At times the words “Bartow” and “Laura” would escape his lips, but though Bomba listened eagerly for what would follow, nothing came that made more clear for him the mystery in which he was enshrouded.
The boy nursed Casson assiduously, using the simple but effective remedies whose power he had learned from Candido, the half-witted caboclo, and at the end of several days the fever broke.
From then on Casson mended rapidly, and Bomba was delighted to note that with returning strength his mind seemed less clouded. He had lost some of his apathy, and took a greater interest in the things about him.
The “door” was still closed, but he was trying harder to open it than he had before. At times a flash of memory seemed to come to him, and he would begin to speak eagerly, but before he had fairly framed a sentence the thought would elude him. At such times he was desperate, and would break out into a passion of weeping.
One day he called Bomba to him.
“Bomba,” he said, laying his thin hand on the boy’s shoulder, “I have tried and tried to tell you what you have a right to know, but I cannot remember. Sometimes I almost recall it, and then it vanishes. But there has come to me a name. There is someone who knows, and he can tell you much, perhaps all.”
“Who is it?” cried Bomba excitedly.
“It is Jojasta,” replied Casson. “Mark well that name, Jojasta.”
“I will never forget it,” said Bomba solemnly. “But what is he and where does he live?”
“He is the Medicine Man of the Moving Mountain,” replied Casson.