Curva Peligrosa

by MacKenzie, Lily Iona;

  He looked at those gathered there. Some watched him attentively. Others stared at the ground. He went on, hoping his words might make a difference: The kids need to learn trades or get a higher education. My life wouldn’t have improved if I had stayed put and not gone to the Coast.

  No one had heard Billie’s father speak so passionately of what the future might hold for the Blackfoot. The former chief had not been much of a speaker or a commander. Poverty, alcoholism, and ignorance had kept them and their leader rooted in a destructive way of life. Now Billie offered a different perspective. He opened his arms wide and whispered, forcing them to listen closely, Ni Kso Ko Wa means we are all related, but we don’t act as if we are. I want us to own this idea. Let’s help each other discover what we’re capable of.

  A buzz swirled through the group. A few listeners felt excited by Billie’s words, nodding their heads in assent and nudging each other, but many also feared where he might lead them. They weren’t used to being challenged. Nor did they believe themselves capable of something more, though Billie actually thought they could create a better future together. Yet not all rallied to his call. Some shook their heads and shuffled off, grumbling to each other about the foolish upstart and his fanciful ideas. They couldn’t conceive of changing.

  But those who heard Billie’s plea allowed his words to plant a seed in their brains. They wanted a better life for themselves and their children. They also were impressed with the way he had conducted the burial ceremony. He had concluded it by saying, My father’s spirit has left his body and is traveling westward across the prairie grass, over the Bow River, and into the mountains. It ascends the mountains to the high clouds where a bright light will guide it to the place where loved ones wait to embrace it. The spirit lives forever.

  The day following the burial, Billie called a council meeting and invited those attending to talk about their tribal history. Each spoke of his past experiences. Adam Stillwater told of his childhood living off the rez at a Christian Boarding School. He often got the strap or his head shaven if he did something the nuns didn’t like. Adam said, They forbid the kids to speak their language. If they did, Bam. Out came the strap and those bitches were strong. Boy did it sting the hands and other places. They wanted to prove our ways were bad—our dress, our language, our beliefs. All things ‘Indian.’ The treaties said the government had to make sure we got an education. They wanted to ‘civilize’ us: ‘kill the Indian and save the man’. Many nodded their heads, remembering the pain of those times themselves.

  Billie took over from Adam, reminding those gathered that they didn’t want to repeat this earlier “schooling.” They wanted to learn from this terrible time and make sure that in the future they controlled their children and what they learned. He said, We can have our own schools, taught by our people, not by white nuns. Our children can learn their own language and customs as well as things that will help them compete off the rez. We can control our own destinies.

  These words resonated with many, but they still needed to be convinced that this young, one-eyed man could actually lead them into such a future. And Robin resisted Billie every step of the way, continuing to attack his credibility. He’s the white man’s puppet, Robin said. Look, he deserted his father and his people when he took off to the Coast. Now he’s returned with all these big ideas and wants us to fit into that world. It will be worse than the Christian boarding schools.

  Robin attracted a limited audience for his accusations There also were rumblings among those who hadn’t been big fans of Billie’s father and weren’t eager for his son to be in charge, even though Billie was totally unlike the former chief. But they didn’t have enough clout to change many minds, and Robin Falling Star began losing favor, living out the meaning of his name.

  Billie showed his wisdom when, during a subsequent council meeting, he said to Robin, I need someone to help me build my house and make sure the tribe makes some progress. Will you give me a hand?

  Totally thrown off guard, Robin stared at the floor, not wanting to give Billie the satisfaction of looking him in the eye. The other tribal members watched silently, waiting for Robin’s response. He shrugged and said, Yeah, I guess I could do that.

  The log cabin Billie built for himself with Robin’s help symbolized his distinctiveness. The tribal members watched them construct it from trees that fringed the rez. Billie made it up as he went along, the whole thing shaped like one of the ships he had admired on the Coast, his own ark. The place grew unpredictably and included a lookout tower; it stood out among the surrounding shacks, and not just because of its unusual shape. He’d learned well from his Squamish friend Joe the pleasures of repairing things, so he never let his house get rundown. He kept the exterior primed, and he immediately replaced any chipped or loose chinking.

  The interior also defied expectations. There was no living room or kitchen per se, just one big space he filled with a mixture of things he loved. A wood-burning stove that he used for heat and cooking stood in the center. He resisted gas or electricity, preferring to keep some of the old ways alive. Kerosene lamps and candles lit the cabin. His one concession was running water rather than an old-fashioned pump in the kitchen.

  The lookout tower had a large skylight where he could study the constellations. A mattress on the floor served as his bed. Staring at the night sky reminded him of his vision quest. He realized now it had started him on his own personal path. When he’d left that morning alone on his father’s horse, Billie had dared to pursue a dream and to seek a connection with Naa-to-yi-ta-piiksi, the spirit beings. He also affirmed his manhood, though he hadn’t thought so at the time.

  Three

  Bone Song

  Such a long

  time from

  sun up

  till sun

  down. So

  much can

  happen in

  the empty

  spaces

  Curva on the Old North Trail

  Hola, mi estimado Xavier,

  It doesn’t feel like it at times but I’m making progress. Today I left Fort Sumner. I stopped for the Pioneer Days Rodeo and competed with the locals. It reminded me of our fiestas at home. Music. Dancing. Lots of tasty food. And good animals to ride that paid me well. I hope the money will keep me on the trail until the next rodeo stop. Maybe Albuquerque. Maybe Santa Fe. I’ll need to hibernate until spring in one of those places. I’ll try out more experiments then to find a special potion that will prolong this life. Maybe it will even bring you back from the dead.

  Last winter I mixed dog and horse pee with semen I collected from a walking marriage I had one night in Fort Sumner. I added herbs I found along the trail and had dried to use later. Stirred it all together and brought it to a boil. Let it sit for a week. Then I fed some to all my animals and myself. It knocked us out for three months. We slept like bears do. Not stirring. And I awakened full of energy, ready for the trail, but with a bad taste in my mouth. Couldn’t death be seen as a kind of hibernation?

  I know, you’ll think I’m crazy to keep trying all these brews. I can hear you saying Curva, you’ll kill yourself one day. But traveling this trail is an experiment. It’s taught me a lot about nature’s many cycles. Life returns in the spring. Why can’t animals return after death? We’re nature too.

  But I started to tell you about the big fiesta here. Two Indians came up to me after the sharpshooting contest I won. I had seen them earlier at each event that day, pushing to the front of the crowds. They shook my hand and said, You’re the best shooter we’ve ever seen.

  The old man must have been over 100. His face looked like cracked dry earth and his gray hair hung in long braids tied with bright red ribbon.

  I bowed and said Muchas gracias, señores. I’m from Meh-hi-co and I’m traveling the Old North Trail.

  The Old North Trail! they said. That made them very excited. They motioned for
me to sit down with them at a nearby table. They knew the trail well, and the older man told me about its beginnings. He said, Long ago a great tribe had lived along the eastern side of the Rocky Mountains. He waved one hand in the air and continued: North and south, up and down they went so many times they made a trail from Canada to Mexico. Many other tribes followed them, and the path became deeply rutted from all the movement back and forth. Some used it to trade goods. Some were on a sacred mission. Some just wanted to explore new lands.

  I said I was on a kind of mission, heading to Canada, and asked for any tips. They told me the main trail comes close to the city of Helena in Montana and gave me a rough map to follow. They said I would see a lone pine tree on Crow Lodge River that marks the trail. Towns have grown up right on the passage in some places, cutting it off. But they said the trail continues on the other side.

  I would never have known how to pick up the trail again if I hadn’t run into these Indians. They may have saved my life!

  I said Muchas gracias and shook their hands. Then the old man gave me a gift. He took his medicine bundle from around his neck and said, You shoot better than a man so you should have your own medicine bag. Its good spirits will protect you on your journey. Just call them if you get lost or need help. They’ll come. Don’t worry. I’ll die soon, and I want this bag to give you a long life.

  My heart went boom boom when he hung it around my neck. I touched the soft hide that held the sacred objects. It felt like a living thing, pulsing against my skin. I know these bundles are sacred to their owners, and I take the gift seriously.

  The old man and his friend shuffled away. Dazed, I returned to the camp and carefully opened my gift. I was surprised that such ordinary things could have so much power: Seeds (I’ll have to plant them someday so I can see what they are). Pinecones. Rocks. Animal teeth and claws. Tobacco. Beads. An arrowhead.

  I wear the bundle around my neck and hope its magic works for me. I can use some when the trail disappears at times and it’s easy to lose my way.

  Billie & Curva

  Billie felt blindsided by Curva. She had crept up on his blind side before he could find his balance, snaring him in her lusty lovemaking and delicious cooking. His experience with women had been limited to ones he’d met while at the Coast and on the Squamish reserve. His sisters also offered him limited insight into the opposite sex, as did those tribal women he’d known all his life that seemed like sisters to him.

  Curva was anything but a sister. Untamed and unpredictable, she was an animal that couldn’t be fully domesticated and like no other woman he’d known. It made her even more appealing to Billie. She insisted on being free of unnecessary restraints. Bold, she challenged him to be more of a man because she was so much of a woman. He had to reach deep to match her, and he almost didn’t make it.

  Still, she was fascinated by his ability to create art. She said, Bee-lee, it’s magic, pure magic, and watched like an entranced child while he worked. Look, she said, things seem to come alive from your touch.

  This conversation took place in Billie’s big, rust-colored barn. He’d turned it into a workspace where he and Robin showed some of the rez kids how to do a variety of things, from simple carpentry—chairs, cradles, tables—to carving animals, spoons, bowls, and more. Hammers, saws, chisels, gouges, clamps, vises, rasps, and other tools Billie had brought with him from the Coast, competed for space with paint-splattered surfaces, brushes, cans of colored paint, huge rolls of paper, and additional art supplies. Small figures in every possible posture that he had carved from wood—human and animal—roosted on any available space. Curva flitted from one thing to the next, touching and studying each item.

  She asked, If you’re the beeg chief, do your people mind you working so much in here?

  Billie laughed: Being chief is not so big. I lead more by giving everyone a vision of what we could do if we pulled together. Building a museum to feature Blackfoot history and those ancient bones will be a big step for us.

  Since returning to the Blackfoot reserve from his travels, Billie had focused on his artwork, his main source of income, though he now also was spending more time at the burial ground. Because of his work ethic, Billie had become a model for the tribal members of a successful, committed worker, just as Joe had been for Billie.

  Curva held a small carving of a bison Billie had made and whistled approvingly.

  Billie laughed and said, It’s Joe you should be thanking. He taught me everything I know about this stuff.

  Joe? Curva asked.

  Yeah. The Squamish man I’ve mentioned. He rescued me when I was just a kid and became like a second father to me. My spiritual father.

  Curva stopped where Billie was working and stroked his back. She said, Now I remember. Joe must have shown you how to contact the spirits through art. You’re constructing another world with all these things. You give life in your art!

  Billie hadn’t thought of his creations in that way before, though he did lose himself in the materials and at times felt the spirits communicated with him through them. He sensed their presence nearby, and the creatures he sculpted even seemed to move slightly. Their limbs trembled and their eyes followed his gestures. This happened also in the paintings he did and the totem poles he carved. If the art allowed the spirits to talk to him, to let him know they were awake and watching, then maybe his creations did point to something beyond the surface of ordinary life. This vital communication with the beyond made Billie even more eager to be working in his barn as well as the burial ground. He felt he was an important link.

  As much as Billie enjoyed his time with Curva, Henry had become a problem. They couldn’t avoid running into each other in town, though the last time they’d said more than a terse hello was years earlier when they’d fought over the fish they’d caught.

  Now Billie was doing more than sharing a fishing pole with Henry. They were sharing a woman. And Billie didn’t like it any more than he had when they’d gone fishing together. Billie had his own pole now and didn’t need anything from Henry, including a woman. It became the one dark spot in his involvement with Curva.

  Billie tried not to think about it. He filled his days with plans for the burial ground, working with the bones, and making art. He also thought about ideas he had for a museum of dinosaur bones and Blackfoot history he was designing with the help of a Native architect, a man that shared Billie’s vision. Billie also planned to record the tribe’s history in a mural, a task that would take him a lifetime.

  One afternoon, Billie was working on a small totem at the burial ground when Victor turned up. The boy stood there, fidgeting, watching Billie flash the knife over the wood surface. A blizzard of tiny chips flew everywhere, some landing in Victor’s hair.

  I came to help out with the bones, he said, shaking the chips out of his hair.

  Billie glanced at Victor, recognizing the planes of Henry’s angular face in the boys’ features—the same jutting jaw. Victor was already tall for his age and lanky. His straw-colored hair flopped over his forehead, cut, it appeared, by either Henry or Curva.

  Billie stopped whittling and cleared his throat before speaking. Sorry. Only Indians can handle them. You got a name?

  Victor stared at his saddle shoes. They were badly scuffed. He scratched his name in the dirt with the toe of one shoe. There, he said.

  Billie looked down. The boy had written “Satan.” You’re pretty famous, all right.

  Victor blushed and turned away.

  Who named you Satan, guy? Billie picked up his carving knife again and attacked the wood.

  My mother, Victor said, swinging a chain he’d found on the road. It was about three foot long.

  Your mother, eh, Billie blurted out. I hear she didn’t hang around long after she had you.

  Billie felt like kicking himself for what he’d said. The kid didn’t need to hear his mother hadn’t wante
d him; he already knew that. Maybe Billie was seeing something of himself in Victor, though he had been a lot older when Sighing Turtle left. That had given Billie plenty of time to get attached to her. Victor didn’t have a chance to hang out with Olga, his mother, except when he was in her womb, but Billie supposed that was long enough to feel a strong connection.

  Victor flicked the chain against the outside of Billie’s trailer and spit in the dirt. My dad and Curva are raising me.

  They are, eh? Do they call you Satan?

  Victor ducked his head. It’s my nickname. I picked it.

  Billie stopped carving for a minute and looked up. What’s this Satan guy got that you want?

  I just like the way the word sounds. And I heard he was supposed to be the prince of this world. I wouldn’t mind being a prince. Victor stood up straight and flung aside an imaginary cape, almost looking like a prince in that moment. Billie could understand the boy’s desire to be something special. He’d had the same kind of longings when he was young. He still did at times. Many of the bones he was protecting belonged to his warrior ancestors. Thinking about the courage it had taken to attack other bands as well as whites made him feel inadequate in comparison. He never could get the hang of bows and arrows. And guns scared him. He had to admit it was one of the things about Curva that intrigued him, her ease with firearms and her total lack of fear in their presence. He’d watched her practice target shooting, shaking a little in his boots whenever he heard a shot.

  Now he swiped at a long strand of hair that dangled in front of his one good eye and said, Victor’s a pretty good name too. It’s an even better name than Satan. It means you’re the winner. Satan’s a loser.