Ulysses Dream

by Tim White

  Of the nine arrows the boys had left in the bear, only a few were still sticking. There wasn’t much blood that they could see. The bear roared while he looked at Joey. It started to swim for the iceberg, and the boys all swam hard for the shore, running up Matterhorn Ridge.

  Ulee and Patty waited and shot more arrows into the bear. Patty put an arrow deep in one eye, but the bear knocked it off with a massive paw as the eye bled. They were hoping and praying that he would give up. It looked like a fight to the death—an instinct as old as time.

  They dove off the floating iceberg at the last minute and swam rapidly for the shore. Jacky and Stick shot at the bear as he followed their brothers in the lake. This was the retreating method of the Nez Perce. Jacky and Stick stayed and threw big rocks at the swimming bear when he got within twenty feet. The two boys shooting from the lake edge ran to be covered by two of their brothers firing arrows about sixty yards away. This was Ulee and Patty, and when they had given Stick and Jacky enough of a head start they ran with incredible speed to join their brothers.

  By the time the four boys began to reach the granite walls of the Matterhorn, the bear was right behind them. It was long enough for the boys to get to the sheer granite side of the Matterhorn. A mountain climber would use all their equipment to climb this cliff, but the boys had perfected the ability to run up the granite. It is hard to imagine unless you have ever done it, but they would climb using the techniques that they had been taught. They used feet and hands and always had a safety grip at each advance. The bear’s size made it difficult to pursue the agile boys. But the one trick they knew that is hard to imagine is that when the cliff reached a seventy-degree angle, they would stand up and run on the nearly vertical cliff with the rubber from their sneakers holding on to the smooth granite like a basketball court. They could only do this in twenty-yard bursts, but they lost the bear, and by nightfall, they were at the summit of the Matterhorn.

  “We are safe, for now,” sighed Joey.

  Heath and Whitey started to cry.

  “We lost Argos.” Joey replied as a grown warrior. “He gave his life for us. He was bred to do that, just as we were bred to fight with fierce courage.”

  Joey then commanded the boys like he was their father.

  “Ulee, you stay here. No fire, no sound. Rub off the scent of your sweat with the feces of the mountain goats. Two brothers on guard with bows to the ready. When anyone sleeps, keep your hand on your knives. Remember what dad says, ‘To fight like wolves.’ All of us together—we are invincible.”

  “Where are you going?” Ulee asked.

  “I am going out to scout for weapons, the enemy, food, and sign,” said Joey.

  There was a storm coming in, and it was starting to rain.

  “This rain will make you cold, so huddle together, but in the dark it will make me invisible,” Joey said.

  The boys gathered the water in the granite niches and drank. Joey disappeared into the darkness.

  Ulee could smell the bear. Patty said it was his imagination. Stick said he heard it. Ulee led his brothers to the tunnels that had been mined on the surface of the granite. It was about a half a mile from where they left Joey on the ridge to Sacajawea Point. They squeezed in and scavenged some of the small evergreens on top of the mountain and prepared to start a fire at the entrance. They waited and rested; truth be told, they were all still terrified.

  They heard a sound. This time they all heard it. Ulee let out the sound of a ground squirrel. It was answered. All the boys smiled; it was Joey. He had been gone for two hours. He came back with more firewood, some wild onions, and some worms to eat. The onions made them a little sick, and the earthworms just tasted like dirt. He even had a six-inch trout he had caught with his hand in one of the high streams between Matterhorn and Sacajawea Point. That meant they each got a bite. This was delicious even raw.

  Joey sent Ulee out while the boys were eating. “Find a hiding place and make sure to disguise your scent. Roll in some of the evergreens so you smell like a tree, not a man. And stay alert, smelling, hearing, or seeing him before he sees you.”

  Ulee was scared and his heart was pounding. He wished Patty could have come with him, but he could see how much more invisible he was in the dark by himself. Mud camouflaged his light skin. He listened and breathed as quietly as he could, one hand on his knife, the other on his bow.

  The boys heard the sounds of squirrels sounding their warning in the distance. Ulee was all alone out there. Patty woke up and told Joey, “You should not have sent him out alone. Remember the buddy system.” Patty said.

  “Yes, but this is war, and he needs to be invisible,” Joey said. “I am going out to get him; you are war chief here, Patty. Light the fire at the entrance if you know the bear is nearby. Remember, everybody fights together.”

  Ulee was hiding in a crevice in the granite on the west face of the mountain. He watched in the darkness set against the small light from the summit view. In his bones he knew the bear was nearby. He wanted to panic and run. He began to tremble from the cold thin air. He was at nearly 10,000 feet. But just as Ulee’s father had taught him while hunting, he took control of his breathing. He willed his muscles not to shiver. He told himself the wilderness was his home. He felt at home. Then the bear appeared on the horizon but it did not see him. Ulee was invisible to the half-blind bear. The native boy slowly sat up—he was in a shadow.

  Ulee pulled back his sixty-pound bowstring just like he had a thousand times. He didn’t even need to think about it. He slowed his breath and let the arrow fly, as calm as he had ever been in his life. He saw it strike just behind the shoulder of the grizzly and pierce all the way through both lungs. Big Foot had no idea what had happened; it was all so silent. The grizzly just felt the pain and ran off with a burst of adrenaline, looking for his attacker.

  Just as Joey was getting ready to leave, they heard a painful growl. Patty said, “Ulee got him!”

  Then in ran Ulee. “Light the fire!” he said with enthusiastic urgency. “Big Foot is out there.”

  Joey asked, “Did you get him?”

  “Yes,” Ulee said. “The rain storm made me invisible just like when we hunt. I heard him coming and I lay in a crevice. His silhouette gave me a perfect target from ten yards away. I put one right behind his shoulder. It should have hit the heart and pierced both the lungs, just the way we would take a black bear.”

  “Did he go down?” Joey asked.

  “No,” said Ulee. “He ran off, so I can’t be sure. But he is bleeding out now.”

  They heard a sound and saw a huge dark figure with bright eyes following Ulee’s trail. Finally, the intruder galloped toward them, knocking Heath over with his final leap. Ulee started to stab when he realized it was Argos, who was licking him like nobody’s business. Argos broke the silent code and cried as he licked Heath and Whitey. Ulee told him to be quiet. Beauceron are smart, and Argos quieted right down, still bleeding where the bear had slapped him. Joey quieted them all.

  “I think we should not have lit the fire,” he said. “And we should not have made so much noise when Argos came back.

  Immediately, a low growl came out of Argos. Big Foot was near. Argos could smell him. Joey stoked the fire at the entrance of the tunnel and said, “Big Foot knows where we are now.” Joey had brought back some sticks, which they each sharpened and hardened with the fire, finally peeing on them, which made them somewhat poisonous. The bear lunged in and grabbed Stick, dragging him out of the tunnel. Argos, though wounded, attacked and tore at the groin of the bear. This was the technique of the Beauceron in hunting bear or boar. The spear sticks in the hands of the boys just snapped as they formed their flanks at the entrance of the cave. Ulee grabbed Stick’s legs and was trying to hold on, but the strength of the bear was unpredictable and he escaped carrying their brother in his mouth. He was gone in the darkness on the peak of the Matterhorn. Immediately, Joey told Ulee to give him his knife. Ulee said, “No, I go with you—we will die togethe
r.” Joseph Achilles Sundown commanded, “Get my brothers down safely. Live a long life. This is my moment.”

  Ulee handed Joey his knife. There was no time for a goodbye. Ulee dove into the darkness. The bear towered over Stick, whose collarbone had been broken with the first bite of the bear. Argos, still holding on to the bear’s groin and tearing with his jaws, was batted to the side by the bear, breaking a leg. Joey ran headlong into the grizzly, shouting war cries, stabbing him twice with the two knives. The bear swatted at Joey, but Joey blocked him with the razor-sharp bowie knife that was given to him by his grandfather. The cut nearly took off the bear’s paw.

  Ulee came out of the cave with his bow and could not get a shot. He finally let another strong shot go into the leg of the bear that his brother was gripped with in a death struggle. The other brothers all came out with knives in hand. The bear looked up and was distracted, knowing this was his end. Joey shoved the blade of his other knife under the bear’s chin and through its brain and then twisted the knife, just as he had been taught. Now Joey tackled the bear on the sheer cliff that they were standing on precariously, and together they fell over 1,000 feet to their deaths.

  It all happened in what seemed like a moment. Ulee gathered the boys back in the cave and started another fire. No one said anything. Than Stick began to yell.

  “Joey, Joey, Joey!”

  Patty carried Argos back to the cave, where the dog was whimpering. Heath joined in: “Joey!” Hector wouldn’t stop, “Joey!” Jackson yelled, “Joey, you are a great warrior.”

  Patty cried, “Joey, you are worthy of Chief Joseph’s name. You too are a chief. The spirit of the bear is with you.” Ulee said nothing.

  Chapter Two

  My Odyssey

  THE CHILDREN CLAP and the adults smile as the story of the seven brothers ends. They have had heard it so many times before, but always react with the same surprise and enthusiasm. They glance at the huge brown bear rug on the wall still looking fearsome. They see themselves in those boys. And, I suppose they see themselves in me.

  Just as they have done so many times before, they ask for me to share my story. I pretend to be reluctant, but I know my roots are theirs. To know themselves, they must know me. I relent. Mine is a dark story, sad. It conveys darkness and then light.

  I was born in 1954 in a small village in the cloud rainforest of Honduras. This was the same year that Ulysses Looking Glass Sundown was born in the Wallowa Mountains of northeastern Oregon. $

  My first memories are romanticized with time and the fog of childhood. Growing up in the paradise of Comayagua, a little village in the cloud rainforest of Honduras was idyllic. My mother was beautiful. Her name was Isabela Maria Morales. My father was a good man named Jesus Benito Morales. He worked for an equivalent of fifty cents a day in the coffee fields or banana plantations. He rented his machete for twenty-five cents a day from the plantation owners, who owned much of our nation; in fact, they had once owned what is now Southern California.

  We lived in a grass hut with a mud floor as most of our people did. I was the oldest of six surviving kids. Two of my brothers had died as babies. I did not know it, but the mud floors were terrible for passing parasites, which killed many of our people. The lack of safe water and sewage problems caused lots of death and illness, too. And hornets used to hide in the thatched grass. If they bit you, they made you very sick, much like the bite of the scorpion. So many died when they were children in our village.

  Our grief was hard, but it was not a trail that we walked alone. Our family and our village were very close, which made us collectively rich. We grew our own corn and we had our own chickens—even a goat.

  None of us had been born in a hospital, and so we did not have birth certificates. Technically, we were not citizens of Honduras, or any country, although our people had lived here for thousands of years. In fact, in legal eyes, we were non-persons.

  My father had been educated by missionaries at a Wesleyan Christian orphanage called Manuelito. Papa loved history and would tell me imaginary stories of the history of my people, the Mayans. In fact, on cool nights, our village neighbors would gather around a fire and listen to the romance and idealism in my father’s stories.

  First there was dancing and then the big fire. My father would tell his stories in response to the pleas of the children of the village. They would grow silent; we could hear the sounds of the jungle and the crackle of the fire. I studied him, sitting proudly among the villagers, feeling special.

  My father would become very animated. “In this cloud forest there are poisonous snakes, jaguars who weigh up to 300 pounds, and crocodiles that villagers say measure up to thirty feet. But it is in this very jungle that our grandfathers and grandmothers built a proud civilization. They were ruled by no man from the outside. They knew more than anyone in the world about mathematics and the stars. There were kings and queens and princesses. Noble warriors fought for our safety and came home to be rewarded with the love of princesses. I think my beautiful wife Isabela Maria is descended from the blood from such princesses. And some of you are, too. Others here who look like you are descended from the crocodile or wild boar.”

  Everyone laughed because they knew he was teasing us. When you are poor and you don’t own your home, your tools, or your land, it feels like you are a slave. Many of the children died with bloated stomachs from infections that could be cured with a clean water source or modern septic systems. All of this pain caused our joy to be simple and sweet. The next morning, after the fire story, I heard my father ordering my eldest brother, Jose, to get ready for work. At a young age, the boys became laborers. They were part of our income and our family protection. Jose did not look like himself. My younger brother Homer teased that he looked like he was descended from the crocodile. He looked a little green. Jose did not want Mamma’s handmade corn tortillas for breakfast. He would not even drink water.

  After they left for work, I walked around the village with my brother, Homer, looking for kids to play with. The mosquitoes were terrible this time of year. A few of our friends told us they were sick, and the rest told us their parents were afraid of the mosquitoes and they needed to stay by the fire. About an hour after Jose and Daddy left for work, my father came home carrying Jose in his arms like a baby.

  “Isabela—Isabela—Jose is burning up from fever.”

  Some other women came to our home to try and feed Jose a soup made from roots that might help. He was so sick from both ends. He hallucinated and cried out and then shivered.

  About that time, my younger brother, Homer, came down with the dreaded illness. I took my turn caring for them, and when I brushed Homer’s hair back from his face, he cried and said, “Penelope, stop hurting me.” Mamma said it was all right; that is what dengue fever does. We were all circled around Jose, who was more ill than Homer.

  Our family priest said the last rites when Jose took his last breath. I walked out of our hut crying; my mama tried to comfort me, but grief overcame her. My dad, Jesus, walked up to try and say something that made sense of this senseless theodicy, this tragic act of God. He broke down and cried like a baby when he tried to speak. I went to Homer, my little brother, and hugged him. At least he was still alive. We didn’t know that the second time you get dengue fever is the most lethal time. This was Jose’s second time and Homer’s first. We held on to each other in the craziness of this horrible moment. Homer began to recover, knowing how close he had come to death. We were scared because we could hear our mother and father crying as the priest tried to comfort them.

  The priest told my family, “Death is expected; life is the surprise.”

  While the village mourned Jose, I slipped away with Homer, who was feeling better but still weak. We played in the rainforest. There is so much life there. There are eighteen species of lizards and more kinds of snakes than we could count. Flowers, plants, waterfalls, and a variety of insects more numerous than a peasant family could keep track of. Amazing insects would buzz ou
t a warning, telling us ahead of time when there would be an equatorial downpour just by how they sensed the humidity increasing. The flowers were a world of faith unto themselves.

  My early memories are surprisingly clear, but most of all, I remember the lovely simplicity of our lives and the beauty of the land of our forefathers in which we worked and played. Papa Jesus Morales told us we were no better than slaves; I did not know what he meant. I remember missionaries coming to visit us. They would give the children candy and then take pictures of us sitting on their laps. All I knew of this was that my father resented it.

  When I was five years old, my papa took us to the Copan ruins. We rode the bus; one of the guests of the missionaries had slipped my father some lempira—this was the money that allowed our family to travel for the first time. We saw the Mayan ruins and learned more about our heritage being Mayan, or native, as well as Spanish.

  In Copan, the Mayan culture was one of the most important in America. This ancient culture flourished in the western part of Honduras, leaving many different costumes and traditions that can be traced to days long past. In some of the mountain villages, the people still wear the colors of their ancestors as the Mayans continued to revolt against the Spanish and aristocracy for almost five hundred years for their independence. And they were forced to wear only the colors of their village so that they could not travel and organize revolution. As a child, I remember that we wore these colors with pride, and I wondered which village band our family was descended from. Papa’s enthusiasm for our noble heritage was contagious.

  I didn’t want an uneventful and safe life, I preferred an adventurous one.

  My mother, Isabela Maria Morales, looked beautiful and almost always seemed to glow, seeing that my father, her husband, loved their six children. The second oldest brother near my age was Homer, who was eleven months younger. He too was so proud that we were Mayan, but he agreed with his big sister on most things.