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into the hut. Charles took his post by Maud’s hammock. Louise looked down at her shoes: mud encrusted them almost to her ankles. Prickly thorns, green burs, and splinters formed a wild pattern on the hem of her shift. She sat on a stool and tucked her feet under her skirt, wondering what Benjamin thought about her. Did she appear too much of a city girl, shallow and precious, like those girls at home whose lives revolved around fashion and galas and fancy doodads from abroad, like her sister Maud? She touched the loosened curls around her cheeks and decided not to contain them at the back of her head. Her eyes followed Benjamin around the room. She watched him pick out a drum, a carved gourd rattle, and a small, stripped log and place them by the fire. Don Pedro hummed, Maud snored, and Charles gaped at his pocket watch.
    “Benjamin, when will the ceremony start? How long do you expect it to last?”
    Grandson and grandfather exchanged glances.
    “Curing ceremonies have no time limit. It takes as long as Grandfather needs for the required effect,” Benjamin replied.
    “But the carriage will be waiting for us at half past seven! Might we be finished by then?”
    Benjamin explained the dilemma to his grandfather. The awa swung his arm in the air.
    “It’s over when your daughter is better!”
    Charles held his head in distress. Louise tried to console him.
    “Father, we need Maud to get well regardless of the time it takes. Right now Don Pedro is our only hope.”
    Charles had not planned on being delayed in these remote hills yet was frantic to help Maud, worried that if he didn’t act quickly her health would continue to fail. Louise remembered the day when an associate at the commission told Charles a miraculous story of how Don Pedro had cured his jaundice. She was surprised when Father decided to see the awa. Shamanism was beyond his comprehension. At first he called it barbaric superstitions, but this colleague’s restored health was living proof. Charles would not stand by and helplessly witness losing his daughter as he had he lost his wife. Now she watched her father tear himself to pieces with worry over the waiting carriage and the dangers of traveling down the mountain in the dark and Maud’s condition and…
    Don Pedro interrupted her thoughts with a sudden outburst. The awa strode to and fro by the hearth, its smoldering glow punctuating the animation in his eyes.
    “I have been very successful in my ceremonies—not every awa can say that.” Don Pedro wagged a knotty finger at Charles. “You are fortunate to have found me. I know the stories about how this and many other sicknesses were formed. It was my mother, Tukitima, who taught me. Yes! My father did not know she was an awa. She kept it hidden. I was a little boy, but she revealed the stories and the sacred songs to me. By and by, I learned all. True healing takes time!” He snatched a mug of water off a stool. Louise and Charles looked at one another. Maud was unstirred by the awa’s exposition. Benjamin sat a short distance away, his face hidden in the shadows of a beam. When he had quenched his thirst, Don Pedro continued.
    “I taught my grandson the language only shamans can understand. He is ready now. He knows Sibo’s songs. He has his own sacred stones. He can ask the right questions, too! I taught him as only a master can.”
    There was a rustling outside. Charles put his hand on the pistol in his breast pocket. A tiny woman entered the dwelling and halted at the sight of the pale visitors. Benjamin greeted her, gave her the package they brought for the awa’s payment. The woman spoke briefly to Benjamin before going about preparing a meal. His lecture over, Don Pedro began parceling the herbs, chanting unintelligibly. His lips were in a constant state of motion, as if he were reciting some oratorio. Benjamin, collecting scraps of plants, would often nod and hum along. Soon the smell of stewed chicken, rice and beans, and plantains