Strongheart: The Lost Journals of May Dodd and Molly McGill

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by Jim Fergus


  He smiled. “She who was with you.”

  “Thank you for sending her to me, my husband,” I said, addressing him thus out of habit and respect. “She saved my life.”

  He nodded. “She tells me you have taken another husband, a mixed-blood Comanche warrior.”

  “I have.”

  Again, he nodded. “It is a good thing that you have done, Mesoke,” he said. “I am growing old, and two wives are enough for me.” He smiled. “Sometimes they are too many.”

  I was so relieved at his reaction, and grateful, that tears came to my eyes. “Thank you, my husband,” I said. “I came here to also tell you that I must leave the People soon, for I am going back to my old home, and to my children there.”

  “Yes, Woman Who Moves against the Wind told me. I have only one last request to make of you.”

  “Tell me.”

  “We must soon go into the agency again,” Little Wolf said. “Our old life we have lived here is over. Our ancient prophet Sweet Medicine told us long ago of the coming of the white man. He told us that this person was going to destroy for us everything we depend upon; he was going to take over all the land throughout the world. And so it is. You know this is why I went to Washington and asked your president for the gift of one thousand white women as wives for our warriors, to teach us and our children the new life that must be lived when the buffalo are gone. Now our brothers, the buffalo, are almost gone, and we, the People, are almost gone.

  “Thus I ask that you leave our daughter, Little Bird, with us. You understand, Mesoke, that the People all believe, as do I, that Maheo gave to me, the Sweet Medicine Chief, a white baby to teach us this new life. If you take her away now, the People will lose all hope … and of that we have little left. For your release as my wife, I ask only this of you, that you allow us our faith in the miracle of our daughter’s birth.”

  At this shocking request, so matter-of-factly stated, my relief and gratitude were breached by waves of anguish flushing through my body, gooseflesh running over my skin, a terrible tingling sensation, my head reeling as if from a physical blow so that I feared I would faint. “Leave my daughter?” I managed to say. “You ask me to give up my child?”

  I looked at Wren, my happy baby, smiling and gurgling, as Horse Boy played with her, and then at Feather on Head, who regarded me directly now. I could tell from her face that she knew what Little Wolf had asked, as she could clearly tell, as well, from my reaction. In her expression, I saw the clash of one mother’s agonized sympathy for another against her desperate hope that she might be allowed to raise Little Bird as her own daughter. We sat for a long time, just looking at each other, both well aware that there was no solution to this impossible decision that was not going to break one of our hearts. Finally, I went to Wren in a kind of proprietary fashion, as if to claim her. I picked her up off the buffalo robe and cradled her in my arms, I touched her sweet, soft little face, I put my finger in her tiny hand and she gripped it … oh, God … this is hard … this will kill me … but I moved over to Feather on Head on my knees. I kissed my baby’s face, her lips, I whispered to her, and I let a little drop of spittle fall into her mouth, so that she might always carry the taste of her mother.

  I handed Little Bird to Feather on Head. “It must be time for your daughter’s feeding.”

  * * *

  I left the lodge of Little Wolf for the last time, without saying good-bye to anyone. I walked through the village until I came to the end of it. Then I started running across the plains; I ran as fast and far as I could, the tears streaming like sweat off my face, until I collapsed in the grass and wailed out my grief.

  I went back to where Chance and I had pitched our modest camp. He could clearly see that I was in a bad state. “We must pack up and leave first thing in the morning for Laramie,” I said. “We’ll go to the courthouse there to be married, but as I have no identification, we will first have to find someone in the town willing to make papers for me, with a different maiden name. I still have enough money for that from the sale of horses, and for train tickets to Chicago.”

  “I got some money stashed away, too,” Chance said.

  “I’m going to finish writing in my journal tonight, and then I’m leaving all of them with Wind, including those of Meggie and Susie, and those that Molly gave me of hers before we parted. I don’t know what will become of any of them, except perhaps one day my daughter, Wren, might be able to read them, and learn of her real mother, who loved her with all her heart.”

  “You’re leaving Little Bird here?” he asked.

  “I cannot bear to talk about that right now, Chance … but yes. I’m going now to speak with Martha and Ann. I think they will both wish to travel with us—in Ann’s case, at least as far as Medicine Bow station, and Martha will surely want to accompany me to Chicago with her son … And you, Chance?” I asked. “Are you sure this is what you want? I know you said you were going to take me there, but I won’t hold you to that. You don’t have to marry me if you don’t want to. I can manage without you. You’re a cowboy … and an Indian … you’re not a city boy. I’m afraid you’ll be terribly unhappy there.”

  “May, I’m in love with you … I want to marry you … have ever since the first time you kissed me … when you were stealin’ my horse. I promised I was goin’ to take you back to Chicago. I’m a pretty resourceful fella, you know that, I can do plenty a’ things. And it ain’t like we have to spend the rest of our lives in the city, either. If it don’t suit us, we’ll make a new plan.”

  “Thank you for that, Chance,” I said with a sense of relief. “I’m in love with you, too.”

  “Of course y’are, May, I know that.”

  * * *

  And that’s about it for my western adventure. There is not much here left to say. I’ve lost another child, and I don’t know how … or if … I’ll manage to get my other two back. That part, I haven’t worked out yet. We still have a long way to go, with challenges to face before we get there. But as Chance said of himself, I, too, am a pretty resourceful girl.

  May Dodd, still alive, 12 November 1876, somewhere on the Tongue River, Montana Territory

  EPILOGUE

  by JW Dodd, III

  Editor in Chief, Chitown Magazine

  Chicago, Illinois June 2019

  It has been nearly eight months since I last saw or had any word from Molly Standing Bear. She left her notebooks in my trailer on the morning of her departure, which contained therein her full edit and organization of May Dodd’s and Molly McGill’s journals. She left, as well, May’s last journal that we had taken the day before from its hiding place on May Swallow Wild Plum’s property. I put it back where it belonged that afternoon. She must have stayed up most of the night transcribing and editing it in her notebook, all by hand, I should mention, as she doesn’t have a computer.

  I don’t know what time she left that morning because I was still asleep when she did. But I had a strange dream that woke me up, at least I think it was a dream. Like everything about Molly, as the reader of these pages may have ascertained, there was something a bit “off” about her. Being an editor by trade, you’d think I might be able to come up with a better word than that to describe her … but I can’t. Not to get too mystical about it, but she has a certain indefinable quality, as if she inhabits a different space than the rest of us. I never really even found out where she lived, though she did say that she was “mostly homeless,” whatever that means, because it seems to me that you either are or you aren’t. There were many other things I’ve never really been able to pin down about Molly.

  Regarding the dream that woke me up that morning … and I hesitate to write this as there are few things more boring and banal than hearing about other people’s dreams. Plus, when I describe it, the reader may well think that I, too, am a bit “off” and quite likely, I am. I dreamed that Molly was preparing to leave and came to sit on the edge of the bed to say good-bye. She was caressing my face, kissing it, and whisper
ing to me. I was trying to wake up so that I could send her on her way, but I couldn’t. Speaking of banality, everyone is familiar with those dreams in which one knows one is dreaming and tries to wake up but can’t.

  Of course, time passes differently in dreams, and I finally did wake up. I had been sleeping on my side with my head on the pillow, and when I opened my eyes I was looking directly into the eyes of a mountain lion sitting beside the bed watching me. He, or she, had the same blue-green eyes as Molly that seem to change color in different light. I didn’t dare move, as I had no idea what the animal’s intentions were, but I saw out of the corner of my eye that the door to the Airstream was wide open, the morning light spilling in across the floor. I assumed that Molly must have left it that way, which, though unlike her, was obviously how the lion got inside. Only later did it occur to me that I was less afraid of it than I should have been. We looked into each other’s eyes for at least a minute, while I considered my limited options. We could continue our staring contest until one of us acted. Or I could very slowly raise myself on the bed. Quick movements did not seem a good idea. Or I could speak to it … although I was fairly certain it wouldn’t respond to voice commands.

  Then, as if it had lost interest in me, it turned, trotted the length of the trailer to the open door, and leapt to the ground. I got up quickly then to go to the door, and watched it lope away down the bank of the creek, muscles rippling and moving with that powerful, elegant feline grace. It stopped once to turn and look back at me. And then was gone. I felt lucky to have had this experience and I knew I had a good story to tell back at the office, and in bars, where no one would believe it.

  I saw that Molly had also left a letter for me on top of her notebooks and May’s last journal, which were stacked on the foldout dining/writing table. I reproduce it here:

  Dear JW,

  You know, I have never actually written a letter to anyone where I have used the salutation “Dear.” It has always seemed odd to me to address perfect strangers that way. Then again we still find a lot of white man ways odd. But I’m making this exception in your case because we’re not strangers, are we?

  As you can see, I’m leaving my notebooks with you, and I give you permission to publish them in serial form in your magazine. But let me be clear about one thing: I DO NOT give you permission to make any changes, edits, etc. Whether or not you approve of the way I arranged and edited them, I want them to appear in your magazine exactly as they are. And if I find that you messed with them in any way at all, I’ll be wearing your scalp on my belt … and I’m not kidding about that … well, maybe a little. And by the way, this edict applies to my own little commentaries scattered throughout the journals. I know these are likely to cause you some embarrassment due to the sexual content of some of them, but that’s just tough shit, white boy. Instead of hiding behind your desk for the rest of your life in your Editor in Chief disguise, it’s time you had a little skin in the game … so to speak.

  We had some fun, didn’t we, cowboy? And I don’t mean just in bed … although that was not so bad, either. I like you, JW, I always have, I could say that I love you if I let myself. But, as I explained to you, I have more important business to attend to right now. I have no idea how long I’ll be gone, as I don’t even know yet where I’m going. So please, don’t waste your time trying to find me, and don’t bother trying to find other Strongheart women, either. We have an oath of secrecy, and you never will. I realize I broke that oath when I told you about Lily being one of us. It just kind of slipped out, I guess because I felt so comfortable and secure with you. I had to tell her I did that … it was a serious violation on my part. She forgave me, because she could see what was going on between you and me. And she likes you, she thinks that for a white boy you can be trusted, which is high praise coming from Lily.

  OK … so long, cowboy. I hope we cut each other’s trail again one day. In the meantime, take care of yourself. And if you come across a good woman, I won’t hold it against you. Of course, you’ll never find another like me … but then I don’t need to tell you that, do I?

  Love,

  MSB

  P.S. Sorry about leaving the trailer door open, but I had to let the lioness out.

  I left the Tongue River Indian Reservation the next morning, settling up first with Lily Redbird. I send her a check every month for $100, the boarding fee for my horse, Indian, and I always ask her if she’s had any news from Molly. But she never writes me back. I phone her every now and then to check in and ask the same question. She always tells me that she’s had no news at all, and I sense from her voice that she’s worried about her friend, too, though she will never say that to me. As regular readers know, the first serialization of The Lost Journals of May Dodd and Molly McGill came out in Chitown in the April issue. Now I enclose a copy of the magazine with my rent check to Lily every month.

  I haven’t changed a word, not even a comma, or any other punctuation, grammatical, or spelling error that Molly made in her notebooks, and I instructed my copy editors not to do so, either. Of course, that is totally against all magazine policy, and caused much debate in the office. But I’d rather receive a few critical letters to the editor from nitpicking readers who live to point out typos than risk my scalp for cleaning one up.

  I, too, hope Molly and I cut each other’s trail again one day. I miss that woman. The last sentence of her letter was the truest thing she ever said to me.

  Acknowledgments

  As this is the third and final book of the One Thousand White Women Trilogy, I would like to take this opportunity to thank my loyal readers, who have been with me from beginning to end. I have always maintained that the process of writing and reading a novel is a collaborative one, and I am so grateful to all the individuals, among them the many members of book clubs across the country, who have fueled the word-of-mouth support of my work. You, the reader, have allowed me to write these three novels, and you have brought them to life for me. Thank you.

  Discussion Questions

  What did you think of the prologue and the introduction to the novel? How did they set the tone for the rest of the novel?

  How did the narrative structure of the novel affect your reading experience? Did the firsthand accounts make the women’s experiences seem more relatable?

  On page 135, Molly says, “Yes, she had a dream, and she found herself in that perfect world, and in her dream I’ll bet she could see again. And now we’re all traveling to find her dream.” What is the role and significance of dreams throughout the novel?

  Compare and contrast all of the powerful women in this novel, especially May, Molly, and Molly Standing Bear. How does each of their experiences move the narrative forward? What do they accomplish with what life has handed to them?

  How does the addition of Molly Standing Bear, a contemporary Native American woman, as one of the narrators succeed in bringing the novel into the present era? Did you learn anything of which you were previously unaware about the challenges and dangers faced by modern Native American women? Do you feel that it is act of cultural appropriation for a white male author to write in the first-person voice of a young Native American woman?

  Consider this statement on page 116, made by May: “I realized in that moment that I am, and always will be, two different people, and that I need to reacquaint myself with this stranger staring back in the mirror, who did not appear to recognize me either.” How have May’s circumstances changed her into two different women? Were you surprised by the manner in which all these women embraced the culture of the Cheyenne people?

  Examine this statement on page 141: “Yet, there is much to be afraid of in both worlds, isn’t there? … And from both peoples.” How truthful is this statement, and how does its truth manifest throughout the novel?

  How did the undercurrent of Native American mysticism that runs through the novel (e.g., “the real world behind this one,” shape-shifting, Molly’s “escape” from the cliff) alter your perceptions of Na
tive American beliefs? In what ways does this mysticism affect the decisions made by the women characters in the novel? Do you feel that the author did a realistic job of presenting this aspect of Native American life?

  “I am still sometimes amazed that having been city born and raised, I have adapted so thoroughly to life in the wilderness.” When you learned the truth of May’s backstory, how did it affect how you viewed her character in the present? What do you think about the evolution of May as an individual?

  Compare and contrast the different types of love and relationships—both romantic and not—that are present throughout the novel. Was there one in particular that stood out as the most authentic to you?

  As the narrative alternated between May’s and Molly’s journals, was there one perspective that you connected with or enjoyed reading more than the other? Why or why not?

  How did the end of the novel make you feel? What do you imagine happens next for the characters?

  If you read the other two installments of the One Thousand White Women Trilogy, what did you think of this final installment? Is this what you imagined for these characters? Were you pleased with how the story ended?

  Also by Jim Fergus

  The Memory of Love

  The Wild Girl

  The Sporting Road

  A Hunter’s Road

  One Thousand White Women

  The Vengeance of Mothers

  About the Author

  JIM FERGUS is the author of six novels and two books of nonfiction. He divides his time between southern Arizona, the northern Rocky Mountains, France, and French Polynesia. You can sign up for email updates here.

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