by David Treuer
The enemy Chief rushed into the crowd and grabbed Bimaadiz and hugged him close, crying all the while.
And the resemblance between them and the other proofs were impossible to ignore. They truly were father and son. The villagers were moved, and not a few of them had to wipe tears from their eyes in order to see what was happening.
The enemy Chief stepped back and, holding Bimaadiz, said:
“Here is my son, back in my arms once again. All that is mine—horses, traps, lands, everything—shall be his. Come,” he said, “your place is with me,” and he led Bimaadiz to his seat with the delegates.
“And you and your wife,” he said to Jiigibiig and Zhookaa-giizhigookwe, “you who have helped turn him into such a good young man. Just because he is my son does not mean he is not also yours. Please, let us sit together as a family.”
So they all sat together, and the enemy Chief could not stop looking at Bimaadiz. Gradually everyone resumed eating, and they were about to begin the deliberations when another calamitous thing happened.
9. Aantti and Mary burst through the crowd. Aantti was bleeding from a cut in his head and they were both in tears.
“Please help us,” said Aantti. “Our daughter has been captured. I fought him but I am an old man and a worker, not a warrior!”
Schiller asked him to calm down and to tell everyone what had happened. As it turned out, Wezaanagishens, the same suitor who had destroyed the garden, had, seeing that Bimaadiz would be going south as Luce’s servant, figured there would be no marriage and had decided to take Eta away by force.
Bimaadiz jumped to his feet. His eyes rolled and he said to the heavens:
“Life was so much better when I was nobody! I could hunt as I wished. And, with Eta, I was looking forward to a quiet life trapping, hunting, and fishing. Father,” he said, turning to the enemy Chief, “I wanted to ask you for this girl’s hand in marriage and planned to ask this morning, but all this happened and I could not. Eta is the best part of me, the best part of this world, and I will not live without her.”
The enemy Chief wanted more than anything to make his long-lost son happy.
“We will find her,” he said, “and we will punish this boy who took her. And you will marry her no matter if she is poor and ugly and without skills.”
He was about to order his warriors into battle but Luce stopped him. He was not stupid after all. He saw that by helping Bimaadiz he could save his reputation and preserve the treaty negotiations.
“I will bring her back,” he said. He mounted up with ten of the cavalry guard.
Wezaanagishens had run toward the portage in hopes of paddling with Eta upriver. It was a short chase—the horses were fresh, and Wezaanagishens was on foot and slowed down by Eta who struggled the whole time. Also, Wezaanagishens was a coward. He gave up without a fight.
They had Eta back in her parents’ arms within an hour. As for Wezaanagishens, he was held captive at the Agency and later banished from the village.
The Governor asked that Eta be brought to the meeting place so she could tell everyone for herself what had happened. It was important to resolve these things as soon as possible. That way, any misunderstanding or suspicion could be laid to rest.
Eta arrived and did as she was asked, though she was such a modest girl and more used to the forest of trees than the forest of faces in front of her. Still, she did the best she could. She said:
“I hope my words can be of more help to you than they were to me when I told that coward that I belonged to Bimaadiz, that we were to be married. I told him to leave me alone. He did not. I told him that by stealing me he was insulting my parents more than he was insulting me—who am I after all?—because my father promised me in marriage to Bimaadiz and we are a family that honors our promises. He even went so far as to hit my poor father on the head and to push my mother down. He tied my hands and led me away though I cried out for my village, my family, and most of all, for my dear Bimaadiz. But I trust that I am safe now.”
As she was speaking, the wife of one of the allied Chiefs from across the lake, Mino-giizhig was his name (he was the grandson of Bagonegiizhig) was whispering to her husband. They both wore strange expressions and were agitated.
When Eta finished speaking, Mino-giizhig stood up. He looked imposing in his vest, leggings, and beaverskin war bonnet studded with small mirrors. He cradled his pipe in the crook of his arm as though drawing his authority from it, though he had no need to—his greatness was inborn.
“You have spoken like a true daughter,” he said. “True to your parents, true to your people. Would that I had a daughter like you. I would not have to worry about my old age.”
He paused and there was a glint in his eyes.
“Well then, since this seems to be a day for families,” he continued, “why don’t you call your parents forward. They must be proud and since you are to be married perhaps they have something to say.”
Eta, not wanting to contradict or otherwise shame the grand Chief, but also wanting to be as far away from the crowds and all the attention, nevertheless turned and motioned for Aantti and Mary to step forward.
They were shy, too. Just simple village folk, advanced in years. And they also had something to hide, so they were not happy about having to address everyone. They came forward and stood, one on either side of Eta.
Mino-giizhig looked at all three of them lined up in a row and saw what he wanted to see. But still he was not sure, not confident in his guesses, so he pushed Eta’s parents by saying:
“Your daughter wants to marry. She will be leaving your home and making a lodge of her own. Perhaps you want to tell all of us what it was like when she was born: the time of year, the weather, where you were when she came into the world.”
Mino-giizhig’s wife, Mawikwe, was crying openly, and Mino-giizhig turned to her and scolded her for her lack of restraint.
He then turned his attention to Aantti and Mary. They could stand it no longer, and Mary advanced and dropped to her knees just as her own tears began to fall.
“It’s time,” she said. “It’s true,” she said, though no one had accused her of anything. “She’s not our daughter. I am short, not as tall as she will be when she stops growing. And I am no prize beauty, as you can see, though you must admit that Eta is the most beautiful girl in the world. But I don’t need to tell you that. And Aantti, he’s white after all, and Eta is clearly not mixed. Aantti found her surrounded by death, alone on an island in the big lake, suckling on a she-wolf, and we brought her up as our own. Don’t fault us—even after all these years we thought maybe her real parents had survived and so we kept the things she was found with—her otterskin wrap and her cradleboard. Don’t fault us and don’t take her away, she’s all we have.”
The Governor, trying to bring all this mess to a close, asked Mary if she could fetch the items. Aantti offered to go in her stead and while he was gone Mary told everyone present how he had found Eta suckling on the she-wolf and how the rest of the village was dead. When Aantti returned and held up the cradle-board and the otterskin, Mino-giizhig gasped and tears streamed down his face. He could not speak and so, as usually, happens, his wife spoke for him.
“I saw the girl’s face and recognized the mark—a mother knows her child, the art of her flesh—and now I know for certain because I beaded the wrap for that cradleboard. I know my own work, too—the art of my hands. You’ll see, it’s quite unusual: the pattern is repeated inside and out.”
Sure enough, when the wrap was turned over you could see she spoke the truth. For the second time that day the crowd gasped; surprise kept following surprise.
“We left across the ice in search of food and the weather kept us away. We could not make it back until it was too late. Here we thought our child had died with the rest of our village. It was impossible to know who was who because the wolves had torn up the bodies an
d mixed their parts all together. But now, after all these years, we find that you are alive after all.”
After that she rushed to Eta and hugged her and cried and would not let her go.
Mino-giizhig meanwhile, recovering from the shock, stood in front of Mary, who still sat on her knees, wracked with sobs.
“Don’t cry,” he said tenderly. “You have no cause. You will not lose your daughter. You have gained another family. I myself will raise you up. We are the ones who should kneel in thanks. It is you and your husband who saved our girl and kept her in life.”
With that he held out his hand and helped Mary to her feet, and they all crowded around Eta and cried with joy.
There was hardly a dry eye among those present and it was quite some time before everyone calmed down and found their places again. Eta, Mary, and Aantti were brought up to sit with Mino-giizhig and Mawikwe, and after they were seated Mino-giizhig stood once more and said:
“We have all come from a long way off, and when we left our homes we thought we’d come here and try to create peace between all our peoples. None of us could have imagined that we’d be reuniting a parent with his son,” (at this he waved to where Bimaadiz sat with all of his family, new and old) “and still more parents with their daughter,” (and here he acknowledged Eta, Aantti, Mary, and Mawiwikwe with a sweep of his arm). “and what discoveries we have made! Had we continued to fight as we have been, our daughter might have been killed and your son, too. And to think all this time we have been sharing that which is most precious to us all—our children. And so . . . we have also been told that these two children have been promised to each other.”
At this point both Bimaadiz and Eta, seated on separate sides of the delegation, felt their hearts clench, not knowing what would happen next.
“And so,” Mino-giizhig continued, “let us stop everything and do nothing until these two children are married. That way we can join our people in fact. Their union can be the foundation on which our people’s future is built.”
The enemy Chief, Bimaadiz’s real father, stood and clasped Mino-giizhig’s hand.
“I agree,” he said. “Let’s bring our families together first thing. We have fought long enough. We have suffered enough. I approve of this marriage and will not do anything until I can call you ’brother.’”
Everyone cheered and whooped. They were all glad to have all foreseeable tension put to rest, not least Bimaadiz and Eta themselves.
“Let us break,” Mino-giizhig concluded, “and let the youngsters prepare themselves to be married just before the sun sets.” It was settled. Everyone left for their lodges and cabins to change into their finest clothes. It was time to celebrate and everyone was happy.
10. Bimaadiz and all his parents went to the shack. His new parent gave him moccasins crusted with red beads, a breastplate made of hawk bones, eagle feathers, and a bearclaw necklace. At Eta’s cabin her new parents presented her with a white buckskin dress, quilled hair sheaths, and bracelets made of copper. The children spent hours getting ready, and when they all reconvened at the garden, everyone remarked that they had never seen a couple so beautiful. He: tall, strong, quick but lightly encumbered with dignity and calm bearing. She: lithe, but soft, smooth, and elegant, with the beauty of a true leader.
The wedding was studded with speeches and proclamations, promises of fidelity and hopes for a long life together. To Jiigibiig and Zhookaagiizhigookwe the enemy Chief promised ten horses and as much dried meat as they could carry. To Aantti and Mary was promised fifteen buffalo robes and twenty axes, steel traps, and trade blankets. They all now considered themselves rich. There was feasting and singing and good spirits all around. War talks had been turned into a marriage ceremony, and a more beautiful couple and a more beautiful wedding was never before or after seen.
11. And Bimaadiz and Eta? What did they get? They received a life together filled with as much beauty and tenderness as the woods were full of bounty. Much later they had a boy and a girl. They taught the boy to read the tracks of animals—all that passes by and leaves a mark. He became a great hunter in his own way. The girl they taught to read the habits of animals—their likes and dislikes—and she became a trapper just like Eta. Bimaadiz and Eta lived happily into their old age surrounded by their family and the woods they held so dear.
But that was a long time coming. That night, the night of their wedding, they retired to a lodge of their own. The villagers gathered around outside and sang songs of the hunt, songs of capture. And the young couple undressed and lay down side by side. And there, in the soft darkness of their lodge they discovered what it was to be a man and what it was to be a woman. They experienced such heights of pleasure that everything they had tried before seemed like child’s play. And when all was said and done, they found a language for their happiness, and witnessed by no one, heard by no one, they spoke the word everyone longs to hear.
the story sleeps.
someone harbors a secret love. and someone else harbors a secret jealousy. and while the lovers sleep the final act is being done.
the story sleeps, too, like the others, but lacks the published warmth possessed of most books—with their fly leaves and stitches and tissues covering their more sensitive illustrations. without the comfort or satisfaction of any, no matter how slight, previous recognition. it sleeps unknown and unloved.
the story finally sleeps, after a long journey not of its choosing, not of its designs.
there might be no rest for the wicked as the saying goes, but it is equally true for the innocent, and even more true for innocent stories. it is much better, after all, to be the imaginer rather than the imagined—the illusionist rather than the illusion. but there is only one short journey left to take and then it will be all over.
Ms Manger lifts the manuscript and the book in which it is hidden from inside the box on Jesus’ cart. she looks at the cover of the leather-bound book in which the translation of Dr Apelles is hidden—she recognizes it instantly: it is a pastoral, a romance. Ms Manger smiles. how appropriate, she thinks, that the story of Apelles’ life will be hidden inside a myth.
all is dark and all is quiet. the station is clean and orderly, the surface bare. the passion and jealousy that drove Jesus to steal the manuscript from Campaspe, who, out of curiosity stole it from Dr Apelles, all these passions are spent. Ms Manger will be the last one to act.
the manuscript is to be wedded to the book in which it is hidden forever. it is a marriage after all—a meeting and pleaching of the loose pages with the bound, the read with the unread, the published with the obscure, the known and the unknown. it is a marriage that will, out of necessity, last forever.
the heating system hisses and rumbles to life and falls silent.
and then the translation and the book in which it is hidden are in motion, Ms Manger lifts them from their hiding place. that double harbor—the outer book in which the text resides—seems especially restful now. had Ms Manger left it in the box things might have turned out differently. Jesus might have had a change of heart. Campaspe might have intuited Jesus’ crime and rescued the book in the morning. or someone else, someone with less respect for books—the janitor, or a mechanic, or another worker—might have stumbled on it and taken it. but this did not come to pass.
Ms Manger could not let it rest there. all the years of her life filled with nothing, filled only with longing, make her want to act. she has always wanted to be picked. she has always wanted to be noticed. she wanted to be the one—not her, not Campaspe; not it, not the translation of Dr Apelles’ life. her life is as great. her life is as interesting. isn’t it? since she cannot compel Apelles or Campaspe or Jesus or the translation or anyone to pay attention to her, since she cannot make them do what she wants, she can at the least, control how everything ends.
the story, anyway, is awake now. moving. moving together with its bride through the darkness of th
e S.A. past the workstations—the registrars and clerks of court where the births and deaths of millions of other books are recorded—and then to the back of the Sorting Area where the carts of boxed books stand at attention—ushers or tigers it is hard to say which—and keep order, or create order. guards, whose solemnity and rigor function as a symbolic gate demarcating the border between the chaos of the outside world and the order, sanctity, and certainty of this other one.
but is it a prison or a refuge?
the first airlock door opens. the blowers kick on with a sleepy grumble, and the door rolls shut behind. and then the second door opens, the heat pushes the translation and its partner, through and out.
they are in the Stacks.
the lights come on. the Stacks rise in the light on either side, solemn and supportive and welcoming, as if to say, like witnesses at a wedding, we have come here just as you are coming here. we have made the journey you are only beginning.
the ceiling is distant and hovers far overhead like that of a cathedral. the farthest stacks to the right and left look as though they support the ceiling, the very building, and the boxes on their shelves rest like the images of local and tutelary saints—translated there from the site of their original deaths and early sufferings. and they look down kindly on the timid translation and its bride. all the residents of RECAP look down and smile—row upon row, shelf upon shelf, box upon box, and in them the pews of books—all of them look down kindly on the timid translation at first an unwilling child-bride but now growing in stature and confidence: sane, serene, much like a queen.