, were petitioning the Tribal Council to allow you to stay. You dont have to tell me all youve been throughIm sure it was horrible. And then her eyes brighten. But we People of Chance do believe in people of second chance.

He stands in the doorway watching the boy sleep. His guitar hangs down his back, warm from the sun, strings still humming.

He doesnt mind being here, though he was sorry to have to leave the forest. His time accompanying the sounds of shivering leaves, whirling dust devils, and powerful Chinook winds was special to him. There was calming joy in transposing nature to music. Adapting the chords of yellow-shouldered blackbirds, prairie dogs, and wild pigs. Bringing their voices into each movement he played.

Wil brought Dads leftover blackberry crumble to the forest with him. Una brought some elk jerky and a thermos of cinnamon-spiced chocolate. She sat with him beneath a spreading oak while he played, although she left before he finished, as it was her turn to clean the workshop.

His guitar always sounds a little melancholy when Una leaves.

The AWOL boy that his mother has taken into their home has been awake for a day now, but he hasnt come down for anything, even meals. Dad offered to carry him, but Ma said he needed more time.

Cant fret over AWOLs, his father told her. They never stay long, and theyre too desperate to be grateful. But Ma just ignores him. Shes taken the boy under her protection, and that is that.

Wil wonders how the boy can sleep when the sun blasts from the windows over his head and the roar of tribal construction in town echoes down the ravine. The boys chest rises and falls, and then his legs churn beneath the sheets as if hes running. Wil is not surprised: AWOLs know much about running. Sometimes he thinks thats all they know.

Wil is confident the boy will be calmed. Wild animals, rattlesnakes, and feral teenagers go quiet in Wils presence. Even when his guitar hangs silent on his back, his presence calms themperhaps in anticipation of what hell deliver. Although Wils just a teenager himself, hes got old-soul style, a storyteller vibe that he got from his grandfather

But he doesnt want to think about his grandfather now.

While he considers what music may reach this AWOL, the boy wakes. His wide pupils constrict, revealing pale blue eyes that focus on Wil standing in the doorway.

Wil takes a few steps into the room and sits cross-legged on the mountain-lion skin, swinging his guitar into his lap in a single, practiced movement.

My names Chowilawu, he tells the boy. But everyone calls me Wil.

The boy stares at him guardedly. I heard you talking yesterday. The medicine woman is your mom?

He nods. The kid looks about thirteenthree years younger than Wilbut something about his eyes makes him seem like hes going on one hundred. More old-soul style, but of the world-weary kind. Life has done a number on this AWOL.