Four Souls Page 13

  “Ahhh,” I sighed. Just a little sigh, like some wind caught in the branches. He stepped closer. His nose twitched back and forth.

  “Piindegen! Come into my cabin and have a cup of tea with me,” he cried. “There’s a chill in the air today.”

  “Mmmm,” I crooned. I had to agree with him. The tea sounded just the thing. So I entered his evil nest.

  Inside, the place was chaos. Piles of junk everywhere. Bones in one corner, rags in another. No place to sit and barely room to stand up. Shesheeb hobbled to the stove and poked some embers, added a new bit of wood. There was a mashed old iron pot on top of the stove with some oily tea in it. This, he tried to heat up. Next to the pot was set a can with scum in the bottom—soup maybe. His supper, no doubt. I couldn’t help but gloat and in my gloating wonder at my luck in holding on to a woman who kept things comfortable for me, cooked my food, and never let my tea grow cold and unpleasant-tasting like the tea that Shesheeb gave me now. I took a drink. Though it was only half warmed up, still the tea seemed to fill my bones with a slow, hot, blooming sensation. I finished the stuff and then, in spite of myself, I wanted more. Which was when it hit me. He’d hit me. Shesheeb had medicined me and I’d fallen for it! He was smiling now, just a little smile, private and knowing. Here, I’d felt sorry for him. I had let him lure me into his cabin where he could play on his strengths, where he knew his way around. I was suddenly sure that he knew exactly who I was and had planned this moment. Perhaps he’d even drawn me to him through the woods!

  Though blind and decrepit, he had power. I must watch myself.

  “Ooooh,” I trailed the sound as I put down my snakish brew. Shesheeb actually shuddered a little, as if he found me irresistible. He reached around behind himself and picked up a hand drum and drumstick with knowing authority.

  “May I play a little song for you?” he said, his voice a slippery whine. Without waiting for my answer, he struck the drum. “Niimin,” he ordered. Without wanting to at all, I stood. Completely against my will, I began to dance just as he directed. Quietly, with even movements, in exact time with the drum and the strange song he sang whose words I still cannot remember, I bobbed in the shadowy mess of Shesheeb’s cabin. I tried to stop myself, to still my legs, to make my feet heavy and quit. But I could not and the movement of my body soon filled me with horror as nothing else had ever done. I was quickly becoming exhausted, too, reeling from the wine I’d drunk and the long stumble back from town. Still my feet rose and stamped down. My legs trod. I jigged. If I danced much longer, I knew that my old heart would burst, but as long as Shesheeb sang his song and struck his drum I was caught, shuffling one foot to the next. I felt myself going, bright spots shifting across my vision, pains shooting through my lungs. I would have died right there, I know it, if my love medicine had not unexpectedly showed up and worked itself.

  Shesheeb’s dog, most surely not allowed in the cabin, bounded suddenly in and greeted its master. With a cry, almost of fear, Shesheeb tried to shoo it out. It had been a good while since I’d treated that dog, by accident, but even though sweat dripped into my eyes and stung me I could see that dog clearly enough to recognize the poor runt, the sad little outcast fellow who’d been quick enough to lap up my love powder. Now, to my surprise, Shesheeb became flustered by its presence. Could it be that the dog, whom in fact I’d heard rumored was the slyest stud yet seen on the reservation, was somehow in the habit of intimidating Shesheeb? The old duck beat the drum a little faster. The dog groveled and licked his knee. He tried to kick the dog away and keep on singing at the same time, but suddenly it was obvious that my love powder was too strong. The dog fell into a sudden passion, hunkered over, and began to make love to Shesheeb’s old shin with a vicious ardor that cared not for sharp words or strikes of the drumsticks or wild blows. That dog humped away like the devil and broke Shesheeb’s rhythm with its thrusts. Released, I pushed past the dangerous old medicine man and staggered into the sunlight and freedom of the yard and then the woods, for I did not even pause, but plunged forward in a stupor of relief until I reached the main road.

  There, I stopped. Which way to turn, home or town? Either way, I had nothing to lose. What was there for me now but more shame and misery? Why not go down, to the bottom of my life, all the way? It occurred to me that in the nuns’ cellar other casks of wine were stored—cool, dark, and safe. My steps went sideways, as though drawn in that direction by a call. Surely, I thought, finding myself back on the road to town, the chance to divert wine from the lips of the priest and parish to the gullet of Nanapush was far, far too good to pass up. So I continued down the long, dusty road.

  I slept the afternoon away in the cemetery, and woke at dusk raging with a deep and unbearable thirst. I’d been thirsty before, but never like this. My thirst was a gripping force that both made my head swim and keenly focused my brain. It was a powerful longing that alerted my whole body to one intention.

  I agonized for an hour at least in my mystic dryness before I thought it safe once again to approach the nuns’ residence. Again, as before, I listened to the nuns’ prayers beneath their window, and dispensed my fervent wish for their well-being through manaa. Again, I crept to the cellar’s entrance and opened it with great care, attempting not to let the boards creak. I slid into the gloom and felt my way with enormous care to the shelf that held the kegs of wine. And then, just as I embraced the round barrel, and just as I hoisted it in a strength born of momentary joy, a crash resounded behind me. The cellar door slammed shut. I froze. A woman’s voice rang out. Sister Hildegarde Anne!

  “Wine thief!” she cried in triumph. “I’ve trapped you! There is no way out. When morning comes, we’ll see who you are! As if we don’t know,” she said sarcastically, “you old degenerate.”

  I heard a heavy board slide into place outside, barring the door. Crowing, jangling her keys, telling me to rest well because the reservation drunk tank would surely be a noisier place than the cellar, she left. I was alone once more, but far less disturbed by my capture than you might think. The main question that immediately entered my mind was this: How much of the parish wine could I drink before morning? How many kegs could I enjoy?

  I CAN ’T TELL YOU the number, to this day. I don’t remember that night after the first hour or so that I spent chugging my fill. I suppose I was happy, but I must content myself with other people’s memory. Father Damien says that he woke in the middle of the night convinced a powwow was taking place in the convent. I sang and danced, I know that. I was a one-man powwow, I think. The next morning, I was laid out cold when the Pukwans came and got me. When I woke in the stinking jailhouse, I was confused by my surroundings. Gradually, I was able to place myself. Our drunk tank at the time was no more than one side of a log cabin barricaded off from the other half, which the Pukwans proudly called their headquarters. Both sides were exactly the same except that theirs had a three-legged table, the legless side supported by a crate, and on the wall a rack of antlers that held an ancient shotgun. The floors of both sides were dirt and the walls were plain log, the bark scraped off in strips. My side smelled worse of piss, as well as the rank heaves of earlier drunks. The only light came through slots near the roof and the front door, which was habitually left open so that the flies could travel freely in and out. I was shocked by a dipper of cold water splashed hard in my face, and I clenched my eyes shut. Another dipper of water stung me.

  “Enough!” I put my hand up and struggled to sit. I was hampered, it seemed, by a sheet wound around my legs.

  “Come look at the mindimooyenh,” yelled one Pukwan to the other.

  I staggered to my feet, tried to walk, tripped and rolled out the door into dazzling light.

  “How did this woman’s dress get on me, my brothers?” I asked the Pukwans, sincerely puzzled.

  “You pulled it over your fat head,” said Edgar. Then, with relish, he added, “Do you know what today is?”

  “Today,” I said, thinking as quickly as my throbbing old brain wo
uld allow, “is the day we dress as women.”

  Both Pukwans burst into howls and sneers of derision.

  “His brain has for sure flipped over in his skull,” they agreed. “He has forgotten this is the day of the council meeting.”

  They were right, I had forgotten. This was the morning I was to present the plan I had worked so hard on to everyone who cared to attend the big meeting. As the tribal chairman, I was supposed to preside, and then call a vote on whether to accept the large settlement of money that was offered should we only leave our scrap of land.

  “Lend me clothes,” I begged the Pukwans, instantly doubling the volume of their hilarity. When they refused, I drew myself up straight and tried to reclaim my dignity.

  “Well, if you won’t give me clothes,” I said, brushing at the skirt of the dress, “at least let me fix myself up. Give me a comb, a mirror, and a basin of water. A little rouge wouldn’t do me any harm, either.”

  “Holy Jesus!” Their mirth increased and became almost unbearable. They found the items I’d requested. As they watched me braid my hair in perfect plaits, pull out my straggling beard hairs, smooth my eyebrows, and put some color into my cheeks, they were so wretchedly overcome with the humor of it all that they didn’t bother to charge me with disorderly conduct, but merely waved me out the door while they convulsed like children in each other’s arms.

  If only I had not been so thorough in my demonstration for Margaret’s benefit! If only I had worn my other clothing underneath! Unfortunately, I investigated and found I’d brazenly stripped right down to my skin. Although I was horrified at my situation, I had to admit that I felt pretty good in Margaret’s dress—it was soft, and the air was cool, flowing up against me from underneath. Also, from what I saw in the mirror, it was becoming to me. I didn’t look half bad. Still, I had no idea what I could possibly do to maintain my position of respect once I appeared before everyone assembled at the meeting. I thought of two people on the way, whose clothes I might beg, but they weren’t home. Doubtless, they were waiting for me with the others at the powwow arbor, ready to decide the entire future of our tribe.

  The day was splendid, a day of blue sky and puffy little clouds, the kind of day which on any other occasion I would spend catching fish, picking berries, setting snares, or just poking around in the bush. It was so beautiful, in fact, that in spite of my dismal prospects, I just had to stop and say a special prayer of thanks to the creator of us all, who had taken such pains in providing just the right amount of breeze, and tinted the sunlight an inspiring transparent golden color. Lost in praise, I hardly noticed that I was near the trading store, where at that hour people sat outside gossiping about whomever might happen by. A family of tourists who had come to the reservation to find some photo-worthy Indians spotted me, standing stock-still in the road.

  “There’s one!” I turned to see a man dragging his wife and children from their automobile. I started walking away at a quick, yet dignified pace, but they hurried after me. I tried to run, but the dress bound my legs and the family quickly surrounded me, asking to take a photograph.

  “You’re the first one we’ve met wearing a colorful costume!” cried the woman. “Would you mind standing still?” I had no choice, as two large children suddenly gripped me by the shoulder and arms, pinning me upright. I felt the young boy startle as he saw me close up.

  “She’s an ugly old woman though, isn’t she, Mama!”

  “Hush,” the mother said.

  “Ugly?” I am embarrassed to say this, but the boy’s remark hurt my vanity.

  “Get your hands off me,” I cried, but the children’s hands pinched harder. They were strong as little cows, and although I attempted to struggle, they held me fast with big grins pasted to their faces. I changed my tactics.

  “Truly, I must be going now,” I humbly begged the parents. “I must take my leave. So let us all stand together for our picture.” I gestured to Zozed Bizhieu, who stood amazed with speculation on the steps of the trader’s store.

  “Ombe omaa, Zozed,” I called, “take a photo of us together! Tell me exactly when you’re going to push the button!”

  Zozed put down her bundle, and I arranged myself in the middle of the family.

  “On the count of three,” Zozed called out, “bezhig, niizh, niswi…”

  With an agile move, just as she clutched the camera, I turned around, bent over, and lifted the dress over my buttocks. While the parents were still in shock, I righted myself swiftly and did a rousing and educational French cancan dance, an anatomy lesson that enlightened the amazed children until the mother recovered her wits, put her hands across the children’s eyes, and screamed. Before the father could gather himself and punish me, I fled. Cross-country through the bush, uphill, toward the arbor, I sprinted, not chancing the road. All the way there I prayed and I sang for those children, hoping I had not confused them too thoroughly by revealing a man’s equipment underneath a woman’s skirts.

  THERE WAS nothing for it, I counseled myself, but to go forward boldly and rely on inspiration. When I reached the arbor, I strode to the center of the dance ground, and instead of skulking and cringing in shame, I threw open my arms. I turned in a circle and let people gawk and chatter and react with owlish surprise while my brain worked in a fever. When their speculation died away and they fell silent in anticipation, I opened my mouth. I didn’t know what I’d say. I was surprised to hear my words flow into the air, but even more, I was surprised to see that people slowly lost their expressions of amusement and mirth, and regarded me with an increasingly serious composure. As close as I can remember, here are the words that emerged.

  “Friends, relatives, nindinawemaganidok, I am Nanapush, witness of disasters, friend of folly, a man of the turtle clan, a son of old Mirage whose great deeds brought our people back to life. I am one hundred percent pure Anishinaabeg and I speak my language and the English both. But today, that English language tastes foul, tastes rancid in my mouth, for it is the language in which we are, as always, deceived. Lies are manufactured in that English language. All the treaties are written in English, are they not? In its wording our land is stolen. All the labels on the whiskey bottles are in English, do you agree? When we drink from the English bottles we piss away our minds. How can we speak English when the truth lies heavy on our Ojibwe tongues?

  “You have made free with your laughter. You have subjected this dress, which my wife has made, to derision and to ridicule. You have satisfied yourselves at the expense of this piece of clothing I am wearing. Now let us speak of where it came from—the spirits. Let us speak of the decision before us—which also involves the spirits. Let us speak of my wife, Margaret, who is also called Rushes Bear. For the spirits, again, have called on her. Let us speak of her vision.

  “This vision occurred to Margaret in the bush where the trees grow thick, near our cabin. That is when she saw the making of this dress, which some of you know was made with nothing ever touched by the chimookomaanag. This dress is sacred. This dress was made with healing in mind. So how, you wonder, did old Nanapush come to wear it?

  “That is a very good question.

  “Some of you are my friends, and some of you are my enemies. I make no distinction, but tell the truth no matter who you are. Whether you love me or hate me does not affect my story. Although I have faith in the old ways, I finally was persuaded to try the Eucharist last night. Father Damien and my dear wife have been after me for years to receive the benefit of the whiteman’s God, and at last, I did give in to their wishes. In one night, I made up for all of the years of the blood of Christ that I had missed. I drank a whole keg. Inspired by the sacramental wine, and perhaps a little mad, I persuaded my wife to let me wear her holy dress. In her compassion for me, she gave it up, saying that it contained a powerful medicine that might work with the wine to give me insight and wisdom into the grave problem now before us.

  “I am not afraid, as others may be, that my manhood will be compromised by such a lit
tle thing as wearing a skirt. My manhood is made of stiffer stuff. No, I was not concerned for that. Rather, I worried that I, like so many other men who boast of their superiority and revel in their brute strength, cleverness, or power, was unworthy to wear the dress of a woman.”

  Here I paused. I took a close look at my crowd. My initial impression—that it was composed of two women to every one man—was confirmed. I went on.

  “We call the earth Grandmother. We ask her help when times are difficult. When we are lonely, or harrowed by death, we throw ourselves upon her and weep onto her breast. All that we are and all that we survive upon comes from the Grandmother. There is nothing she does not provide. But there is a limit to everything, even your grandma’s patience. How many of you have had a spoon thrown at your head? When I donned my wife’s dress, I admit that I was at first defiant and, as I have confessed to you, quite drunk. But the dress itself is sacred as you know, and even though I am a clever fool it stopped my thoughts and humbled me and made me listen.

  “It wasn’t that the dress spoke to me. It was that my ears were opened to hear all I missed when I was arrayed like a man.

  “Listen, old fool, I heard the earth tell me. You are walking on my beautiful body. And I allow it—not because you are a human and not because you are a man—but because you were born of a woman. I, the earth, respect a woman’s pain as it is freely given to the service of life. The only time you men suffer is when your bellies are stretched too full from the food your wives cook for you. Hear me out, you poor, split creature! Poor man, decorated with a knob and a couple of balls! You’re only here on my patience and on the patience of women. What would you do, the earth asked me laughingly, if all women of the world closed their legs to men? Die out, that’s what. So with my generous nature. I have given you all that you have. You owe your life to me.