The Translation of Dr Apelles

by David Treuer

  “Just as when you hunt,” she moaned, “you have to see your target to make sure your shot will go where you want it to.”

  Bimaadiz was pleased to have such a thorough teacher and did exactly as he was told.

  Good teacher that she was she placed her own hands on either side and with two fingers she opened herself to him and asked, “Can you see now, can you see what you’re hunting?”

  Bimaadiz said yes and Maanendamookwe pulled him down on top of her and with her hands, guided his shaft to its target. After that Maanendamookwe did not need to give him any special guidance. Nature herself taught him what to do.

  5. After the lesson was over Bimaadiz jumped up and fixed his clothes, ready to run back to Eta and put his education to use. He was afraid he would forget what he had learned if he waited too long. But Maanendamookwe stopped him.

  “There is something else you should know,” she warned him. “I am well educated and have had many lessons in my lifetime. What you just did didn’t hurt me. But if you do to Eta what you just did to me she will scream. She has not learned any of this yet and for girls it is a hard lesson—she will scream and there will be blood. But not to worry. When the time is right, take Eta deep in the woods, next to a spring or a creek. There she can scream and no one will hear and you can wash off the blood afterwards.”

  This information sobered Bimaadiz and dampened his enthusiasm.

  “Not to worry,” said Maanendamookwe. “To learn pleasure means an occasional sacrifice and Eta will thank you later.”

  She kissed him on the cheek and said, “Remember this; I taught you what you needed to know before anyone else did, including Eta.”

  With that, Maanendamookwe left, saying that she could rescue her geese herself after all.

  Bimaadiz wandered back to the berry patch, but he walked slowly, burdened with new thoughts. Only minutes earlier he was ready to run back to Eta and practice again his pleasurable lesson. But now he was not so sure. He did not want Eta to scream for any reason. He was not her enemy. He did not want Eta to cry—that would mean he had hurt her. And as for blood—that would mean he had wounded her and he did not want to wound his best friend. By the time he arrived back at the berry patch, he didn’t feel like bothering Eta with any of this—it all felt like too large a price to pay for the pleasure they would receive—so he decided that he would not press Eta to do anything more than they had done already.

  When he got back to the berry patch, Eta was sleeping. She had filled the berry pails and pulled her shawl over her face and lay curled among the bushes. Bimaadiz lay down next to her and kissed her through the shawl. She laughed—breaths of laughter filling the fabric like a sail. The sun was strong overhead. Bimaadiz lifted the shawl and crawled underneath, and they lay together, protected by the thin fabric.

  They kissed and after a while they fell asleep. They would take the berries back to the village and dry them for the coming winter—a treasure of taste to be tasted later.

  6. Summer was now more than half over and just as the mature fruits were ripe and the rice stalks would soon be bent low over the water, Eta had ripened, matured, and was also ready to be picked. The kind of flirting that had made her blush and had made Bimaadiz so jealous, and that was of a childish innocent nature was now replaced with something more ominous. Silence. Men kept their distance. Here was a real woman—thirteen years old, a catch to be sure, and one doesn’t snare or net anything by jiggling the strings. Silently must the nets be lowered in the water. And so these men kept their distance from the girl and were careful not to address her directly, but though they circled wide they did test the waters by approaching Aantti and Mary. The less shy among them made out-and-out offers of marriage. Some, like poor Gitim, brought presents with them and made a great show of laying them out on the table, one by one, and exclaiming over their qualities. This got Mary to thinking. Eta was ready to be married. Wouldn’t it be better? she asked Aantti. Wouldn’t it be better if they set her up in an honest marriage of her own, whereby they too would receive gifts that, while they wouldn’t make them rich, would ease the weight of the years? After all, it wouldn’t pay to keep a girl like Eta at home any longer. She would be liable to make a man out of some village boy in exchange for a bag of rice or a necklace of pine needles. But Aantti wasn’t as anxious to marry her off, though the marriage gifts offered so far were much more grand than he could have hoped in exchange for a simple village girl like Eta, skilled only in trapping. The way things were going there wouldn’t be any furs at all in a few years. Everyone knew this to be true, and what use would Eta be then? There was her beauty, of course, but that wouldn’t last forever. The pleasures of beauty were temporary, and everyone knew that they were better rented than bought. Besides, Aantti had a secret hope that Eta’s real parents were out there, that they hadn’t died on that lonely island on which she was found and that, seeing how he and Mary had saved the girl, her birth parents would someday make them rich.

  All of this made Eta very sad. No one stopped to consider her feelings. She couldn’t expect them to—she was only a girl and had to do what she was told. Rather, she was sad and distressed because Bimaadiz experienced anguish throughout all these proceedings, and there was nothing she could do to ease his pain. All she could do was what girls can do for the boys who want them; she lied. She put off Bimaadiz and his questions as much as she could, and when she couldn’t, she told him that the gifts pouring into their cabin were for this or that, anything but promises of payment for her heart and for the treasure between her legs. But Bimaadiz kept pestering her and reacted, generally, as all boys do when lied to by the girls they want; he imagined the worst.

  Finally, after much arguing and many tears, Eta told him everything.

  “They want to marry me off. My mother is ready to give me away, but my father is waiting for more, for bigger offers. Oh, Bimaadiz, I don’t want to be with anyone but you, but what can I do? I have no say.”

  Upon hearing this Bimaadiz broke into tears. It is safe to say that his heart, while it didn’t exactly break, was bent and bruised.

  “Oh, Eta! I can’t bear it. How can I bear it? I would have to hunt without you and skin without you. The woods will be nothing more than an empty house to me without you. And you would sew for someone else, joke with someone else, and kiss someone else, forever. I’ll kill myself if you marry someone else.”

  Eta kissed him.

  “Darling Bimaadiz, you mustn’t do that. While we’re alive there’s always hope, but there’s no chance for us if you’re dead. Promise me you won’t kill yourself.”

  “I promise,” said Bimaadiz, “but if you marry someone else it will be like you’re dead, like you never wanted me, and so the promise will be dead and won’t mean anything.”

  But, with Eta’s kisses came some hope. Why didn’t he ask for her hand? He was as suitable as all the others. At Eta’s urging he agreed to ask her father if he could marry her.

  7. One thing bothered Bimaadiz. His father was not rich. He would have nothing to offer Eta’s parents except the animals he killed. Bimaadiz didn’t dare talk to his father about any of this, but he did summon enough courage to pull his mother aside. He told her about his affection for Eta and that he wanted to marry her. That night, Zhookaagiizhigookwe told Jiigibiig all about Bimaadiz’s desires. Jiigibiig rolled over in their blankets tuck-pointed into the hard floor and dismissed the idea outright.

  “Why should we pay for Bimaadiz’s pleasure? Eta is a beautiful girl and handy with a skinning knife, but she is only a poor villager like us. Why should we pay for what should be an equal exchange? If I got to eat out of that kettle, too, that would be a meal worth paying for,” said Jiigibiig sleepily. “and besides,” he continued, “judging from the items we found with Bimaadiz—the pipe-bag and the red pipebowl and his fine rabbitskin clothing—he comes from an important family, maybe even a family of Chiefs. If we can find his r
eal parents—maybe they survived—they will make us rich, but they would surely be angry if we let Bimaadiz marry a poor plaything like Eta.”

  Bimaadiz’s mother saw the logic and law in all of this but she was afraid that Bimaadiz would really kill himself if he had no hope of marrying Eta. And Zhookaagiizhigookwe’s tender heart dipped down from its parental height to skim the surface of Bimaadiz’s life. Her heart was one with his because he had always been her son, and she wanted him to be happy.

  The next day she sought out Bimaadiz.

  “Son,” she said and she actually stroked his cheek. “We’re poor and while Eta’s family is not rich, they have a lot more than we do. They want a rich son-in-law. It’s what’s best for their daughter after all. But if you can convince Aantti not to expect too much from us, then of course you can marry the girl.”

  Zhookaagiizhigookwe never imagined that Aantti would let Eta go for less than absolutely everything he could get for her, so she felt quite safe making this suggestion to Bimaadiz; nothing would come of it, but at least Bimaadiz would have hope and might not do anything drastic.

  Bimaadiz wasn’t encouraged at all by his mother’s advice. The more he thought about it, the more despondent he became. He had nothing. He was nothing. These were his thoughts when he turned to sleep that night.

  As soon as he closed his eyes, however, he began to dream. He heard a voice. It was a woman’s voice.

  “Bimaadiz,” said the woman tenderly, “why so sad? Why wander here with tears on your cheeks?”

  He told her about his hopes of marriage and his feelings for Eta. Of his terror that life’s happiness would be denied to him.

  “Cheer up, Bimaadiz,” said the woman. “I’ve helped you once and I’ll help you again, and I’ll help Eta, too. I’ve been looking out for you for a long time. Your burnt offerings tasted sweet to me and what’s more, my happiness is tied to yours, and so I will help you again.”

  Bimaadiz confessed that he did not remember her, that he had made offerings to a man; that a man had helped him recover Eta before, not a woman.

  “Don’t you see?” asked the woman. The woman’s voice deepened as she spoke, and it became the voice of the man he had dreamed when Eta was a captive on the Ariel. “I have power, my child, though you can’t know how it works. But I am the one that helped you before and I will help you again.”

  “Many years ago,” the woman continued, “a fleet of trading canoes tried to run the rapids fully loaded and they swamped. All their goods sank to the bottom of the river. In the center of the river, below the rapids, there is a big rock, shaped like a table, and below it there is a large eddy. The water is calm there, an eye of still water. Dive deep. At the bottom you will find riches like you’ve never seen before, more than enough to satisfy any father-in-law. Aantti won’t be able to refuse you then. Wake up now. I am as anxious as you are for you to take in life what is already won elsewhere. But don’t forget to make offerings to me. I need them as much as you need your wedding presents.” Bimaadiz promised and woke saying, “I will I will.”

  8. Without waiting to eat he left the cabin and headed for the river. He took a pack and a long piece of very valuable rope. It was hot—the last days of summer. The heat hung lazily about the bush and a large herd of horseflies—condensations, distillations of both the heat and the season—roamed and ran above his head. By the time he reached the river it was midday. He had sweat through his shirt and trousers and he was nervous. This was his only chance to win Eta and he did not want to fail. The river had settled low against its banks. The heat and lack of rain had reduced its force, and he was grateful for the lower water levels. It would make his work easier. He picked his way down the bank, foregoing the portage trail because he would not be able to see the river from there. The rocks along the shore were dry and stable, and he made good progress downriver to the foot of the rapids.

  The rock the woman had mentioned was easy to see. It stood in the middle of the river. During times of high water, it would have sat below the surface but now its top was flat and dry. Deep sluices of water parted and dove on either side of it. Just as the woman said, a large eddy idled downstream, no danger there of being swept away from the rock. Everything looked exactly as she said it would, as though she had made it, created it just for this occasion.

  Bimaadiz hiked back up to the top of the rapids. He dropped the pack onshore, stripped down, and with the rope over his shoulder he waded out into the cool, coursing water. At first the water felt good on his legs. It washed away the sweat and dust and gave his muscles new life. But as the water got deeper, it became harder to move. Bimaadiz struggled against the current. The rock had seemed so close, so easy to reach. His imagination had outrun his life the way trappers imagine spending the money they will soon get for their furs: first they imagine spending it, then they get the real money and really spend it, and as a result they feel twice as poor having spent their money twice, but only receiving one thing in return. Bimaadiz, however, did not give up. He forged ahead. Soon the water rose above his knees and past his waist. Its power overwhelmed him. Bimaadiz lost his footing and was swept downstream. He struggled and fought, but it did no good—he slipped and slid, banged his shins against the rocks, clawed with his hands, and for all his trying he wound up below the rapids far from his goal. He swam for shore and climbed out at the portage landing and looked up the rapids. The rock was still there, of course—splitting the river, guarding its treasure.

  There was nothing to do—he would have to try again. He jogged up the trail, descended the bank, waded into the current, made it halfway across, and was once again pushed off his feet and carried downstream. Once again he trotted up the trail and entered the river only to experience the same defeat.

  Bimaadiz was tired, chilled, and depressed. He was close to tears. His feet and hands were cut and bleeding. His shins were ridged with bumps. He looked around at the portage—there were canoes there but the water was so studded with rocks that he was sure to stave in any vessel he took out onto the water. He looked upstream—maybe he could lay a log between the rocks and move it to another set of rocks, and move it again—but that kind of disappointed pier would not work either and he knew it. These were desperate thoughts and each assault on the rocks of desire make the attacker weaker, not stronger. No wonder there was such a trade and demand in divinations and love medicine.

  Bimaadiz, in the universal gesture of despair, raised both arms and let them fall, slapping his sides. He felt that he’d be better off on the river floor with the treasure than alive without the one treasure he really sought.

  But then, just when he felt that all was lost, a thought was put in his head—hope was reshelved there, waiting to be read. He would follow the path of the treasure itself. He climbed out of the water for a third time and jogged up the portage trail for a third time. He passed by the place he had descended the bank before and stopped quite a ways farther upstream. He waded out into the rapids. He was careful to take the path with the least number of boils, haystacks, and V-shaped waves. He almost reached the center of the river. The water was up to his waist and then his feet missed their mark, the current took them, and he was gone. He bobbed in the waves, was swept through sluices and pushed through the middle of great standing waves. He struggled to keep his head above the water—to see where the great rock stood. He tried as best he could to choose his course: when he was sucked into an eddy he paused, treading water, and exited the eddy toward the middle of the river. After much struggling and after getting scraped past many rocks and after swallowing mouthfuls of water he floated directly above the large rock. The current was sucked away on either side of its face. The current was so strong that the water did not jump or spray but instead was pulled smooth and fast and dark.

  Bimaadiz readied himself and as soon as he met the edge of the rock he began pulling toward it with all his strength. It was over in a second. The rock ran past, he lun
ged. He was swept into the eddy and against the downstream edge of the rock, floating directly above where the woman had said the treasure would be. Exhausted and chilled, but jubilant, Bimaadiz used his remaining strength to clamber up on the rock’s flat surface and to lie there for a moment. He let the sun warm him from above and the rock warm him from below and wondered what to do next.

  After Bimaadiz had warmed himself and rested, he sat up and peered down into the eddy. The water swirled past the rock, was sucked back up toward it, was caught in the faster current, and sucked back again in a perpetual cycle—a whirlpool in which foam and small sticks circled and cycled.

  Bimaadiz could see nothing below the surface. He had no idea how deep the water was, or what he’d find on the bottom. There was nothing to do except go back in the water. He slipped off the rock, paused, and dove down. He stretched his arms out in front of him and paddled with his legs. He couldn’t see very well; the current battered his eyes and his hands fluttered this way and that, but they could capture nothing. He could not touch bottom.

  He pushed back to the surface, gasping. As he tread water, his feet kept touching the submerged wall of the rock. Bimaadiz thought he’d try to follow the rock to its base. He breathed in deeply and dove, turning head down and sliding down the rock like a beaver would, trying once again to reach the bottom. It was of no use. He shot up to the surface, unsuccessful, as poor as he had been when he last breathed air. Again, for the third time, he dove, arms and legs trying to climb down the current. He got no farther than he had the first and second time. His lungs burned and his eyes felt scratched and bloodshot like those of a hell-diver.

  Bimaadiz climbed back onto the table-like rock. He was tired. His eyes stung. He shivered with cold. He could not reach the bottom on his own. His hopes of marrying Eta were as remote as ever and if he cried it is hard for us to tell—his face was already wet, his nose already messy, and his chest already heaved and heaved and heaved.