by David Treuer
13. Once Eta had regained her strength, the two children started back toward Agencytown. Although their parents had no way of knowing what happened, they would be worried after the fact and the sooner they were told the better. Bimaadiz and Eta took the most direct route back and had almost reached the village when something made Bimaadiz look up from the trail. Off to the left, across a small swamp, stood a huge bull moose. He must have been very old. The old bull’s shoulders stood six feet off the ground, and his beard was as long as Bimaadiz’s arm. His horns spread as far as a grown man could reach. It took only a second for Bimaadiz to unsling the Winchester and fire a shot. The old bull took one step and toppled over. Bimaadiz shouted in triumph. Here was an excellent old bull for them and a chance to make the offering he had promised the man in his dream.
They decided that Eta should gut it and begin the butchering. Bimaadiz would run to Agencytown and fetch Eta’s parents and his parents, too, thereby accomplishing everything at once; they would make an offering there where the bull had dropped, Eta’s parents would be put at ease, and they would have help to bring the moose back to the village. The moose was such a big specimen that the two of them could not hope to carry it all back themselves.
Bimaadiz left his fawnskin bag and rifle with Eta and set off running toward the village. As he rounded a bend, who should he happen to see, but the old man Kiiwenz, walking slowly toward the village. He still used his two walking sticks and still struggled with the large bundle on his back. Bimaadiz slowed and called out to the old man. Kiiwenz stepped off to the side to make room for Bimaadiz.
“Bimaadiz, I was expecting you. I heard a shot awhile ago and I thought it might be you. What have you got? A rabbit? Or perhaps an old bull moose, tender, in his old age?”
Bimaadiz was surprised that Kiiwenz, old and addled as he was, knew so much.
“I did shoot a big one,” he confessed. “and much more has happened that I want to tell you about. But if you head back up the trail you’ll find Eta skinning the beast. We are going to make offerings out there on the spot where the old bull fell. Will you join us?”
Kiiwenz said that he would, that it had been years since he had tasted fresh moose meat, and that he had started salivating when he heard the shot. He turned and walked back up the way from which Bimaadiz had come. Bimaadiz ran on to the village.
Once there he told Eta’s parents that she was safe and where they could find her and that they should bring pack baskets for the meat. They said they would and immediately began getting things together. Bimaadiz continued on to his parents’ shack. They dropped what they were doing and shouldered their own pack baskets and took a candle lantern and they walked together back to the site of the kill. Soon the whole village knew, and everyone grabbed knives and packs, rope and baskets.
When they arrived, a fire was going strong a short distance from the carcass. Gradually people from the village arrived. Some of the women helped Eta skin the moose. Two of them stood to the side and propped the hind legs open with a long pole, while two others were skinning around the front shoulders. They cooed and laughed when they saw how fat the old bull was. Some of them had clay pipes clenched between their teeth.
A few old men stood with their backs to the fire and chatted about their exploits: war parties they had been on or good shots they had made. Young boys scurried around them collecting firewood. One young boy sung a slow song to the steady beat of a hand drum while other boys danced with vigorous sweeps of their legs in an effort to stomp down the grass and make the clearing larger because more people were arriving.
Night was full on, and the butchering was all done. Eta gave Bimaadiz the tongue and as promised, he burnt it in the fire as an offering to the man in his dream. I can taste it now. Eta cut off the moose’s beard and hung it in a tree. As she did so, she silently thanked the moose calves that had saved her life.
Great chunks of loin were roasted on pointed sticks and someone had thought to bring flour and lard for bannock. It was mixed quickly and wrapped around a stick to bake over the fire. That, together with some salt and a tun of whiskey someone else had brought, put them all in a good mood.
Grease dripped down their chins, and they were all tipsy. Bimaadiz told about his dream but did not include any particulars, and Eta related the details of her capture. Everyone was satisfied that the boat had sunk and the evildoers had been drowned in the lake. Everyone who heard the story agreed that some greater force must be at work and was watching over the children.
Apelles walked last in line behind his father.
He dragged an empty toboggan on a long rope. His uncle, walking ahead of his father, swayed back and forth with each step.
Far ahead, the three white hunters also walked in single file. The hunter in the lead carried a kerosene lantern but it confused the trail, casting shadows counter to the moon, and the men stumbled, each in the footprint of the man in front of him. One of them swore. It was hard to hear him. They seemed far away.
Apelles’ father and uncle walked without a light. The moon brightened the snow. It was easy for them to see. It was very cold. Apelles’ breath was visible in the moonlight. He struggled to keep up with his father’s long strides.
“Dede, did he do it on purpose?”
“Gaawiin ingikendanziin. Ganabaj. Ganabaj gosha.”
His father did not slow down to answer.
“And we’re going to use the toboggan to bring him back?”
“Eh. Giga-gagwejitoomin iw.”
They walked along in silence for a while. The woods, so familiar in daylight, seemed mysterious and strange.
Apelles hastened to keep up with the adults, but it was difficult because with each step his feet slid and churned in the broken snow. It was impossible to hear anything except the sound of their feet. There was nothing else to hear.
“Indede, what’s rigor mortis?”
His father shrugged and did not answer.
But his uncle turned and said over his shoulder, “When the body gets stiff.”
He had been in the war and knew a lot of things. After a moment, he added for his brother’s benefit, “Dibishkoo go ginoozhe agidiskwam ayaa.”
They walked on in silence. The thick hardwoods, the long trunks cutting the snow, began to thin, and the trail rose as they neared high ground.
Up ahead they saw the three hunters stop on the trail. They milled for a few seconds until the man with the lantern held it up high over his head and said in a too-loud voice, “Right here.”
When they reached the hunters they could see a few sets of tracks going into and coming out of the woods from the other direction.
One of the hunters clapped his gloved hands together and spit tobacco juice in the snow. The bristles on his jaw glinted in the lamplight. His nose was running, and the snot pooled on his upper lip. It was very cold.
They all turned from the main trail. The hunters once again took the lead. It was darker in there. The trees grew closer together. It was difficult to distinguish shade and shadow from the tree trunks. The hunter in front held the lantern high and when he moved his arm back and forth the brush shadows, with as much substance as the brush itself, danced suddenly to the side.
Apelles walked last in line tugging the toboggan. He kept his eyes on the ground. It was easier that way not to wonder how much farther they had to go. Snow clung where his father’s pants bunched just above his boots.
Finally the white man with the lantern stopped underneath a large tree. There were boards nailed to the trunk, and the snow underneath was trampled. Apelles saw faint blossoms of blood pressed into the snow.
One of the other white men pulled a pack of cigarettes from the breast pocket of his red coat. He held the pack out to Apelles’ father who shook his head. He turned and held it out to his uncle who shook his head. The hunter shrugged and lit a cigarette with his cigarette lighter. Apelles’ uncle p
ulled his short pipe from his back pocket and found a match with his other hand. He rang his thumbnail across the head, and it rang into flame.
The white man with the lantern held it up and craned his neck, looking high up into the tree. He looked down again and then around the darkness that surrounded them all.
“He had the best spot here,” he said. “The best spot of all.”
All of them surveyed the night. The woods and the faint trail were marked only by their fresh footprints. The forest here had been cut over last fall, and they were on the edge of the clearcut.
No one said anything. Apelles’ uncle nodded. The cherry in his pipebowl bobbed in the dark. He held the pipe in his hand and spat.
“Mii geget igo giiwanaadiziwaad chimookomaanag. Gaawiin wiikaa giwii-niisaabiiginaasiinaan,” he said.
“What’d you say?” asked the white man with the cigarette. He seemed like a nice man.
“I say it’s a long way up there. Long way up.” He toed the snow with his boot.
“Dibishkoo go gaag. Ishpagoojing ishpiming ishkwaa nibod.”
“What?” asked the white man. “What?”
Apelles’ uncle pointed at the crown of the tree with his pipe. “The boy’ll have to climb it.”
His father nodded. The white hunter who did not understand grew impatient.
Apelles’ father turned to Apelles.
“A’aw inini ishpagoojin. Gii-nibo.”
“I know.”
“Gaawiin gego gigikendanziin. Gii-paashkizodizo.”
His uncle stepped to the side and knocked his pipe against the bole of a young ironwood. He glanced into the bowl and pushed it into the front pocket of his wool pants. He knelt down next to Apelles. He ran the rope around his waist as he spoke to him.
“Giga-akwaandawe. Onzaam igo wiininowag giw chimookom-aanag ge-akwaandawewaad. Giga-akwaandawe. Giwii-akwaandawe ji-zagapidooyan iw sa biiminakwaan.”
Apelles felt terrifically cold.
His uncle checked the rope and nodded. He did not look Apelles in the eye. He reached into his pocket and took out his kerchief.
“Mii apii ge-waabamad a’aw gego ganawaabamaaken. Gidaa-biizikonaa odengwaang.”
“Well, boy,” said the man with the lantern. “What are you waiting for?”
Apelles looked at his father who nodded at him. He began to climb.
There were planks nailed to the trunk for the first ten feet, ending on the wooden platform. There was little light to see by. The platform looked dark. The boards were slippery.
Apelles looked up higher and saw a dark lump wedged in the fork of the trunk.
He kept climbing. He was a good climber.
The man had wedged himself in the fork. His rifle was stuck between a branch and his chest.
Apelles peered at the hunter’s face. The right side was very puffy. He passed the rope around the man’s armpits while trying not to look. He was very fat. When Apelles reached behind, the man’s head fell forward. The back of it had caved in, it was just a crater, dark and without end. The back of the man’s red coat was covered in blood. Apelles had seen enough. There was no need now to use the kerchief to cover the man’s face.
When the rope was secure he said “okay.” Then he slung the rifle over his shoulder.
The men below pulled on the rope. The dead hunter swung free and he was slowly lowered down.
Apelles did not look at the hunter as he passed through the air. He did not look at how the man’s arms and legs did not move or shift. He did not look at how the hunter appeared as though he were crouching or crawling when he was not. He did not look at how stiff the man’s body was.
Once the man was down and the rope snaked past Apelles, he climbed down.
His uncle and father were trying to straighten the man’s arms and legs so they could tie him to the toboggan.
“Gego ganawaabandangen,” said his father.
But it was too late. He had seen the man’s face in the lamplight. He had seen the hole under the man’s chin, the yellow flesh there like wax, the purple hole in the center, and the opening in the back of the man’s head. He smelled bad.
They could not get the hunter to lie flat. They wrestled him onto his back. His arms and legs reached into the air. And with his eyes open, it looked as though he had been thrown to the ground and was defending himself. His father and uncle were breathing very hard.
“Dana,” said his uncle under his breath. “Dibishkoo go gookooshiwiwiiyaas.”
One of the hunters had disappeared.
“Where’d the man go?” asked Apelles.
“Gego babaamenimaaken. Gii-kiiwe.”
It was a long way back to the hunters’ camp. Once they arrived the white hunter with the lantern gave Apelles’ father five dollars in dollar bills and shook his hand. He then gave Apelles’ uncle five dollars in ones and shook his hand, too. He did not look them in the eyes.
Apelles’ uncle did not walk back to the village with them. He turned and walked the other way. Later he would come back, weaving his way down the middle of the road.
Apelles and his father walked back toward the cabin side by side.
“Why’d he do it?”
“Namanj iidog.”
“Do many white people kill themselves?”
“Gaa niibowa.”
“Do many white women?”
“Gaawiin ingikenimaasiig chi-mookomaanikweg. Gaawiin wiikaa ingii-nakweshkawaasiig chi-mookomaan-ikwewag.”
“Is it hard? You know. Being old, being older?”
His father said nothing.
They walked on through the darkness. Here and there, far from the road, lights shone through the small windows of shacks. And there, on the road, with the field under snow and the trees ragged in the distance, Apelles felt very old, every bit as old as his father, and as old as his uncle, who had been across the sea in a very big war.
Ahead they could see their cabin with a lighted lantern left in the window to guide them in. Apelles stumbled and his father picked him up. Just like a baby. His father carried him in his arms. The last thing Apelles remembers is being passed through the air, his arms and legs dangling, without support, and being laid down gently on his bed.
That bed seems far away now. His present-day queen-sized bed also seems a far-off goal though it is much closer in space and time.
There is still a little light in the sky. The upper reaches of the taller buildings are lost against it and though he is not at work and is almost at the restaurant, he can’t stop himself from comparing this sky to the one that usually offers itself to him through the high clerestory windows at RECAP and also that other one, the sky and skies of his childhood, the skies against which all others are measured. He feels as though he is looking down at his life from a great height. Everything seems small and hard to recognize, even his relationship with Campaspe.
Dr Apelles had walked through the city on his way home through the throngs of people also headed home during the late afternoon on the wide sidewalks that looked expansive, too wide, when seen during the day but that always felt crowded during these afternoon times. Walking on them during the day is depressing. When taking a cab, he is not bothered by the emptiness, but on foot it is bothersome. It is different when they are crowded with people. He passed the square outside the archive. They have jazz concerts there during the summer, which makes about as much sense as talking with your mouth closed or having sex with your clothes on—the beauty of the thing destroyed by the very act. He passed the square and on across the wide thoroughfare, and on under the shadow of the buildings that lined the sides of the busy avenue, and were anchored to the ground with storefronts that repeated themselves every few blocks. The Gap, Starbucks, Abercrombie &Fitch, Daffy’s, Restoration Hardware. The stores and tall buildings make you feel comforted and proud if it is your city, but are only t
oo tall and too regular and oppressive if it is not your city. He walked on until he drew even with the restaurant at which it was his habit to eat after working in the archives. He was unsure if it was his city or not, and since he had, really, no other place locked in his heart anymore, he did not know where he truly belonged. All he knows is that he now feels like he only truly belongs in the country of his feelings for Campaspe.
He looks in the window of the restaurant and sees that it is unchanged since the last time he was inside. It is packed with the usual afternoon people who are waited on with the studied bustle of waitresses and waiters altogether too good-looking to work there and who try to look and act indifferent and disconnected from where they are and what they were doing. This makes Dr Apelles imagine the other parts of their lives that they hold so far above and beyond the people they serve. People are always different than they seem. He has thought of Campaspe as a simple girl but she is not a simple girl. He has thought of himself as a simple man, too, but he is not a simple man. And there is nothing simple about his feelings. Simple feelings only occur in stories.
Dr Apelles thinks about Campaspe. Dr Apelles is not sure he should enter the restaurant.
What makes the place so appealing is that very little happens there, except that for a while he had had a crush on one of the hostesses. From the aerie of his barstool he would watch her work.
Her name was Zola. Dr Apelles knew nothing about her except that she always worked at the restaurant on the Fridays he went there after the archives. She was pretty to look at. He sat at the end of the bar and read his book and looked up every so often as though savoring the words he had sucked off the page before swallowing what was left of them, but really his eyes had come to rest on Zola. He liked the penitent curve of her neck as she read the reservation book. He liked the smooth sweep of her very straight red hair. He liked how elegantly she held the menus when she walked with customers and seated them at their table. He liked very much when she walked back to the hostess stand because then his eyes rested on her narrow waist. He liked even more when it was summer and she wore skirts because he liked to look at her calves and thighs. They seemed to be made to be wrapped around someone’s waist. She was very beautiful and very nice. It is a pleasure to look at, not stare at and not covet, beautiful people.