La Vengeance des mères

by Jim Fergus

We left the dance circle, and it took us a moment to catch our breath. There was now to be a short intermission after which we would perform our cancan, and then the general social dancing would begin, and the food roasting already on the fires would be served. Meggie and Susie now joined us, carrying the sack with our feathered tutus. They were in full face paint themselves, white with bloodred slashes on their cheeks, their eyes also rimmed in red, their curly hair unbraided, like wild red bushes growing from their heads. Although they are identical twins, we are usually able to tell them apart by certain differences so subtle that they can hardly be specified—a way of moving or reacting, a particular facial expression. Yet with their face paint they were virtually indistinguishable from each other, which renders them somehow doubly frightening; truly they looked like twin devils. With them was their friend Phemie, to whom none of us had yet been introduced.

  “You lassies did real well,” said one of them. “We could tell that the People approved of the way you danced. You were real respectful to the correct steps.”

  “Aye, and you all look good,” said the other. “The paint agrees with you. This is our friend Euphemia Washington, an African princess and great warrior. She came to watch our cancan, and also to dance a step or two herself when the social dancing begins. She’s shown the Cheyenne a few African tribal moves of her own. You will see, this girl can dance.”

  I am very nearly as tall as Euphemia myself … perhaps even as tall. I towered over my schoolmates as a child, and was taller than most of the boys. However, Phemie has such a presence … a kind of regal bearing … that when I stood before her now, I had the strange sensation, and perhaps for the first time in my life, that I was short. We all introduced ourselves briefly.

  “You know who else is here, girls, don’t you?” said one of the twins. “Sittin’ right over there, with her baby in her lap? That’s right, sittin’ beside Gertie, it’s our Martha come to watch. Now are you girls feelin’ ready?”

  “Mais oui,” said our choreographer, Lulu, “but of course we are. The welcome dance was good warm-up, but now the real show begins. Costumes, my girls!”

  All of us, including the Kellys, but with the exception of Astrid, who had chosen to sit this dance out, donned our feathered tutus. We had had only one dress rehearsal the day prior, and although Lulu tried, as usual, to put on her most positive face, she was clearly not impressed by our efforts.

  Dog Woman signaled to us that it was time to return to the circle for our dance. Many more Cheyenne had arrived by now, and more continued to arrive. Later we guessed there were over three hundred people in the audience, possibly even a greater number, all seated in rough rows around the circle. With the village of tipis spread up and down the valley, none of us had any real sense of the number of residents here, nor had we ever seen so many together in one place. We have all noted since this adventure began that it is virtually impossible to find anything to compare our life here to the world we once knew, a notion that Meggie and Susie have repeatedly reinforced. However, that doesn’t prevent us from trying to do so, simply in the largely vain hope of creating some small, familiar point of reference. The dance thus far was clearly no exception, except perhaps you might say that with the people of all ages gathering and seated, to me it bore some faint resemblance … yes, very faint, indeed … to a summer concert in the park in New York.

  With the sun set and night descending, the crest of a full moon now appeared over the hills to the east. The fire behind us burned high, the flames flickering over the eager dark faces of our audience, young, middle-aged, and old, their brown eyes sparkling.

  “Good Lord,” said Carolyn, “look at them all … I had no idea we would be dancing in front of so many. I don’t know that I can do it. My legs feel like they weigh a hundred pounds, I can barely lift my feet off the ground.”

  “But it is normal, a little stage fright,” said Lulu. “Sometimes it is even good. Once the dance begins your legs tell you what to do, you will see.”

  “I think I am going to chunder,” said little Hannah in a terrified voice.

  “What does that mean?” asked Maria.

  “It is a vulgar Liverpudlian term for vomiting,” said Lady Hall, “which I have told you, Hannah, never to use in my presence. Nor are you going to do that. I forbid it. Steady on, girl. You are one of our most lithesome dancers, but with vomit all down the front of your lovely dress, you will certainly spoil the effect. Do I make myself clear, dear?”

  “Yes, m’lady. I’m sorry.”

  “Right, lasses, I think that’s quite enough talk of legs freezin’ up and puke,” said one of the twins. And then finally she identified herself: “It’s time to put on our show. Meggie and me’ll show you all how it’s done. Start the music, Lulu.”

  “But Dog Woman does not yet give me the signal.”

  “Ah, forget about the old cock twat,” said Meggie. Start the bleedin’ music, Lulu. This is our show. And remember, girls, it’s what everyone came to see. Let’s give ’em their money’s worth. And lassies—while we’re at it, and given everything Gertie has told us we got to look forward to—let’s even try to have a wee bit of fun, why don’t we?”

  Lulu gave the signal to her musicians, who were scattered about the circle. The drummers took up the 2/4 time beat she had taught them, and the flutists and the rattlers followed suit, the buffalo horn man blowing in where appropriate. Just as we began our little routine, with some modest warm-up steps, Astrid came into the circle and joined us beside Lulu. She wore a feathered tutu herself, where she got it we did not know, but she took up the dance in perfect step with the rest of us. “I could not be the only wallflower,” she said. “Don’t worry, I know all the steps from watching your rehearsals. I practiced in private.”

  “Wonderful!” said Lulu. “Formidable!”

  The word “fun” has not been frequently springing to our lips these past days, weeks, months, and the notion itself seemed at first strangely out of context. Although we have shared a good deal of laughter in our time together—much of it ironic rather than joyful—I could not remember the last time I actually had fun … not in prison certainly … not since my daughter died … not since we moved to New York, except the good times she and I shared together … despite that man … And I think the others must have been thinking similarly. Yet Meggie’s use of this common, yet oddly foreign word seemed to free us up somehow, to relax us, to make us realize that after all we had been through, and all the uncertainty of what lies ahead, perhaps we deserved to have a little fun. We felt a wonderful sense of camaraderie with everyone together in our own little performance, and suddenly I think we stopped worrying about how the Cheyenne would receive it—after all, under the circumstances, what difference did it really make?—and we began dancing for ourselves, for the sheer joy of it, which, after all, is the whole point. We danced first in a line, then with each other, switching partners as we had rehearsed, looking at our friends’ bizarrely painted faces and preposterous homemade feather tutus, and we laughed, even the often dour-faced Astrid … we laughed.

  The enormous white moon had cleared the eastern horizon, and now illuminated the scene like a giant lantern. With the music increasing in tempo, we came to the final portion of our routine, the grand finale as it were. We danced back into our chorus line again, all nine of us—Meggie, Susie, Lady Hall, Hannah, Astrid, Maria, Carolyn, Lulu, and I—facing outward toward the people. “Remember, mes filles,” Lulu called out, “kick the stars from the sky! You can do it!” And so we did, or at least we imagined we did, which is the same thing really; flipping our tutus up, while laughing like madwomen, we kicked those stars right out of the sky.

  From those seated around the dance circle there arose assorted exclamations, growing in waves … of surprise? astonishment? shock? disapproval? appreciation? Perhaps they were enjoying our performance, or perhaps they wished to scalp us for it. We did not know, and what’s more, we didn’t give a damn. We danced with greater and greater abandon,
we laughed and we kicked as high as we could. And now the people were laughing with us, or perhaps at us, what difference did it make? For they, too, appeared to be having fun. Some of the children now ran into the dance circle, kicking their legs up, squealing and falling down laughing from their efforts. This was clearly a gross breach of dance etiquette, for Dog Woman, having now completely lost control of the event, frantically tried to shoo them away. But there is power in numbers and the children were not to be denied their chance to do this wild new dance. They simply scattered like a flock of birds at her angry approach, coming back together to dance at another place in the circle. And then my little Mouse came to me dancing, kicking her slender, willowy little legs higher than any of us but Lulu had achieved. Her broad, brown face beaming, her eyes sparkling in the firelight, she took her place beside me and followed our steps perfectly.

  We repeated our entire routine twice, dancing far longer than we had intended, until we were so out of breath that we had to stop. Which was just as well, for the social dance, with its unauthorized beginnings, was now well under way, more adults having joined the children in the circle. Mouse, too, with all the spritely energy of a six-year-old, danced off with her little friends. We had clearly forever earned the enmity of Dog Woman for fomenting this dance riot, for she scowled, scolded, and angrily wagged her finger at us.

  As we were catching our breath, some of the young men who had danced with us at the welcome dance stood together a short distance away, having removed their headdresses and with blankets wrapped around them, eyeing us out of the corners of their eyes in that curious manner the Cheyenne have of watching you without looking at you. Here again perhaps was something we could compare to our former worlds, the shyness of young men in matters of romance, a common behavior that transcends cultures and societies, savage and civilized, no matter how different their customs.

  Dog Woman had joined the boys in close conference.

  “The old twat is advisin’ ’em,” explained one of the twins, unidentifiable again, “on how to cast love spells upon you lassies she matched ’em up with in the courtship dance.”

  “But my boy looked barely past adolescence,” said Carolyn. “It is absurd. Are we to be married to children?”

  “Aye, see, the Cheyenne have lost a good number of their warriors in these past years of the Indian wars,” said the other twin, “and there are more younger men available for marriage than older just now. But some of ’em aren’t as young as they look.”

  “I like the boy I danced with,” said Hannah. “He seems my age.”

  “Mine is nice, too,” said Maria.

  “Aye, that’s because you girls are still babies,” said one of the Kellys.

  “I am not a baby,” Hannah said. “I am seventeen.”

  “And I, too,” said Maria. “But I am old for my years, for when Chucho el Roto took me from my family, I am only twelve. I like to find a nice boy here.”

  “I have eighteen years,” said Lulu, “and I have been with too many old men. I also prefer to marry a young, gentle man with soft brown skin who will be kind with me.”

  “Well, it’s true that Dog Woman has a good eye for matchmakin’,” said Susie. “They say she can think like a man and a woman at the same time … which seems a stretch to Meggie and me … but we liked the lads she paired us with, too … aye, at least until they went off to war and murdered babies…”

  “Here’s what’s going to happen now, ladies,” said Meggie. “After Dog Woman gets finished givin’ those boys instructions, they’re goin’ to come over to you, one by one, and take you aside. They’re goin’ to stand in front of you and open their blankets. That is an invitation for you to step inside, if you are so inclined. Then they’ll close the blankets around you. You don’t need to be afraid about this, they ain’t goin’ to hurt you, or try to have their way with you, they’re just goin’ to talk to you, by way of gettin’ familiar. Aye, see that’s how courtship works around here with the young lads. They’ll tell ya about themselves, they’ll talk about this and that—the dance, their family, the weather, they’ll boast about their prowess as hunters, maybe they’ll even tell ya a story—though, a’ course, you won’t understand any of it. And when they’re finished, they’ll open the blankets and let you go. See, that’s just the first step. These boys are well brought up and real respectful.”

  “And what if we do not wish to get into the blanket with them?” I asked.

  “Somehow me and Susie just knew you were goin’ to be contrary about this, Molly,” said Meggie. “Right, sister?”

  “Right as rain, Meggie,” said Susie. “You don’t need to get in the blanket if the lad doesn’t please you, Molly. You just shake your head no. He’ll close it up around him again and walk off. He’ll be humiliated about being rejected, and his friends will tease him, but he’ll get over it.”

  “I am twenty-two years old,” I said, “and the boy I was paired with looks to be about thirteen.”

  “Aye, Mol, don’t try to kid us, girl,” said Meggie, “we know damned well who you’re holdin’ out for. But don’t get your hopes up. Our May got to marry the big chief Little Wolf, but you ain’t her, and I’m sorry to tell you that you ain’t goin’ to get Hawk.”

  “You know, if I may just take this opportunity to say so, girls, I have grown tired of being unfavorably compared to your perfect little friend May Dodd.”

  “We never said she was perfect,” said Susie. “May had her faults.”

  “Really? To hear you speak of her I never would have guessed. What kind of faults?”

  “Truth be told, and God rest her soul, she was a bit of a tart, our May was … though me and Susie are hardly ones to be throwin’ stones in that regard.”

  “A tart? How so?”

  “You seen that baby of hers, haven’t ya, Molly?” Susie asked. “You think she looks anything like Little Wolf? May did the nasty with Captain Bourke before we even got to the Cheyenne. Aye, an’ he bein’ a good Jesuit boy, engaged to another at the time … She was a warm number, May, she seduced him recitin’ Shakespeare—the Bard, she called him—that was Bourke’s soft spot. The little girl you saw here in the village is his daughter.”

  “And why do you say I’m not going to get Hawk?”

  “Because he is obligated to marry his dead wife’s sister,” said Meggie. “That’s how it works here. And bringin’ you, a white woman, into the household, is never a good idea. May herself found this out livin’ in the same tipi as Quiet One and her sister, Feather on Head … that is, until they all eventually became friends.”

  I was crestfallen to learn that Hawk is required to marry his wife’s sister, though I tried not to show it.

  “Which is why we’re telling you that when your thirteen-year-old dance partner screws up his courage enough to come around and open his blanket and invite you in?… you might just want to reconsider your answer. Aye, given what’s comin’, believe us, you’ll all need a man to protect ya.”

  “Perhaps, but I don’t need a boy to protect me,” I said. “I can take care of myself.”

  “I should say we’ve done rather well without men thus far,” said Lady Hall, who had remained uncharacteristically silent during this conversation, clearly the notion of being wrapped in any boy’s blanket of no interest whatsoever to her. However, now Dog Woman’s assistant, Bridge Girl, herself clad in a blanket, approached and stood before Lady Hall, regarding her directly. “Good evening, Lady Ann Hall,” the girl said in perfectly enunciated English, with a distinctly British accent. “I knew your friend, Helen. She spoke often of you. She was my special friend, too. She taught me to speak your language. I loved her.” Bridge Girl smiled and opened her blanket wide.

  Lady Hall looked at the girl for a long moment. “Bloody hell,” she said, finally, with a smile, “my Helen, the devil! I should have known she would find herself a little friend out here. Yes, thank you, my dear, I don’t mind if I do.” She stepped inside the blanket, and Bridge Girl closed it
around them.

  “Didn’t Meggie and me tell you the old twat had a canny talent for matchmakin’?” said Susie.

  I decided to take my leave of the group then and return to our lodge. I did not wish to face my young partner with an open blanket. I was embarrassed, and more disheartened by what the twins had told me about Hawk’s marital responsibilities than I had any right to be. After all, I barely knew the man, and he hadn’t even come to the dance tonight. And yet I had fabricated and held on to a preposterous fairy tale about marrying him, as if by doing so I might have another chance … at what? I wasn’t even sure … Peace? Happiness? Escape from my former life? Escape from my guilt over the death of my daughter? I already know perfectly well that there is no escape. Getting released from Sing Sing was the easy part, but I remain forever a prisoner of my memories. What a fool I had been to harbor these small secret dreams …

  I could not leave without at least briefly saying hello to Martha and Gertie, and I went over to where they sat, with Phemie beside them. “I am so pleased to see you here tonight, Martha,” I said. “How lovely you look. And such a handsome little gentleman.”

  Martha regarded me with an expression of some confusion. “But who are you?” she asked. “How do you know my name? Have we met?”

  I looked at Phemie, then, who gave me a gentle smile and shook her head.

  “Forgive me,” I said, taking her cue. “It’s just that I’ve heard so much about you from Meggie and Susie, I feel as though I know you. My name is Molly. Molly McGill.”

  “Ah, and you are one of the new girls?” Martha asked.

  “Yes, I suppose you could say that. Did you enjoy our dance?”

  “My friends and I used to dance,” she said, “but except for Phemie, Meggie, Susie, and me, all the others have gone home now.”

  “Oh? And why haven’t you gone home, Martha?”

  Martha looked confused again, as if trying to remember. “Yes,” she said nodding, “Yes, I was on my way home. But on the way, I lost my baby boy.” She gazed lovingly down at her child. “My little Tangle Hair. I had to come back to find him.”