TOD: That’s kind of ye. But what little tradin’ I do, just keeps me in what I needs. Nothin’ more.
MICHAEL: Aye, but that’s the real question now, innit, Mr. Tod? What is it a man needs?
TOD: Meanin’?
MICHAEL: One man’s needs are another man’s luxuries. Take yourself now. What brings you to Kentucky, Mr. Tod?
TOD: Room. And quiet. And it don’t look like I’m goin’ to get much of either this mornin’.
MICHAEL (grinning): It’s a beautiful country, now, innit? Look at the size of them trees. Sure but that’s the King of Oaks there. And the water in that creek is so sweet, and so clear, b’God but you could read the date off a shilling on the bottom of it.
TOD: If you had one to throw in.
MICHAEL: Oh, no trouble there! It’s a grand land of opportunity, it is, with plenty of scratch to be made for those with an itch! All that, and enough room for a man to stretch out and lose himself entirely. Become somethin’ new. Somethin’ different. A new man. That’s what we’re makin’ here in Kentucky, Mr. Tod. New men. (Beat.) Meself, I came by way of Georgia. Brought over indentured, don’t ya know. Only, me and me master disagreed over the length of me service.
TOD: And?
MICHAEL: And then there was this terrible accident, and the poor man up and died. Very sudden-like.
Tod laughs, in short, sharp barks.
TOD: Sad!
MICHAEL (laughing): Yes! It was all very sad! Tell me, Mr. Tod, don’t you worry ’bout sharin’ all this lovely space of yours with them savages?
TOD: They don’t bother me.
MICHAEL: They don’t?
TOD: I leave them alone, they leave me alone.
MICHAEL: Is that a fact? You have an understandin’ then, do ya, you and them?
TOD: I wouldna call it that.
MICHAEL: What would you call it? A deal, maybe? Ah, but I forgot, you’re not a tradin’ man, are ya? Ha dlv digalowe? [Where are the rifles?]
TOD: What . . . what is that?
MICHAEL: Cherokee. As you well know. Ha dlv digalowe? Where are the rifles?
TOD: I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.
MICHAEL: That was a Cherokee greetin’ you called out when I first stumbled onto your campfire. Where are the rifles, Mr. Tod?
Tod stands up nervously, pointing his gun at Michael.
TOD: I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about
MICHAEL: The rifles them Cherokee had at Zion. They come from you, didn’t they? (Beat.) Where’s the rest?
Tod cocks his rifle.
Don’t be stupid as well as greedy, Mr. Tod. Ya don’t think I walked in here unarmed, alone?
A noise offstage. Tod whirls and fires. As he does so, Michael leaps up and screams:
DON’T KILL HIM!
A single shot rips out of the darkness. Tod falls. Beat. A thin, nervous YOUNG MAN emerges from the woods, holding a rifle.
YOUNG MAN: That him?
MICHAEL: Yes, you little shit—that was him.
The Young Man walks over to the body. He drops his rifle, kneels down, and begins to pummel the corpse with both his hands with increasing ferocity.
YOUNG MAN: You bastard! You bastard! YOU BASTARD!
Michael strides over and hauls the Young Man roughly to his feet.
He killed my family! He kilt’em!
Michael slaps him across the face several times and then drops him to his knees with a blow to the stomach.
MICHAEL: And mine! And everyone else’s! And now he’s dead, you little shit! I told you not to kill’im! (Beat. With great disgust:) Now wipe your face and shut up.
YOUNG MAN (crying): He killed my Sarah!
MICHAEL: Piss on your Sarah!
He grabs the Young Man and throws him to the ground.
You little turd! Them shots will have every Indian in two miles down on us.
YOUNG MAN (blanching in terror): Cherokee?
MICHAEL: Well, who do you think dear Mr. Tod was waitin’ for? The blessed St. Christopher? So unless you want to join your precious Sarah in the hereafter, you shut your mouth and do as I say. Now bring our packs in.
The Young Man staggers off into the woods. Michael searches Tod’s body closely, removing and keeping a knife. He discovers a gold watch, which when opened plays a bright tune. He pockets it. He then searches through Tod’s belongings, with increasing urgency and finally frustration.
MICHAEL: Damn! Damn it!
The Young Man returns with two heavy leather packs, which he drops by the fire.
YOUNG MAN: What’s wrong?
MICHAEL: I can’t find anything! Not flints, powder, bullets, or muskets. I don’t know—mebbe he buried it somewhere. Worried, were you, Mr. Tod, ’bout the good word of our red brothers?
Michael starts rummaging through one of the packs. He pulls out a worn, red blanket. He looks at it oddly for a moment, then tosses it to the Young Man.
Cover’im up.
YOUNG MAN: Why?
MICHAEL: You’re developin’ an annoyin’ habit, Samuel, of questionin’ me. Just do as I say and we’ll both live longer. Now cover him up!
SAM obeys.
How much powder and shot have you got, Sam?
SAM: I don’t know. Mebbe two horns and a quarter-pound of shot.
MICHAEL: Get it out.
SAM: You think we’ll have to make a fight of it?
MICHAEL: I’m hopin’ we can work out a trade.
SAM: What?
MICHAEL: Get out what you’ve got!
Sam starts to comply, but before he can move, four figures emerge from the woods, surrounding them. They are CHEROKEE WARRIORS, dressed simply in buckskins, but beautifully painted. They all carry rifles. One of the men steps forward. Unnerved, Sam tries to reach for his gun.
MICHAEL: Be still, for the love of Christ!
Sam freezes, as every rifle is lowered at him. Two of the Indians—TASKWAN and DRAGGING CANOE—openly contemptuous of the white men before them, converse in Cherokee.
DRAGGING CANOE: Gago yunsti na anisgaya? [Who are these men?]
Taskwan shrugs.
TASKWAN (to Michael): Tod di nah? [Where is Tod?]
MICHAEL: Greetings to my Cherokee brothers.
TASKWAN: Who are you?
MICHAEL (surprised): You speak English?
TASKWAN: It is easier than hearing you butcher Cherokee. I am Taskwan. Who are you?
MICHAEL: Friends.
TASKWAN: Whose friends?
MICHAEL: We could be yours.
TASKWAN (indicating Tod’s body): Was he a “friend”?
Michael says nothing.
Your friendship is very hard.
DRAGGING CANOE: Tod is unihlv? [Have they killed Tod?]
TASKWAN: Hu tle gi. [Uncover the body.]
One of the Warriors pulls the blanket off Tod. Taskwan steps over and looks into his face.
Vs kidv. [It is him.]
Beat.
DRAGGING CANOE: Didi luga. [Kill them.]
The Warriors raise their rifles. Michael and Sam tense.
MICHAEL: We can still do business!
Dragging Canoe gestures for the Warriors to hold.
DRAGGING CANOE: Gado adi? [What does he say?]
MICHAEL: You need us!
Beat. Dragging Canoe gestures to his Warriors and they lower their guns.
DRAGGING CANOE: Wiga wo ni hi. [Let him speak.]
MICHAEL: Ya had a deal, right, with Tod? Guns for pelts—right? But how much powder and lead did the bastard give ya? Huh? Not enough, I bet. Not nearly enough.
SAM: What are ya doin’, Michael?
MICHAEL: Shut up, boy! So, we’ll step in for Mr. Tod, see. Here. Here’s a good-faith gesture. . . .
He
starts to move toward Sam’s pack. The Warriors shift uneasily.
Easy, lads! Call’em off, Taskwan.
Taskwan gestures.
That’s it. Here. Here now. (Pawing through Sam’s pack, he pulls out two powder horns and a small deerskin bag, which he lays out grandly on the red blanket.) See here. Two horns of black powder and a half pound of the king’s own finest lead! And I’ll throw them blankets in too. Fine wool, both of ’em!
TASKWAN: And?
MICHAEL: And? And when the moon is full again, we meet you here, by that oak, with ten times that, twenty times . . . whatever ye want
TASKWAN: How much?
MICHAEL: Twenty pelts per horn. Ten for a quarter pound of shot. And none of your junk, mind ya! Good skins! Clean cuts!
DRAGGING CANOE: Gado adi? [What is he saying?]
TASKWAN (smiling): Adaweligisgi ale gani. Utloyi Todi jatuisdisgv. Gayoheigeski ussale. [Powder and shot. Just as Tod promised us. Only they are less greedy.]
MICHAEL: You need us, Taskwan! Without us, those muskets are just expensive firewood!
DRAGGING CANOE: Gayolige jiliskododi na, Tod digesv aniskahv inisvgagwo. Nanu ina yigati gagogi. [I trust them less than Tod. They stink of fear, and the tall one lies.]
TASKWAN: Handadis sayani, Jiygasini? Galogwe gesvyusdi igadahlosvi. Sagwo gaduhv yugwony shla gobusdi yigunela. Kuni yididalewisdodani dunikaligi ale dodunadigaleyi digajeli yvwi. Uhloyi anishani jidedikebedolvi. Vskyusdi galogwe digiyadi. Galogwe adaweliski gideski. Na adaweligiski unaliskasdi. [Remember Zion, Dragging Canoe? The guns brought us a great victory. But one town burned is nothing to them. Unless we stop them now, they will cover this land and scatter our people as we drove off the Shawnee. For this we need guns. Guns need powder. Powder needs them.]
DRAGGING CANOE: Hawa. Tadi na? [So be it. What of Tod, though?]
TASKWAN: Hawa. [Yes.] (He turns to Michael.) We accept your offer.
MICHAEL: Now you’re talkin’, me friend!
TASKWAN: Old debts before new business, my “friend.” He is dead who was a brother to my people, and his blood debt is unpaid.
Pause.
MICHAEL: As you will.
Magically, his knife is out, and in one swift, brutal motion he slams the blade into Sam’s stomach. Sam drops to his knees, a look of incredulity laced with pain spreading across his face.
SAM: Michael?
He collapses on the ground. Michael turns and ceremoniously drops the knife on the blanket with the other trading goods.
MICHAEL: He killed Tod. He’s dead. We’re even.
DRAGGING CANOE: Gadousti inage ehnai ni hi? [What kind of animal is this?]
MICHAEL: What’d he say?
TASKWAN: He says, What kind of animal are you?
MICHAEL: A necessary animal. Tell him. “A necessary animal”!
TASKWAN: He understands. We will meet you here in one month. Twelve more rifles. Powder and shot for all.
MICHAEL: Two hundred pelts per gun.
TASKWAN: That is more than Tod wanted.
MICHAEL: You can still trade with Tod.
TASKWAN: I could still kill you.
MICHAEL: You could. (Beat. He extends his hand.) Deal?
Taskwan looks at it with distaste but takes it. When he tries to turn away, Michael holds him.
Just one more thing. I want me some land. Much as a man can walk around in one day, and your word that me and mine is safe on it.
DRAGGING CANOE: Gado adi? [What does he say?]
TASKWAN: Gado uduli. [He wants land.]
All the Warriors laugh.
TASKWAN: No one owns this land. It cannot be “given.”
MICHAEL: Is that what you said when you drove the Shawnees off it?
TASKWAN: This land is cursed. We hunt on it, but no tribe lives here.
MICHAEL: I’ll take me chances.
DRAGGING CANOE: Ganegedi ale gigaha gadohi. Tla yegehadehvga. [It is a dark and bloody land. You cannot live here.]
MICHAEL: What’d he say?
TASKWAN: He says you will find this a dark and bloody land.
MICHAEL (to Dragging Canoe): I’ll take me chances. (He turns back to Taskwan.) Your word.
TASKWAN: You live here, it is not the Cherokee you need fear. (He gestures to the powder, shot, and blankets.) Ijutagesvhna. Idahnigia. [Take them. We go.]
The Warriors gather up the blankets and exit. Dragging Canoe doesn’t move. He remains staring at Michael.
TASKWAN: Idahnigia! [We go!]
They exit. Michael stands for a moment, breathing hard, a look of triumph on his face. Sam moans.
MICHAEL: Ah, Samuel, you were more use to me than I could ever imagine. How can I ever repay you?
SAM (faintly): Water.
MICHAEL: Water? By all means, Samuel.
He lifts Sam up tenderly, crouching behind, half-supporting him and helping him to sip at the canteen.
SAM: Am I goin’ to die?
MICHAEL: Oh, I should think so, Samuel. Otherwise, I should have to order you off my land. (Laughs.) “My land.” Oh, there’s a grand sound to that, isn’t there? ’Course, if you and Mr. Tod want to stay here, permanent-like, make yourselves useful—fertilize me corn, mebbe—that’d be all right too! (He laughs.)
SAM: They’ll kill you. . . .
MICHAEL: Who? The Cherokee? Oh no, Sam. Quite unlike their white brothers, they keep their word, they do. (Beat.) And even if they didn’t, this lot will. I’ve seen to that.
SAM: What?
MICHAEL: Them blankets, Sam—they’re poxed. Salvaged them from that Cutter family in Zion—them whose baby girl died of the pox three weeks ago. Remember? Sweet child. Hair like corn silk. (Beat.) Indians has thin blood. Pox’ll cut through them like a hot knife through butter. (Beat.) So you see, Sam, you can rest easy now. Zion’s been revenged after all. (Beat.) Sam? (Beat.) Sun’s comin’ up, lad. (Beat.) New day for a new land. (Beat.)
Fade to black. Forest sounds hold for five beats and then fade.
THE COURTSHIP OF
MORNING STAR
Tbe Conqueror’s threats weave a whole universe of resistances; holding out against him means keeping up an atmosphere of an armed truce.
. . . In his presence, the Occupied learns to dissemble, to resort to trickery. . . . For every contact between them is a falsehood.
—FRANTZ FANON
War even to the knife.
—PALAFOX
CHARACTERS
MICHAEL ROWEN age thirty-five
MORNING STAR age sixteen, a Cherokee
DOUBLE FOR MORNING STAR (nonspeaking role)
NARRATOR: The Courtship of Morning Star.
One year later, 1776. A rude cabin in southeastern Kentucky. The Courtship of Morning Star.
1776. Summer. The interior of a rude cabin in southeastern Kentucky. MICHAEL ROWEN’s house is a simple, one-room pole structure chinked with mud and moss. There is a rough stone fireplace, a simple bed, and a hand-hewn table with two chairs. The interior, like the rich woodland that surrounds it, is suggested rather than re-created.
SCENE ONE
Late afternoon. Sounds of birds and insects; then, in the distance, something else: the sounds of a struggle.
Finally appearing downstage left is Michael Rowen. He is bearded, his hair is long, and he is dressed in a combination of buckskin and homespun. His hands and face are scratched and bleeding.
He is struggling with a young WOMAN whose dark complexion is lightly pockmarked and whose hands are tied. She never ceases to try to kick or claw at him, and she curses him nonstop in Cherokee, pausing only to catch a ragged breath.
WOMAN: Jegskini Eskiwhena! Yona wi gejkoja jaksheni! Skini ikshi jablstaydi! [Go to hell, you devil! May the bears fuck you in the ass! Make meals of devil shit!]
Finally, Michael s
ucceeds in dragging her into the room, where he unceremoniously dumps her onto the center of the floor. Both pause, breathing hard. They look at each other.
MICHAEL: Welcome home.
Blackout.
SCENE TWO
The next morning, early. Michael and the young Woman are lying in bed, asleep. Michael has one arm thrown over her.
The Woman wakes up. Momentarily disoriented, she surveys the room. Then she remembers. Slowly, she tries to slip out from under the dead weight of his arm. He stirs. She freezes. Then, still asleep, he shifts his position and moves his arm, freeing her.
She bites her lip to keep her joy quiet. Then she begins to slide out of bed—only to discover that her left hand is tied to his right hand with a rawhide thong. She stops. She considers the knot . . . gives up.
Frustrated, she looks around the room for some kind of weapon. There is a pile of cut logs and kindling near the fireplace. She reaches out for one of tbe logs. Michael stirs. She catches herself.
She reaches down slowly, grasps the log, and in one swift motion brings it up, over, and down onto Michael’s head.
Or what would have been his head: in a move surprising for a man of his size, Michael rolls and catches the log with his left hand. He twists it brutally out of her grasp and rolls over onto the floor.
Both come up in a slight crouch, facing each other, still linked by the rawhide thong.
Beat.
Michael laughs.
Blackout.
SCENE THREE
That evening. The Woman is seated at the table. She is no longer tied to Michael. He walks over from the fire with two crude wooden bowls, one of which he sets down on the table in front of her.
She doesn’t react. He sits down and begins to eat; stops. He smiles at her, encouraging her to eat. She ignores him. He returns to eating.
MICHAEL: Sure now, I’m not much of a cook, but it can’t be all that bad.
No response.
My name is Michael. (He indicates himself.) Michael. You?
He indicates her. No response.
I didn’t bring ya home to starve ya, ya know. Coulda left ya out there for that—eatin’ roots with what’s left of your poxy tribe.
The Kentucky Cycle Page 2