The Snake River

by Win Blevins

  “Things are changed now, of course,” she went on. “But I insist that he set things right. In a couple of weeks we’ll send letters down to Vancouver for the winter express. He’ll write her, withdrawing his offer. When she responds, we’ll be married.”

  “And living like that,” said Flare with a smile. “The flesh is weak, Miss Jewel.”

  She smiled broadly. “All flesh is, Mr. O’Flaherty. Which gives us an opportunity to rise above temptation.”

  And she touched his arm and pecked his cheek.

  Bloody woman.

  “I never promised to rise above it,” he whispered close in her ear, and she laughed gaily.

  Flare offered Sima a hand.

  They smiled and shook and said nothing.

  Flare wanted to embrace him. Instead he rode toward French Prairie, away from his son.

  “Cleanliness is next to godliness,” said Hazel Jick.

  Sima had no idea what that meant, but he didn’t like the look on her face. She was a fat woman, old enough to be a grandmother, with iron-gray hair tied back in a bun, and a big frown. She looked mean.

  She ordered him to get his clothes off. All of them, she said with a scowl.

  It was the day before Sima was supposed to speak in church. He had to get scrubbed, they said, because the Leslie family was lending him some nice clothes for his talk, and he couldn’t get into them “like that.” He didn’t know what “like that” meant. He guessed it was one of those white-man expressions that meant something like, “You’re an Indian and there’s no helping it.”

  Today Mrs. Jick was going to “do something about it.” Sima was worried. He stood naked in Mrs. Jick’s cabin, shivering.

  She poured water from the kettle on the fire into the big tub. She snatched Sima’s clothes—everything, shirt, breechcloth, blanket, moccasins—and threw them right into the flames.

  Sima dashed for the moccasins. Since he uttered not a sound, she didn’t catch him until he had them out. Then she snatched them away, pushed Sima back, and threw them back onto the fire.

  Sima grabbed them again, scorching his fingers.

  “Lice,” Mrs. Jick said harshly, sticking out a demanding hand.

  “All right,” Siam said meekly. He took his knife, cut his grandmother’s beadwork off, and gave the moccasins to Mrs. Jick. She stuck them straight into the coals.

  She put one finger into the water in the tub, looked at Sima sternly, and ordered, “In.”

  He stepped straight in and straight back out, whimpering softly.

  “It’s hot,” Mrs. Jick said, “but no hotter than you need.”

  In two more minutes, after two more efforts, he was in. Then she poured more hot water in. Sima wondered if he was going to cook into soup.

  She dunked his head backward, “to get all your filthy hair in the water,” she said. “Cleanliness is next to godliness,” she repeated sternly.

  Then she began to scrub.

  Hazel Jick saved grain sacks for when she had to scrub one—they were coarsely woven, and scraped.

  You couldn’t scrub these Indians too hard. You needed to take off one layer of skin, was what you needed to do.

  Lordamercy.

  You needed lye soap, too. Hazel made plenty of it. That was one of her jobs. Was, even before her husband died.

  Dr. Full came in. He was a good man. Understood that the Injuns needed a firm hand. He stood in that peculiar way of his, like he was always posing for someone to draw a picture of him. He was a lordawful self-satisfied man.

  “The first step in making you acceptable in the sight of God is to get you clean,” Dr. Full said to Sima.

  Ought to have said to rid him not only of the lordawful dirt but also the vermin. If Hazel needed proof that they lived in darkness, the lice would have been it.

  “It hurts, Dr. Full,” Sima said faintly. He was ashamed, as well he should have been.

  Hazel scrubbed hard. This one was squeamish, like all of them, but it would do him no good.

  “Getting the body clean is a sign,” Dr. Full said to the boy. Maybe talking would distract him, Hazel thought, and that was all the better.

  “A sign of the willingness to scourge the lower nature,” Dr. Full continued. Hazel would scourge his filthy body. She doubted Dr. Full could do as well for his filthy soul.

  “Put in one way, the task of the human being who would come unto the Lord is to scourge himself of his lower nature.”

  Maybe, thought Hazel, but the good doctor didn’t add that lower was maybe the only nature Injuns had.

  “I’ll do my best, sir,” said the boy. Dr. Full had taught him to be polite, anyway.

  Lordamighty, look at them toes. She held them apart for Dr. Full to see. Webbed together, like the boy was a duck. She looked at the doctor significantly and finally dropped the foot.

  What was the point? If that wasn’t the mark of the beast, she didn’t know what would be. And that was with him being half white.

  Hazel wondered about this mission to the savages, but it was only her job to do what her Savior told her to do, not to question His ways.

  Anyone could see, though, that some critters was higher and some was lower, and an Injun was not one of your highest animals. Forgive me, Lord Jesus, Hazel thought. I know You called me and Carl on this mission. It’s not up to me to question the Lord’s marching orders, I just march.

  But why did God take Carl away then? And leave me alone in this cussed wilderness?

  Lordamighty, there wasn’t no answer to some questions the wicked human mind could think up. Hazel told herself she’d best leave the figuring to the Good Book, or at least to the preachers.

  Dear Jesus, the kid was about to cry. She told him to get out. He jumped like he’d sat on a cactus.

  Well, if they didn’t want to be scrubbed hard, why did they let themselves get so filthy? Vermin living in their hair—disgusting!

  She made him lie on the table on his back, spread his hair out, and looked for more lice. She thought she’d killed about all of them. She brushed his hair hard to get the tangles and the little carcasses out. The boy acted like he wanted to holler every stroke.

  She gave room to Dr. Full. He always wanted to watch this part closely.

  She checked Sima’s crotch hair carefully. That was the most revolting, lice in their crotches. She brushed the hair out good. As far as she was concerned, no Injun would ever be clean enough to marry a white woman.

  Then she slapped Sima on the bottom and told him to put the new clothes on. They were nice clothes for ever-day, once belonging to Mrs. Jick’s son and considerably repaired by Mrs. Jick, but the savage wouldn’t appreciate that.

  Hazel would repeat the entire business next week, and the week after—you had to.

  She grinned to herself. The savage wouldn’t appreciate that, either.

  She hefted the tub of water to take it outside and dump it.

  Dr. Full took advantage of Mrs. Jick’s leaving to make his point. “Sima, we have scourged your body of its dirt. It was painful. I have an important question for you. Don’t answer today—think about it. Are you willing to scourge your soul of its lower nature?”

  The boy was big-eyed, clearly distraught. “I don’t know, Dr. Full,” he said, and hurried out of the cabin.

  So, in his mind, Dr. Full addressed the boy’s earthly father. Now, Mr. O’Flaherty, the question hangs in the balance. Will your son be of things earthly or heavenly? Will he become like you? Or like me?

  The question was serious, of course. A soul hung in the balance. But it also amused Dr. Full.—He knew the answer.

  Sima sat beside the pulpit in a frock coat. Flare could hardly believe it. Coat, white shirt, trousers, neck ornament, boots, the lot. All the lad had kept was his body. On the other hand, his hair was still to his shoulder blades, and free-flowing. He was an impressive figure of a lad—slender, lithe, handsome.

  Dr. Full was right. Sima would make one hell of an example. He made the Reverend David Lesl
ie, sitting beside him behind the pulpit, look rotund and ridiculous.

  Full introduced him only briefly, saying, “The youth’s story will speak for itself.”

  Sima stood and told of his life. He was born, he said, to a Shoshone woman. She died giving him birth. His father was a British trapper the people called Hairy. This father left before Sima was born. Sima was raised by his grandparents, but he was never accepted by the people. They mocked their young of mixed blood, and made it hard for them to become men, to marry, to become one of the people. So Sima decided to find his father and become a white man.

  Flare noticed the lad’s English was pretty damn good. Sima had more brains than most of these missionaries. If he had more sense, too, they’d be gone from this place before long.

  This decision to find his father, Sima said, was a great point in his life. Like you set out in a great ship on a great ocean, not know where you land. He had to go into a different world. Set out to walk one thousand miles alone, very hard and dangerous. Come among new people. Learn new language. Make self new person.

  Took first few steps, came miracle. Fell down. Broke leg but fine now, he said with a grin. Went into little death—no conscious. Woke up in new world. Found by white people. Miles gone, danger gone. New world not in thousand miles, but in pass—through little death.

  Now making self new person every day. Glad to be here.

  Sima turned to sit down, but Dr. Full put a hand on his shoulder. “Sima,” he said, “do you seek your earthly father or your heavenly father?”

  Sima hesitated. “Both,” he said.

  Dr. Full beamed at the congregation.

  “Do you understand that seeking your earthly father can be a way of expressing your need for a heavenly father?”

  Sima looked uncertain. The lad wanted to please. “Yes,” he said.

  “Will you accept this mission’s offer to help you find your heavenly father?”

  Now he seemed to smile directly at Flare and said, “You bet!”

  After the service almost all the adults went up to Sima and congratulated him on the great voyage he’d undertaken. And congratulated Dr. Full and Miss Jewel on the wonderful work they’d done with the boy.

  Flare thought it was a great voyage, too, and he thought Sima was navigating well.

  He was very impressed by the way Dr. Full, by putting the right frame around a picture, made it look like the picture he wanted.

  Chapter Seventeen

  When Sima came back from changing clothes, Flare and Miss Jewel were waiting, ready to walk to the Leslies for dinner.

  Sima showed them his new white-man outfit—not the borrowed clothes for his talk in church, but the ones Mrs. Jick had given him. Pants. You had to undo some buttons and drop the front to urinate (he used Miss Jewel’s proper words) and lower the whole outfit to defecate. He looked at Flare conspiratorially. Yes, they were inconvenient, compared to a breechcloth. Shirt—he liked that pretty well. Boots—he hated those, because they hurt. Miss Jewel said his feet would be better when he had some socks. Flare chuckled and said they’d be better when he got some more moccasins.

  He told Flare about the assault on his hair, not mentioning the lower hair, but he could see from his suppressed smiles that Flare knew.

  “White people don’t have enough brotherly spirit to give residence to tiny creatures,” Flare said with a grin.

  Sima didn’t think it was funny.

  Sima got through the dinner well enough. He wasn’t used to chairs, and found using a fork awkward, but was able to eat the chicken with his hands. He thought Dr. Full gave him a funny look once, when he was tearing apart a thigh with relish. He’d developed a name for that expression—the Well-he’s-an-Indian look. For dessert they had something new to Sima, blueberry pie. He thought the best thing about the white people was the wonderful sweets they made.

  The worst was the jokes they made. When he didn’t get them, he felt anxious again, left out, looking in from the outside. The jokes of other teenagers were the most painful. Sometimes Sima thought the kids were making fun of him. Miss Jewel had a way of knowing when he was feeling that way, and gave him a warm smile.

  She had her own troubles, though. She and Reverend Leslie could barely stand each other. The tension between hung like a choking smoke in the air. She thought he and Mrs. Leslie had tried to make her their servant (like a slave, Sima understood). He was a portly, mannered fellow with a self-conscious way of speaking, so Sima couldn’t tell when he was joking and when he was acting important. Reverend Leslie irritated Miss Jewel often, and he didn’t care. Sima had an expression for this, too: white people.

  But this was Sima’s time. He had talked to Flare about it and made up his mind. He would learn. He would put himself forward. He would become one of them. This afternoon he would do that by sharing part of himself.

  “May I tell a story?” he said in a pause. Dinner was over, and they were drinking coffee around the fireplace. It was wintertime, so he could tell stories.

  Everyone look at him uncertainly. “I thank you for your stories,” Sima plunged forward. He looked at them one by one, adults and children alike, taking confidence from the eyes of Flare and Miss Jewel, afraid to look closely at Dr. Full, Reverend Leslie, or their wives. “I am delight to know your ancient and honored stories of Jesus, John the Baptist, King David, Job, and others.” He’d been surprised to hear the stories just any time of year, and not in winter only, but he liked the stories. “They are…” He didn’t know quite what to say about them. To him they showed some connection with Spirit. “They are beautiful stories.

  “I would like to give you in return one of the stories of my mother’s people, a tale of Pachee Goyo, who lived before the memories of the grandfathers of the oldest men.”

  He looked at Flare for support and got a smile. “Pachee Goyo is a big man among us. He’s called Baldy, because he’s losing his hair and what’s left is gray.

  “One day he and his brother Pia-wi-he, which means Big Knife, went to the lake near Wind River where buffalo live underwater.

  “Among my people, my other people, this lake is a frightening place. A white buffalo was drowned there once. In the winter you can still hear his roar carried across the ice by the wind. People are afraid to go there. If you want to become a man of medicine, of poha, you must sleep there one night in the winter. Many men have failed this test.”

  Sima was watching his audience. That word “medicine” made him nervous. Whites seemed to speak it mockingly, not knowing it meant power of spirit. Still, he thought he had their attention, especially the kids’. Maybe Dr. Full was looking a little superior, but it was going well.

  “When Pachee Goyo and Big Knife went there, the lake was not frozen. After they camped overnight, Big Knife suggested they hunt the buffalo who live underwater there. Big Knife said he would bring a buffalo out of the lake. Pachee Goyo was just to wait on the shore and shoot it with arrows when it came out.

  “So Big Knife waded into the water with nothing but his breechcloth and a rawhide thong. Suddenly the lake whipped up in high waves. Pachee Goyo shot angrily at the whitecaps with his arrows, one right after the other, cursing the lake for drowning his brother. When all his arrows were gone, he threw his bow into the lake and hightailed it.

  “When the lake calmed, out came Big Knife, leading a buffalo. He wondered what had happened to Pachee Goyo, who was supposed to shoot the creature. Big Knife picked a broken arrow out of the water and killed the buffalo.

  “Then he saw their great-uncle Basee Wauts the Snail. But Snail had not seen Pachee Goyo. Big Knife butchered the buffalo and gave Snail some fat and the stomach filled with water and asked him to find Pachee Goyo and give him these things.

  “Old man Snail crept over mountains and rivers and finally spotted Baldy in a desert. Pachee Goyo was on his knees, very still, his head under a cactus plant. When Snail touched him with a cane, Pachee Goyo complained that his meditation was spoiled.

  “Snail
gave him the food and water. Pachee Goyo wolfed it down and hurried back to the lake.

  “That evening while the two brothers were broiling buffalo steaks, Snail strolled into camp. They gave him meat to take home, but before leaving, he warned them: ‘Cook lots of meat,’ he said, ‘because Pachee Goyo is a big eater. Don’t build a fire at night. And don’t sleep on the ground—build a platform in a tree. Take the meat up there so you won’t get hungry.’

  “They did as they were told. When Big Knife fell asleep in the tree, Pachee Goyo finished all the meat and was still sitting there hungry. He told Big Knife he was going down to build a fire and cook some more meat.

  “‘Don’t you dare!’ asserted Big Knife. To keep Pachee Goyo from going down, Big Knife gave him the rest of his own meat.

  “When Pachee Goyo finished this meat, he was still hungry. He told Big Knife he was going down the tree to build a fire and cook more. Complaining that Pachee Goyo just wouldn’t learn, Big Knife said all right.

  “Soon Pachee Goyo was eating by the fire. Suddenly he heard a great whirring. The trees trembled, and the fire nearly went out. A huge horned owl lighted and sat by the fire, watching Pachee Goyo.

  “Pachee Goyo offered him a legbone. The owl just looked at Pachee Goyo. Thinking maybe Owl wanted to be fed, Pachee Goyo rubbed the bone against the bird’s beak and tried to pry its mouth open. Owl didn’t budge. Finally Pachee Goyo got disgusted. He clobbered Owl in the head with the bone and knocked it unconscious. Then he went back to eating.”

  Some of the kids tittered. Evidently they thought Giant Owl was pretty silly stuff.

  “Owl’s claws shot out,” Sima went on, “and grabbed Pachee Goyo. Baldy screamed for Big Knife’s help. He sobbed and cried. But Big Knife lay in the tree quietly. He knew that Owl would gladly get him, too. He thought, Oh, Pachee Goyo, why didn’t you listen to me and Snail?

  “Owl rose up. It flapped its wings. It lifted off with Pachee Goyo in its great claws. As they soared in the sky, the last thing Big Knife heard was Pachee Goyo screaming, ‘Big Kn-i-i-fe!’”