by Win Blevins
“Very good!” exclaimed Dr. Full, jumping up from his chair. “A wonderful children’s tale!”
“But there’s more,” said Sima.
Flare saw the lad was offended by the interruption.
Dr. Full looked around at the Christian adults. He spread his arms. “It’s very entertaining, but I’m not certain of the influence…”
“Let him finish,” said Flare with a growl. “It’s one of his people’s sacred stories.”
“Well, that’s what concerns me. What do you think, Reverend Leslie? The subtle suggestion that this…invention is like a Bible story…”
“Objectionable,” affirmed David Leslie.
“Let him finish,” Flare snapped.
Miss Jewel intervened. “Sima, would you like to tell the rest of your story?”
“Yes,” the lad said simply, with an emphatic nod.
“Most of your audience is eager to hear it,” Miss Jewel said. She glared at Dr. Full until he sat back down. Flare thought, He’ll make you pay later, Maggie.
“Giant Horned Owl carried Pachee Goyo over mountains, over plains, over ocean,” said Sima.
“At last they landed on a small, rocky island. Owl set Pachee Goyo down on a rocky cliff among thousands of skeletons of human beings. The bird teetered over to the fresh corpse of a person. It tore open the body with its big claws and drank bright, live-giving blood from the trunk.”
Dr. Full and Reverend Leslie were showing their disgust in their faces for the benefit of the others. Flare wanted to throttle them. But Sima, lost in his narrative, didn’t seem to notice.
“Then Owl teetered over to the swamp and drank fresh water. Then it spread its wings, flapped, and headed out across the sea for more victims.
“With the sound of the whirring of the huge wings still in his ears, Pachee Goyo got up and walked around to check out his circumstances. By the shore, among cattails and grasses, smoke rose from a brush hut. Pachee Goyo walked down and peeked in.
“An old woman, a hepit-soo, sat by the fire. Her skin was stretched tight over her old bones. She invited Pachee Goyo in and gave him eggs to eat, boiled eggs of ducks and geese.
“‘Many years ago,’ she said, ‘when I was young, Giant Owl carried me here. It never bothers me. It only eats the others, the ones it brings back.
“‘I know how you can get away,’ she said. ‘Is there a fresh body for it to eat?’
“‘Yes,’ said Pachee Goyo, ‘half of one.’ Now he felt ready to listen to the advice of an older person.
“‘When it comes back,’ said the old woman, the hepit-soo, ‘lay down where it put you. Now listen. Every time it eats, the bird drinks from the swamp, always in the same place. Take this bow and these arrows. Hide them now behind the rock where it drinks.’
“Pachee Goyo asked where she got the bow and arrows. The old woman said most of the warriors Owl brought back were carrying quivers and bows.
“‘When you’ve hidden the weapons,’ the old woman went on, ‘find some obsidian and break it into tiny pieces. Put the pieces into the blood of the corpse. Owl will drink the obsidian in the blood, and the glass will cut up its insides.
“‘When Owl is finished drinking, it will head for the swamp. Then you’ve got to move fast and get behind the rock. Owl will stoop for a long time, drinking. Then let fly with every arrow you’ve got!’
“When Pachee Goyo finished his preparations, he went back to the old woman. She had no more instructions, and she heard Owl coming. ‘Get back where it left you,’ she said, ‘the exact position it left you. You’re lucky there’s a fresh corpse or you’d be its meal.’
“Pachee Goyo ran back and played dead in his original position. The huge Owl landed, tore at the fresh corpse, and drank the blood with obsidian in it. Finally the bird wobbled down to the swamp, lowered its head, and began to drink.
“Pachee Goyo ran for his life to the rock, grabbed the bow and arrows, and volleyed arrows into Owl.
“The great bird turned, staggered, and fell dead.”
Sima saw he had his audience now.
“Pachee Goyo ran back to the hepit-soo, the old woman, and told her he’d killed Giant Horned Owl. She gave him some sinew and loaned him her obsidian ax. ‘Here’s what you need to do,’ she said. ‘Chop the wings off with my ax and sew them together with this sinew to make a boat. Put dirt on the bottom. Gather up lots of firewood and pile it on one end. But you must build fires at night—only at night.
“‘When you’re finished with that, gather every goose and duck egg you can find and bring them to me. I’ll boil them for you. On the journey you’ll throw one egg into the ocean every day. Now get to it!’
“After a while Pachee Goyo got all his jobs done. Then he said to the old woman, ‘What are you going to do?’
“‘I want to stay here and live my life,” she said. She wished him good sailing and good luck finding his people.
“Pachee Goyo sailed on the wing boat for days and nights and nights and days. He threw an egg into the sea every day and built a fire every night. He looked out over the vast expanse of ocean and wondered where he would land, when he would land, whether he would land.
“Eventually he threw his last egg into the sea. That night he built a fire with the last of his wood. He watched the fire sadly, wondering what would happen to him when it burned out. Finally he put his bow and arrows on the embers to keep the fire going a little longer.
“Suddenly, from the darkness, came glad sounds, laughter, shouts.
“It was his ata, uncles Bazook the Otter, Babegee the Weasel, and Baboca the Muskrat! They saw the last glow of the fire, guessed it was their nephew Pachee Goyo, and swam out to help him.
“When they crawled onto the wing boat, they were laughing. But Pachee Goyo pulled a long face. ‘What’s going to happen to me?’ he wailed. ‘The fire’s almost out.’
“They said in a chorus, ‘We’ll pull you to shore before it dies.’
“They took turns pulling, Weasel first, then Muskrat. The two of them got the boat halfway to shore but one by one plopped back into the boat, drained. With the embers barely glowing, Otter jumped into the water. He pulled the boat terrifically fast. Just as the last fire died, he pulled them out onto the shore.
“Otter lay on the sand a while, exhausted. Then Pachee Goyo’s uncles advised him to spend the night in a tree, and left.”
“In the night came the Joahwayho, the scaly maneaters.”
Sima saw the kids were transfixed. And Flare and Miss Jewel, even Mrs. Full and Mrs. Leslie. The fat Reverend Leslie was staring off into space. Dr. Full was fidgeting. Sima wondered why they didn’t give the respect of attention to a story.
“Pachee Goyo,” he went on, “was perched on a branch trying to sleep when he heard their low, growly voices. They poked about in the trees, looking for human beings. Pachee Goyo could hear them muttering, ‘Nothing here. Ugh. Nothing here.’
“Finally the man-eaters came to the tree Pachee Goyo was perched in, and stuck their long poles upward, searching. One jabbed Pachee Goyo in the stomach.
“‘I feel a person,’ rumbled one of the Joahwayho, ‘right here in this tree.’
“Pachee Goyo quietly climbed higher.
“The sticks jabbed at the air.
“‘No one’s up there,’ said a Joahwayho. ‘Let’s try another tree.’
“‘No,’ insisted one of the scaly monsters. ‘There’s a human being in this tree—let’s shake him out.’
“So they shook the tree with all their strength. It was like an earthquake. Pachee Goyo hung on with all his might. He got banged around. His knuckles and shins got barked—his head got banged. His teeth got rattled. When Father Sun began to make the sky light, his fingers were worn out—he was about to give up and lose his grip and come crashing out of the tree.
“Suddenly the tree stopped shaking. Pachee Goyo heard sounds of struggle below, sounds of hitting and thumping and kicking. Otter, Muskrat, and Weasel had heard the monsters
stomping around and come to his rescue!
“The uncles wrestled the monsters—they broke their arms and hands. ‘We are scared!’ wailed the Joahwayho. They ran off as fast as their scaly legs could carry them.”
One of the Leslie girls clapped her hands. Dan Full cackled out loud, and got a sharp look from his stepfather.
“When Pachee Goyo climbed down, his uncles told him about the perils on the way home. They gave him some food. They sewed him some moccasins with rawhide soles, and gave him some thick leggings to wear. Pachee Goyo thanked them sincerely and set off, set off again into the unknown, set off toward home.
“He walked for days. Once he came to some ground covered with sharp fragments of obsidian. There he pulled on the heavy-soled moccasins, and they got him through. Thinking more and more of his people and their country, the land of smoking waters, he hurried.
“He walked for many more days, digging roots and killing small game for food. When he came to a desert, he put his thick leggings on and walked straight through, knowing there would be rattlesnakes everywhere. The snakes slithered about, they coiled, they whirred, they struck at his legs, they bit his leggings. On the far side he stopped and looked at his leggings—they were slimy with venom. He took them off carefully and traveled on.”
Sima thought his audience might be getting tired now, but he could not end the story improperly. He plunged forward into the last trials.
“Pachee Goyo came to a great gorge. He looked down in, but it was completely dark. Suddenly an owl hooted. While the hoot sounded, it lit up the entire gorge. When it fell silent, the gorge was dark. Again—hoot and light, silence and darkness.
“Pachee Goyo got ready and timed the hoots. When the next one came, he ran and jumped with all his strength. He sailed all the way across the gorge, and sailed into daylight.
“That night Pachee Goyo slept on a hill in moonlight. During the night, cries awakened him, cries of people. He saw they were carrying a dying Indian in a buffalo robe. They put the robe and man on top of Pachee Goyo and circled the two of them, wailing and weeping.
“Pachee Goyo shouted impatiently, ‘Who’s dead around here? Nobody’s dead that I see.’
“The people laughed and tittered and ran off. The dying man laughed, too, and ran after them. Everyone disappeared into the night.”
“Walking for days and days, Pachee Goyo came to a clear, sparkling stream. He took a bath in it. Afterward he covered himself with white clay powder.
“A stranger approached, with a sparrowhawk perched on his shoulder. The stranger took the sparrowhawk off his shoulder and threw it at Pachee Goyo. The bird flew straight at Baldy’s face and landed on his head. Pachee Goyo stood perfectly rigid in his white clay. He didn’t even blink.
“The stranger called out, ‘What is this thing? Is it human? Surely it is, it has eyes, it has nostrils. But it’s not moving.’
“Pachee Goyo stood absolutely rigid.
“‘It must be a human being,’ said the stranger. ‘It has big ears. Bald, too—nice, shiny bald head. Gray hair, too.’
“In his white clay powder Pachee Goyo stood still as a rock.
“Finally the stranger stepped forward. Right into Pachee Goyo’s face. He stuck out one hand, picked up the sparrowhawk from Baldy’s head, turned his back, and walked away.
“Pachee Goyo breathed. If he had moved, if he had even blinked, the stranger would have struck him dead.
“He washed the powder off, got dressed, and walked on over a mountain. And there a wondrous sight! A circle of brush huts and tipis.
“He hurried toward the camp. Outside the circle, alone, stood a man in a white buffalo robe, his head bowed in mourning.
“"Why are you out here alone?’ asked Pachee Goyo.
“‘I have lost my brother,’ said the man. ‘Many winters ago we went on a hunting trip and he disappeared. I don’t know if he’s alive or dead.’
“‘The brother Giant Owl flew away with?” asked Baldy. ‘Pachee Goyo?’
“‘Who are you?’ asked Big Knife. He peered at the stranger and at last recognized his long-lost brother. ‘Pachee Goyo!’ he cried.
“He ran into the circle of the camp. ‘My brother is back!’ he shouted. ‘I’ll give a feast in his honor tonight!’
“And there was singing and dancing and feasting for several nights, in honor of the return of Pachee Goyo.”
Full and Leslie sent the kids out to play. That meant it was time to correct Sima’s thinking. Holy Mother of God, back to learning the bleedin’ catechism from bleedin’ priests.
Dr. Full drew himself up. He looked sidelong at Sima, who looked scared. Full tapped a finger on empty air.
“Sima, my boy,” he began, “that was a story of your people, the Shoshones?”
Sima nodded yes.
“A religious story? Or just a story?”
Sima looked at Flare for help. Sink or swim, boyo.
“I don’t understand.”
“Let’s see,” Full went on. “It had gods in it, did it not? The giant owl was a god? The snakes were sent by gods? The stranger with the hawk was a god? Or represented a god?”
Sima looked at Flare. The Irishman shrugged his shoulders in an I-don’t-know way.
Sima did the same at Full.
Full put on a benevolent manner like an ill-fitting coat. “I sense that there were beings and doings in your story that were supposed to be divine.” He paused. He said softly, firmly, tapping each word out separately, “We cannot have that. There is but one God, and His name is Jehovah.
“You do not come to us tabula rasa,” said Full, enjoying the fancy words. “We understand that. You have a religion.”
He wheeled on the boy. “You seek true religion. And I believe your mind is susceptible to it. God is opening you to it. That is a blessing.”
Sima felt hot with humiliation. He didn’t know what was going on, but he knew he had told a sacred story, a story filled with Spirit and wisdom that comes from Spirit, and that Dr. Full was spitting on it. And on him for telling it.
He glanced at Flare and Miss Jewel. Flare looked mad. Sima didn’t know what he was going to do. He couldn’t be rude in return, and he couldn’t get mad. What the devil?
“This stuff is superstition. Men or gods taking the form of animals, childishness, stuff the human race has outgrown.”
Dr. Full paced. Sima could see he wanted to say a lot more, and a lot worse, than he let himself say.
Sima didn’t understand. He was willing to learn the wisdom of the whites. Were they unwilling even to listen to the wisdom of the Shoshones? Did they think they knew everything? People who couldn’t find water on the plains without a guide? Or find game before they starved? This didn’t make sense.
“It’s not just that we don’t want you to tell these tales to the children. Though their minds don’t need to be full of…fancies. It’s that we want you to scourge your mind of it.”
He turned to Sima and opened his arms in appeal. “Make room for the one God in your mind. Make room for His son, who gave his life for you. Make room for His spirit, who will guide you. You must empty your mind before we can fill it with truth.”
Sima was bewildered now. He would not let Dr. Full make him speak rudely or intemperately. He saw nothing he could do but keep silent.
“Do you understand, Sima?” pressed Dr. Full.
Sima struggled with his feelings. It was mad. He didn’t know the truth, but he knew he could never abandon Magic Owl or the poha Owl gave him. Never. That would be death.
Finally Sima said respectfully, “I hear your words, Dr. Full.”
Sima slipped between Flare and Miss Jewel as they left the Leslies’.
“Don’t worry about it, lad,” Flare said when they were outside.
“What do you think, Miss Jewel?”
He watched her. She was deliberating carefully. “I think you need not reject one wisdom to gain another, Sima.”
He nodded. That did not seem a bad thought
.
“Lad, I want to say something,” put in Flare. “Miss Jewel won’t like it.”
They both looked at Miss Jewel. “Everyone is free to express his opinion,” she said.
“The Shoshone way seeks to liberate your spirit and give it power,” said Flare. “The Christians want to subjugate your spirit.”
Flare was in a blue funk.
He’d been at French Prairie a week and fallen into an absolute funk. Nicolette Marais had quickly offered him half a cabin. Old Jacques had died in the fall, and she needed the company anyway, she said. She was a prickly creature of middle age with a face permanently screwed into a scowl and a lively tongue. Though she’d looked unhealthily skinny for at least fifteen years, she had some spirit. (Jacques’ other wife, Cora, had moved in with another Frenchie and lived a mile or so away. Flare had known all three of Jacques’ wives.)
The first night Flare moved in, Nicolette indicated she wanted to share a bed as well as a cabin. And she just wanted to have a lark, she made it clear. No strings attached. She did mention a couple times, though, that two priests were coming, right here to French Prairie, and all the hell-raisers here could make their peace with heaven. She cackled at that.
Flare had a rule about sex. It was like his rule about food: Take what you can get whenever you can get it, for you never know when the next chance will be. So it deepened his funk that he wasn’t interested in Nicolette. He rolled up in his own blankets in another room. Made her tongue turn caustic, too.
He stayed innocent the second night as well, and the third. Couldn’t figure out what was wrong with himself. Didn’t want to go to Mission Bottom and see Sima. Didn’t want to flirt with Miss Jewel. Didn’t want to ride about the country. Didn’t want to yarn with old friends. Didn’t want to get laid. Finally he spent two days doing absolutely nothing but sitting against the front wall of the cabin, moping. He couldn’t remember ever doing that before, and he couldn’t sleep the night between. He wasn’t interested in eating. He was in trouble.
It never did get better until Skye came.
Crack!
Skye got a huge kick out of it, sneaking up on an old mountain man like that.