He wants to take over our lives, she shouted, her face flushed. He’ll bring in his wealthy oil people, and they’ll rule everything. You might have more money in your pockets, but you won’t have peace of mind again.
They all stared at her, partially taking in what she was saying. Later, they gathered in small groups, chewing over her words, not sure whom to trust, the americano or the mexicano. Though she had lived in their midst for a few years, some still felt uncertain about Curva, and Shirley had stirred up their earlier concerns by calling her a wetback—an illegal alien. Since most were aware of her unusual abilities, some Weedites didn’t want to offend her even if she wasn’t legal, especially the more adventurous women that had sought her out. They weren’t going to rat on her. They told their husbands that selling their oil rights could cause women to conduct a mass strike—in the bedroom. Those who had befriended Curva didn’t want to lose her midwifery skills or access to her kitchen and greenhouse. In her presence, they always felt more alive. But others, the more conservative townspeople, refused to let this former stranger from Mexico determine their futures. If they wanted to sell their mineral rights or land to the americano, they would, Curva be damned.
Upset that many hadn’t heard her pleas, Curva sought comfort from Billie. She drove straight to the burial ground and parked next to his truck. She liked watching him separate the tribal bones from the dinosaur relics, a way for him to reclaim his tribe’s past. She believed Billie and the bones held a key to something she was searching for. Her earlier encounter with the bones fornicating and dancing at midnight in the graveyard showed they were still filled with life, even in their most frangible state. They also reminded her of the many lives that had gone before, human and otherwise. It was important not to forget that period. Otherwise, the prairies had no depth, no history, no roots.
But the bones also possessed another kind of life, and that’s what intrigued her the most. During the night, they changed positions, surprising even Billie and his workers. As for the fossils, they, too, didn’t always remain in one place, puzzling everyone that had observed them. Yet there were many times when the bones didn’t reorganize themselves. Death seemed as unpredictable as life and even more intriguing.
For the Blackfoot, preserving these bones was essential to their identity. Because their present culture had been so diminished, their ancestors’ bones surfacing from under the soil helped to define them. Like the bones, much was underground or otherwise out of sight—their rituals, beliefs, and customs disparaged outside of the reservation. But Curva knew from her work with plants how much happened beneath the surface, invisible but powerful. The roots, the plant’s lifeline, worked in the dark to absorb nutrients from the soil that were then passed along to leaves, vegetables, and flowers. They in turn converted sunlight into energy that stimulated the ongoing process. This dynamic helped her to appreciate Billie’s belief in a land of the dead. The bones were a bridge between the mortal world and what was beyond. These remains also behaved like plant roots for the lives that continued above ground, bringing nourishment through visions and dreams and other visits.
Curva found Billie kneeling over a depression in the earth, his hair tied back in a ponytail, his overalls coated with dirt.
Are you digging yourself a grave, Bee-lee?
He glanced up at her, motioning for her to come closer and gesturing excitedly at the ground, a smile breaking across his face: Look at what I’ve found!
Curva fell on her knees next to him and stared at the assemblage of stone scrapers, chisels, arrowheads, knives, and pottery fragments. She whistled and said, Your ancestors took all these treasures with them to the grave?
Billie nodded: They must have felt they needed them wherever they were going. I know I’d feel better if I weren’t buried alone. We’ve been finding jewelry, tools, and food alongside the bones.
Curva said, I guess taking their precious possessions made them feel there really was an afterlife.
Billie gave a thumbs up and said, But they didn’t all have personal things buried with them. Sometimes the bones were laid to rest alone in bundles or baskets. He paused before saying, Maybe they were the outcasts.
Your face looks like a dark cloud just landed on it, Bee-lee.
He pulled a scarlet handkerchief from his shirt pocket and wiped his forehead before answering. You know what I’m thinking. Outcast. Those feelings never go away.
You’re not an outcast to me.
Billie stared at the mounds, looking pensive, and waved his hand. There’s a whole miniature world here. The remains have been placed inside these mounds—all in different positions. On their backs. On their sides. Face down. Sitting. It’s amazing!
No wonder I can’t pull you away from here, Bee-lee. It appears these remains complete the family you’ve always wanted.
Maybe. Now if I could just get them to speak. What stories they would tell! Raids. Rapes. Betrayals. Hunting tales. Love triangles.
You can tell their tales in the wonderful murals you showed me.
He slapped his thigh. Of course! I never thought of that.
Curva sat on the ground, knees bent, arms wrapped around her legs, and said, We live as if we’re in a tomb already.
Whaddya mean?
In our homes we surround ourselves with things we love, just like your ancestors did when they died. It’s as if we are really dead in life, and the things we have make the days bearable.
Billie nodded: So our ancestors were just trying to continue their lives in the next world.
Curva laughed. I want to continue my life in this world. You know me: I want everything. But if I have to go, I want enchiladas buried with me. And lots of dandelion wine. Maybe a copy of Don Quixote. In español. It must get boring in the grave. I think that’s why Xavier visits me.
You’d find something to make it interesting.
Sí, some bones! You know me and huesos, Bee-lee. Especially yours. It drives me loca!
She pushed herself off the ground, picked up the container of enchiladas, and rotated her hips like a belly dancer. Nodding at the tent, she said, Let’s go have lunch. I’m hungry. But the enchiladas had to wait.
After, they lay in each other’s arms, Billie stroking Curva’s hair and back, kissing her closed eyes. Curva moaned: You hit all the right notes, Bee-lee. It’s hard to believe you haven’t had more women in your life.
She gazed at him and touched the black eye covering. You’ve been inside my dark patch, she said, touching her bush. But you haven’t let me see behind yours. What’s hidden there?
Billie pulled away and said, I don’t like to remember how I lost that eye.
Curva stroked his back and gave him fish kisses where her fingers had been. I know what you mean, she said. I don’t like to think about all the development that’s going to happen here once Shirley starts buying leases and drilling for oil. No one seems to understand. She shivers.
Billie turns to her and says, Could I offer you some tasty enchiladas? They’re guaranteed to chase away any concerns.
Curva laughs and says, You know the way to a woman’s heart, Bee-lee.
* * *
3 All the colors, all the colors, oh how they dress up the countryside in springtime, All the colors, all the colors of birdies, oh how they come back to us outside, All the colors, all the colors in rainbows we see shining bright in the sky, And that’s why a great love of the colors makes me feel like singing so joyfully, And that’s why a great love of the colors makes me feel like singing so joyfully.
Two
Bone Song
Raven found a clam
after the flood and
discovered humans
inside. He let them
out, shell cracking.
Billie One Eye
Billie didn’t have just one cowlick; he had at least ten. They all flew in diff
erent directions, following their own laws, defying any attempts to be greased in place. They made him even more self-conscious about the blue eyes and red hair he’d inherited from his mother, along with his father’s darker skin. His strange appearance made Billie stand out on the reservation—or off. It also made it difficult for Billie’s father to accept his son fully, though the father felt differently towards Billie’s three sisters because they didn’t resemble their mother.
Billie’s mother was a Scot whom the Blackfoot had named Sighing Turtle. She had left her children when Billie was eight because her husband was uncommunicative and the tribe had never fully embraced her. She represented the world outside the rez—the one that rejected them—and served as a constant reminder of their imagined inferiority. While she had tried to help all the children learn how to read and write after school, tutoring the slower ones, it only alienated Sighing Turtle further. Soon men and women were complaining: Who does that bitch think she is, they hissed, filling our kids’ heads with her highfalutin’ ideas? As a result, Billie’s father also spurned her, making it impossible for Sighing Turtle to remain.
The situation created many conflicts for Billie. The other boys had made cracks about Sighing Turtle. Robin Falling Star had called her a whore, extending the word so it sounded like “whoooo-her.” Billie’s friends also teased him mercilessly about his cowlicks: Hey, Billie, ya got bird feathers growin’ outta your head. Billie struck out blindly with his fists. A lousy fighter, he was unable to defend himself properly and constantly got the worst of it.
That’s how he lost his right eye in the schoolyard when he was ten. He’d been fighting again, arms flailing, pelting the air. The boys had crowded around Billie, and he dove into their midst, hearing only the clatter of shoes scuffling against hard-packed dirt, grunts, and fists popping off bone. He had punched wildly, stumbling and falling onto a stick one of the other boys happened to be holding. At least that was the story Billie’s schoolmates had given, and everyone more or less believed it.
Except Billie. He knew that Robin had poked him on purpose. They’d been rivals since Billie beat him at casting “arrows,” plain sticks they hurled like darts, trying to outdistance each other—one thing Billie excelled at. Robin and the others were also out to get him because Billie’s dad was the tribal chief. They wanted to cut Billie down to size. With the whole group against him, it would only make matters worse if Billie squealed.
His teacher, a nun, had rushed him to the hospital in the city, but it was too late. He lost the right eye, though he gained the others’ respect for not blabbing. Being one-eyed gave Billie some status, as did the black eye patch he now wore, imparting a slightly menacing look. Subsequently, the guys left him alone, feeling guilty for their part in the fight, but Billie never let down his guard.
Losing an eye was no small thing: It altered how he viewed his surroundings, reducing his peripheral vision, at least on one side, and giving him a skewed perspective. He felt certain something was constantly rushing at him from his right side, so he developed a kind of twitch, frequently jerking his head to the right, hoping he’d spot his attacker before he struck.
After the incident, Billie became more of a loner. He avoided Robin and his group or he hung out with the older boys who accepted him more. Or he played arrows with his three sisters, all younger than he. Other times he sprawled on the prairie grass, watching the clouds change shape and imagining new places to explore. A hole had opened inside him that he liked to burrow into, temporarily forgetting his feelings of isolation.
Stampede
In early July, the Calgary Stampede—the annual rodeo and fair that attracted people from all over the world—started. Each year, Billie trekked to the festivities with his tribe. They traveled the Blackfoot trail in the old manner, using horses to pull wagons loaded with tepees and supplies for the week, camping along the way. It was a great holiday, a chance to escape the rez and enjoy a featured role at the exhibition. They set up their teepees in the Blackfoot Village at the fairgrounds, near the entrance, providing a Wild West atmosphere. In return, they received free passes to all the rides and the grandstand.
Billie loved to wander through the exhibit halls, gawking at the arts and crafts on display. He especially liked the drawings and paintings, marveling at how the artists could create something on a piece of paper or canvas that hadn’t existed before. When he tried to do something similar, using a pencil to draw an image, he felt frustrated, unable to make anything recognizable appear on the page. A few squiggly lines didn’t add up to much. They resembled the stick figures his ancestors had drawn on rocks to describe a hunt they’d made—or some other scene. He wanted to do better than those old-time drawings.
The exhibition halls also dazzled him with their unusual smells and sights and sounds: a blend of scratchy country- western records playing in the background, Hank Williams belting out “I’m so lonesome I could cry”; objects clanking together and dropping; and human voices buzzing. He watched salesmen demonstrate potato peelers and slicers, toasters, Mixmasters, and other things he’d never seen before. The Blackfoot lived pretty basic lives, just getting by, and everyone was poor. No one had much, except for discarded items the white people gave them—clothes and appliances and gadgets that had outgrown their usefulness, most of which the Indians couldn’t use either.
Billie hadn’t thought of himself as poor before. He believed the way he lived was normal, that the rez was the world: everything he needed had seemed to be there. But this year, he understood how mistaken he’d been. Another realm existed outside of what he’d known all of his life—maybe more than one realm. He liked what he saw.
The peddlers’ products intrigued Billie, as did the sellers, so sure of themselves and skilled at the patter they’d developed. “Step right up, ladies and gentlemen! Come in closer, little lady: you’ll catch cold standing back there all by yourself. I’m going to show you something today that will change your life. Gentlemen, have your wallets ready so you don’t lose out on this great buy….”
They talked non-stop, not considering each word carefully as Billie did. He felt shy with people he didn’t know. The salesmen’s self-confidence drew him in, their voices honey, dripping with sweetness and promise. Billie just wished he had money to buy these things. He wanted to take the shimmering icons home to worship.
After he spent hours wandering about the exhibitions, he attended the rodeo. He stood right up against the wire fence so he wouldn’t miss anything, staring with his one eye through a diamond-shaped gap. The bulls and steers shot out of the chutes, riders flailing on their backs, one hand holding the rope circling the animals’ bodies, the other trying to balance the rider and appearing to grasp the air for support. Neither the rope nor the air had much to offer. The riders hurtled through space, landing in a humbled heap on the ground. The uninjured riders stood up, brushed off their jeans and shirts, planted their Stetsons squarely on their heads, and slunk off so the next victim could take his turn.
So much depended on the luck of the draw—the ride you’d been given. It was difficult to outride an unbroken animal. A few people did it, many of them Indians that outshined the cowpokes. The rodeo was the one area where they could excel. And that kept Billie glued to the fence until the last rider had plunged into the arena and taken his chances. He identified with those that did succeed. Their triumph gave him hope.
Billie also liked the Stampede because it was one of the few times when his father wore his ceremonial clothes, including a feathered headdress that reached his knees. Billie and the other tribal members dressed like “Indians” in their traditional buckskin and beaded moccasins, performing in the streets and at the Stampede grounds. Billie’s favorite was the chicken dance, the performers imitating prairie chickens mating. The good ones could make their feather bustle and headgear vibrate so fast that they resembled frenzied chickens. But not Billie. He had two left feet, and he never could get the
movements right. Worse, his red hair and black eye patch caused Stampede visitors to stare at him and ignore the others.
Still, during these times, he felt that being a Blackfoot was something to be proud of. He liked seeing his father sitting tall on his horse, assuming the official status of chief during the daily parades. The animal tossed its head, decorated with a beaded halter and mantle, its mane and tail also woven with a rainbow of multi-colored beads. Both man and horse seemed transformed by the decorations and gave Billie someone to look up to and admire, not just to fear.
Vision Quest
At thirteen, Billie longed to go on a vision quest. He’d heard his father and his father’s friends talk about their vision quests. In preparation, they had purified themselves by burning sage, cedar, and sweetgrass. Then they had gone off alone into nature and fasted for four days, having neither food nor water. They prayed, smoked a sacred pipe, and presented gifts to the spirits, hoping to be rewarded with a vision or a voice from the spirit world that would guide their future lives.
But gathering their medicine bundle together was equally important. It involved killing an animal—usually a deer because its skin was strong, soft, and durable—and skinning it. The men used part of the hide, filling it with a collection of symbolic objects that might include an unusual rock, a strand of hair, a feather, a bird’s beak, an animal skin, or sweetgrass—items related to their vision quest that could evoke their guardian spirit. It helped if they got instructions in a vision about what to put in their bundles. Yet Billie knew that not all did, and most men made it up as they went along.
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