Curva Peligrosa

by MacKenzie, Lily Iona;

  The rite was no longer popular among Billie’s friends, but that only increased its appeal for him. Since he’d been marked from birth as different, a half-breed outcast, he chose to do things his friends weren’t doing. Hoping to bolster his Blackfoot heritage, he was attracted to many rituals the other guys laughed at. Besides, with only one eye, Billie needed all the extra vision he could get. Thus he set off alone to a remote area, hoping to fast until he contacted the spirit world.

  At the end of his quest, he wanted to return with his own medicine bundle containing magic charms to protect him from further harm. It would prove his manhood and give him stature within the tribe.

  And acceptance.

  He hoped.

  Before leaving on his quest, Billie snuck into the ramshackle shed behind the house and found his father’s medicine bundle, tucked inside his fishing tackle. The light was too dim to see much, so he fingered the supple, well-worn hide that held his father’s medicine. Billie was unable to associate the soft surface with the man who seemed made of granite. The tribal chief never showed any emotion towards Billie, shunning his son just as he had turned against Sighing Turtle.

  Billie froze as the door hinges squeaked and a shadow fell across him. The chief whacked Billie on the head, snatched the bundle from his hands, and snarled, Beat it. Billie didn’t wait around for another wallop and lit out across the fields, still feeling the sting of his father’s fingers. But the man’s strong reaction roused Billie’s curiosity even more. What was he protecting? Maybe he kept his heart in that smooth purse. Or perhaps his father’s guardian spirit lived inside the bundle and his father was afraid of losing it. Billie also wanted his own protector, certain that if he’d had one when he was younger, he might never have lost his eye.

  Early the next morning, he wrote a note to his family that said “GON ON VISIN QEUST,” headed to the horse pasture, and borrowed his father’s mare. After putting a halter on the horse’s head and throwing a blanket over its body, he tried to leap on its back, imitating Indians he’d seen in movies that seemed to be the real thing.

  Instead of landing on the horse, Billie flew over it, hitting the ground with a thud. He’d stuffed his satchel with a jacket, tobacco, cigarette papers, and matches—lacking a pipe, he’d need to use cigarettes in its place for sacred smoke—and it cushioned his fall. Luckily, it was just before dawn, and no one else was there to witness his humiliation. After a few more failed attempts at being a real Indian, he finally led the animal to the corral fence and climbed it, mounting that way.

  Mid-July, the weather was warm, so at least he wouldn’t freeze. Billie guided the horse over the prairies toward the foothills as Natosi, the sun, made its ascent for the day, lighting the fields and causing the grain to glow. He understood why his forefathers had worshipped the sun. It transformed the appearance of things—changing night into day, wheat into gold. It even made the distant snow-capped mountains peaks appear lit from within until gradually all of them became illuminated, the sky tinged a powdery pink. The sight reminded him of how much he loved the earth and everything on it.

  He rode until Natosi was high in the sky, finally settling in a valley near the Bow River where the prairie grass was taller than Billie in places and cottonwood trees competed for space. After tethering the horse in an area where it could graze, he spread his blanket on a huge, flat rock he planned to sleep on that was near the water. Then he took off his clothes and stepped into a pool that gradually became deeper. Rough stones cut into the soles of his feet, making him holler, as did the biting cold water.

  He forced himself to dip all of his body, including his head, startled to find himself eyeball to eyeball with Ksisk-staki, a beaver that Billie must have disturbed with all of his yelling. Viewing it underwater distorted the size of the beaver’s eyes and protruding front teeth, making them appear much larger, turning the animal into a monster. Billie scrabbled for shore, stumbling and tripping on slippery rocks, climbing finally onto dry land. The beaver took off in the opposite direction towards its dam.

  Billie lay on the rock he’d chosen, his heartbeat returning to a familiar trot and not a gallop, letting the sun dry and purify his body. Its rays played on the surface of his skin, heating it, filling him with warmth. Eyes closed, he idly fingered his penis, enjoying his casual strokes. It stiffened, becoming a focus of pleasure.

  He tried to forget the fright he’d just had, wanting to clear his mind and prepare for a vision. But the more Billie struggled to be empty and receptive, the more he was flooded with images. He didn’t see monsters from the deep but a cluster of naked women, young and old, slender and voluptuous, indigenous and white, so vivid he was convinced they were real. They called to him, offering their breasts, their pubic areas resembling furry animals—soft, velvety, and welcoming, containing good medicine.

  He forgot his reason for being there and spent the afternoon in this altered state, bathed in fantasies of being buried in the bosoms of these women, sucking on their nipples. Their fingers touched him all over, urging him to one orgasm after another. Before he knew it, the sun was hovering over the horizon, resembling the tip of his own flaming penis. His hands were worn out, unable to produce another drop, his semen seeping into the dry prairie soil and drying in a crust on the rock. Never had he been so aroused. Or so spent.

  Feeling weak from his exertion and lack of food or drink, he managed to dress and move the horse to a better grazing area. Then he wrapped himself in the blanket and sat cross-legged on the rock, remembering his purpose for being there. He sent prayers to the sky, the sun, the moon, and the earth, asking for a vision and a guardian spirit. Everyone, he was sure, requested a vision and a guardian spirit. But he also wanted his sight returned and to fly.

  To help him focus, he took the tobacco and cigarette papers from his bag and rolled a cigarette, lit it, and puffed furiously, hoping a vision might materialize from the smoke. But it just made him lightheaded and a bit woozy.

  Before dark fully descended, he built a fire within a circle of stones he’d arranged on the large rock, using tumbleweed and sagebrush to start it, feeding the blaze with some logs he’d found nearby. The flames would keep away any dangerous animals. Within its embrace, he felt safe, protected from black bears, or coyotes, or wolves—or whatever else lurked out there, including the underwater monster that had scared him so.

  A squall blew in abruptly and tore at him from all sides, shrieking like a banshee. Lightning streaked across the sky, zipping up and down and back and forth. Thunder immediately followed, shaking the ground, a downpour not far behind. The fire hissed and spit before fizzling out.

  Billie felt fully exposed on his rock, and he remembered how dangerous lightning could be on the prairies: Anyone sitting or standing in open space could become a lightning rod. One of his father’s friends had been killed that way, fried by a bolt. Hugging the boulder and absorbing the heat it still retained from the sun, Billie flattened himself on his stomach underneath the horse blanket, rain pelting his back. He wondered if he should jump on the horse and make a run for home.

  The animal whinnied and snorted. Spooked by the electrical storm, the horse reared and tore at its tether, snapping it easily, and took off. The sound of galloping hooves hitting the earth echoed hollowly in the distance. The boy’s only companion, and his ride, had fled.

  The night darkened, closing in around him. Billie was sure he heard growls and rustlings, making him jittery. Huddling under the sodden blanket, he waited for a voice to speak from the darkness in response to his vision quest. But all he heard was the rain attacking the hard ground, his own thudding heart, and the river’s constant babbling in the background. It sounded like many voices all speaking at once, none making any sense.

  Later, after the rain stopped, cumulus clouds drifted to the outer edges of the night sky. They resembled a fringe of white hair on a bald pate, lit up by Kokomi-kisomman, an almost-full moon. Shivering
, Billie rolled over and stared at the stars piercing the darkness. Satellites streaked across the sky. A boundless universe beckoned, making earthbound creatures seem plodding, dull, and unimaginative. Out there in the stratosphere was where he wanted to be. But the earth held him captive—the rock unyielding beneath him, the blanket reeking of horse sweat. He was a magnet for whatever creatures lurked in the shadows. Except now everything was a shadow, Billie included.

  Eventually he couldn’t fight off sleep and sank into a dreamless slumber. A growl woke him at dawn, so loud that he sat up, startled, shivering from cold and fear, forgetting where he was. Another growl slashed him. Billie jumped off the rock and grabbed a stick, flailing out in all directions. At least he’d go down fighting. The next growl sounded so close that he couldn’t separate it from himself. Relieved and feeling foolish, he realized it was his own empty stomach he was hearing, howling for food.

  Billie was grateful to see the sun return to the sky and to leave the night behind. He decided to keep himself busy, hoping to forget the hunger burning a hole within. First he hung his damp clothes and blanket on some bushes to dry. Then he spread out his tobacco, cigarette papers, and matches in the sun. Hoping to avoid a repeat of the previous night, Billie made himself a more comfortable bed. Using his knife, he slashed a stack of thick pine branches from nearby trees and spread them on the rock, interweaving them, planning to use the brush both as mattress and cover in case it rained again. He could burrow inside the branches, an animal himself.

  The sun nibbled away at the morning chill, making the day more inviting. He decided to hunt something whose skin he could dry and use for his medicine bag, maybe an elk or a deer or a coyote. Billie wanted a bigger bundle than his father’s to prove he was one of the Ni-tsi-ta-pi-ksi—the real people.

  After getting dressed and smoking a cigarette for breakfast, Billie was ready for the hunt. He sharpened his knife on a stone and stabbed the air with it a few times before tucking it into his waistband and puffing out his chest. Then he remembered to make up a few good hunting prayers, chanting them while he danced around the boulder he used for a bed, primed and ready to hunt.

  There was one problem: The sun had gathered Billie’s potential victims within its cloak of light, and there wasn’t anything to hunt. All the animals he’d heard in the night had completely disappeared, as if inhaled by Natosi’s rays. Occasionally a mouse zipped through the tall grass, or a snake. A few lizards posed on nearby rocks, sunning themselves, their heads jerking back and forth, watching for predators. None appeared.

  Then Billie remembered the beaver he’d seen in the river, but there was no way he could trap it. The animal had looked too ferocious underwater. Besides, all the beaver spirits and the government officials would hound him till the end of his days if Billie killed a major emblem of Canada —a rodent.

  He followed the river upstream, hoping to find a few thirsty creatures he could take by surprise. He’d heard the men bragging about things they’d slain and listened to their descriptions of holding down an animal with one hand and piercing between its ribs with a knife. These stories were so familiar he was sure he could do it himself. Blindfolded.

  The sun passed the mid-day point, making its descent, and the sky was clouding up, but still no luck. Billie collected some rocks and feathers and bones to put in his bundle, yet he still hadn’t found an appropriate animal to kill. Desperate, he chased a few rabbits, but they all got away.

  Then he spotted a squirrel. Moving quickly, he pounced on it, trapping it under his body. It wouldn’t make much of a bundle, but it would be better than nothing. The squirrel chattered and squirmed beneath him, trying to escape. Billie huddled over the animal, not sure what to do next. His knife was tucked into his waistband, difficult to reach in this position without releasing the squirrel. If he wanted to kill it, he’d have to squash the animal with his full body weight and hope it would suffocate quickly.

  He could smell the creature’s fear and feel its body trembling beneath his own. The squirrel’s fear became Billie’s, its thundering heart inseparable from the boy’s, vibrating the earth beneath them. He let the squirrel go. It scampered up a tree, chattering in protest, not resting until it reached the highest branches. There it crouched, black eyes alert, like bullets aimed at Billie. He watched the animal, his heartbeat returning to normal, relieved he hadn’t killed it.

  When Billie was just eleven, he’d quenched his taste for carnage, hoping to impress his father, who had given him a BB gun. Billie knocked off birds right and left, briefly earning his father’s praise. But after killing a magpie one day, he’d heard massive chirping from a nearby tree. He’d climbed it and found the bird’s nest and its babies. Realizing they wouldn’t survive without their mother, he swore then he would never slay another living creature.

  Billie shook off this painful memory. The rain came suddenly, big drops the size of quarters. He raced back to his makeshift camp and burst into a clearing, surprising a coyote hunched over a rabbit. The coyote, frightened by Billie’s sudden appearance and blood dripping from its mouth, bolted, heading off into the bush, leaving its prey behind.

  And that’s how Billie ended up with a skin to hold his medicine bundle. Since rabbits were so fertile, he also kept the tail for good luck. The well-known fertility of rabbits would guarantee his own sexual potency. Later, when he told his father and the others about his adventure, the story would shift somewhat. It was he who killed the rabbit, not the coyote.

  That night, exhausted, his matches safely stowed under the rock that was now his bed, Billie slept soundly, tucked into his nest of branches, too tired and hungry to be afraid. He dreamt he was a bird, waiting for his parents to bring him food. He woke with his mouth open—parched, expectant. No one appeared with food, but the wind visited, whirling around him, rustling the trees and scudding the clouds across the still moonlit sky, sounding like a long drawn-out moan.

  He went back to sleep, sinking into an erotic dream that ended in ejaculation. It woke him. The sound of water splashing over rocks in the river made him aware of how thirsty he was, but he couldn’t break his fast, though he did manage to dredge up saliva and wet his mouth with it.

  The sky gradually lightened. He’d now spent two nights there and was beginning to doubt he’d have a vision or find a guardian spirit. While Naa-to-yi-ta-piiksi, the spirit beings, chose not to appear to just anyone and Billie may have undertaken this torture for nothing, it still seemed worth the effort. He hoped it would show the others in his tribe that he was one of them. He also longed to be one of the Minipoka, the favored children on the rez.

  To pass the time until he received a vision, he sat on his rock and carved shapes out of pieces of wood he’d found by the river, gift offerings to the spirits—dogs, men, women, children, horses. By the end of the day, he had numerous figures surrounding him, his own village. And he was the chief. Billie also carved himself a pipe because the rain had ruined his cigarette papers. It would be a sacred pipe much like one the elders passed around their ceremonial circle, their heads wreathed in its smoke.

  Since it had turned cool, he built a fire. Then he put tobacco in his pipe and lit up, swallowing the smoke rather than inhaling it, pretending it was food, holding it inside as long as possible, wanting to feel full again. Gasping for air, he finally released a big puff that hovered over his village, mingling with the campfire smoke. That’s when he saw the beaver standing nearby, its bright beady eyes staring at Billie. Certain the pipe had given him a vision, he sucked in another mouthful, hoping for a clear image of his totem animal and guiding spirit. He couldn’t help feeling disappointed, though. Beavers seemed so common. He’d anticipated something more exotic, even a badger with its white streaks and long neck.

  Then Billie realized this wasn’t a vision. It wasn’t his guardian spirit. It was the real thing. And it was spitting mad. The beaver planted itself in front of him, baring its big teeth, more menacing
on land than underwater. It thumped its tail on the ground and hissed.

  Billie saw his visitor eyeing the villagers he’d carved; it didn’t take him long to figure out what had happened: He’d used the beaver’s store of wood for his fires and the figures he’d created. Within minutes, the beaver made wood shavings out of the village, ruining Billie’s gift offerings. And then it waddled back to the river, leaving Billie with only his smoldering pipe.

  He took a couple more puffs to steady his nerves, afraid to exhale the smoke for fear he’d really have a vision, though reality was turning out to be stranger than dreams. He dumped the wood chips onto the fire, getting some satisfaction from seeing them ignite and illuminate the darkness.

  After lowering himself onto the rock, Billie stared at the heavens. The Milky Way made him think of his semen, planted in the dirt around the rock. The wind would pick it up over time and scatter his seed far and wide, carrying his spirit with it. He finally fell into a dreamless sleep, still cradling the warm pipe in his hand. He was holding it when he woke to an overcast morning. For a moment, he couldn’t recall where he was or what had happened before dropping off. The night had passed through him like a spirit itself, invisible, stealthy, leaving not a mark, though it left him feeling disoriented. Hearing the river’s burbling, Billie recalled his visitor. The idea of being stalked by a beaver seemed laughable in the daylight. But in the dark, it had been frightening. He looked around now to be sure he was alone.

  Famished, he felt like a tree hollowed out by lightning, the taste of smoke lingering in his mouth. He didn’t have the strength to go far that day, and he wondered how he’d return to the rez without his father’s horse to ride. But he didn’t want to think about it. If the horse hadn’t found its way home, Billie was going to be in big trouble.