Fervent Charity (8 page)

“Don’t ever touch me again, Oscar,” Mary said in a low and even voice.

He gave out a deep snuffle of derision. “I know Walter’s problem.” He reached out his hand as if to lay it on her breast. She backed up. “We could…” he began huskily.

“I don’t like you, Oscar. I don’t want you near me. If you ever touch me again, I will tell Walter.”

“What’s he going to do?” He smiled.

“Shoot your other arm off.”

His face went slack, expressionless, and he quickly left the kitchen. Gustie felt that now wasn’t the time to reveal herself. Mary had handled the situation. Gustie didn’t want to embarrass her, so she withdrew silently into the pantry. Walter had shot Oscar’s arm off when they were youngsters. Lena told Gustie the story. “It was no accident. Oscar probably had it coming one way or another. And Walter has a temper and not much sense. So whatever Oscar did, it was enough for Walter to shoot him. I wish he’d shot him in the head.”

“Lena!”

“Well, I do! I know it’s not the Christian thing, but there it is. Oscar is mean. He’s never been anything else and he isn’t getting any lovelier as he gets older. Somebody is going to have to shoot him before long. If I thought I could do it and get away with it, by jinx, I would!”

Gustie never mentioned what she had seen in the kitchen to Lena, to Mary, or to anyone. But for some reason, it haunted her.

She kissed Deborah on the forehead. “She gets sweeter every day, Winnie.” Then she asked, “Where’s Dorcas?”

Jordis answered, “Down by the lake.”

As Gustie moved off to find her, she stopped and looked back for a moment, observing Jordis from a distance: tall and strong with dark skin and straight black hair held back from her face with the silver combs Gustie had given her last Christmas. One of Jordis’s charms was that she did not know she was beautiful. She was silk and velvet to Gustie’s paper and straw; starlight to Gustie’s candle flame.
She will age like a tree. She will get stronger, tougher, have more substance, will bear more... I will wither like a shrub.
Gustie was not much concerned with her own aging. Jordis turned to see Gustie looking at her and flashed her a smile.
When she smiles, her demeanor rivals the night sky with a full white moon lighting the prairie, softly reflecting upon water and the backs of playing rabbits.
Three children interrupted Gustie’s reverie running by with something that flared bright and colorful in the sun. The Lesner doll.

Shoonkatoh Lake was nothing like Crow Kills where Dorcas lived. Shoonkatoh was bigger, cold at all times of the year, and, in places, its depth had never been sounded. Shoonkatoh rested in the heart of the Red Sand reservation, and most Dakotah lived in proximity to it. There were other lakes on the Red Sand besides Shoonkatoh and Crow Kills, but in Gustie’s opinion, Crow Kills was the most beautiful; Shoonkatoh the most forbidding. People drowned in Shoonkatoh with enough regularity to give credence to some Indians’ belief that a hungry spirit lived in its depths. Mostly whites drowned there, people who did not respect its numinous quality. Gustie had experienced too much of the mystery and awesome power of this prairie land to discount anything. Even lakes with hungry spirits.

She approached Dorcas from behind, making enough noise so as not to startle her when she stepped alongside. The old woman turned. A moment passed before the faraway look on her ancient face was replaced by a bright smile for her adopted granddaughter.

Dorcas Many Roads could have been anywhere between seventy and eighty-five years old. When Gustie first encountered her, Dorcas had had an ageless vitality. But, last winter, Little Bull and Leonard found her in her cold cabin, nearly frozen, seated with her bundle of precious mementos spread out on the table before her. The cabin had been well stocked with firewood and food. No one knew what had happened to cause her to let the fire go out. The chief and his son started the fire, wrapped her in blankets, and dripped warm soup down her throat.

In a few days she gained strength. Little Bull took her to live with his family. Then, Jordis insisted on caring for her. Gustie made the trip to Crow Kills often, bringing supplies to supplement their government annuities. Many people on the Red Sand visited Dorcas. She did not want for company. But some vital spark in her had gone out.

“Wondered if you’d show up,” the old woman said.

“Afraid not to. Special summons from the chief. I drove the Lesners into Wheat Lake. Just got back.”

Dorcas’s smile faded. She turned her face back toward the lake.

“I thought I’d see you up there, with them.”

“Can’t help them,” Dorcas said cryptically. Her eyes still fixed on something over the lake, she said, “We should have the drum today.”

“What do you mean, Grandmother?” She waited to see if Dorcas would elaborate. Then she asked, “Have you had anything to eat? Come back with me.”

As they moved up from the shoreline, Dorcas stumbled and Gustie put an arm around her to steady her. The old woman was less substantial than she used to be. Age was leeching her ample flesh; Dorcas was wizening from the inside out.

Father Flagstad spied them from a distance and sailed, once again, toward Gustie, calling, “Miss Augusta!” A long arm waved in the air to make sure he had her attention. She stopped and waited for him. “Hello, Mrs. Many Roads. Nice to see you here today.” Dorcas muttered something like “Um hm,” which tickled Gustie. With some non-Indians, Dorcas pretended to a poor grasp of English. This clergyman, for all his good intentions, would never be treated to Dorcas’s wit and wisdom.

“Miss Augusta, what did Dr. Llewellyn have to say about the Lesner family?”

“He wants to observe them. He believes they are seriously ill, especially the boy. But we could see that.”

The priest looked thoughtful. “Well, I’ll go to town tomorrow and see them. I’ll bring Father Gregory with me. He’s the Catholic―” Someone called to him from the church door. “That’s Leo LaBourteaux, Sarah’s uncle. He’s building a pulpit in the church so I don’t have to preach from a packing crate. I’ve got to go.” The priest turned and called, “Matt! Tim!!” He looked and listened, his head craned like an awkward, thin prairie bird. Then he shrugged and looked back at Gustie. “If you see my boys, tell them I could use some help in there.” He took off in a fluttering of vestments.

The day continued to smile upon the Red Sand as Gustie accompanied Dorcas back to Little Bull’s family. The clouds were now just puffs in the sky. Cooking fires blazed, pots boiled, meats were stewing or roasting on spits. Elders rose to talk against the background music of playing children. Gifts were exchanged. Carrie Red Standing Horse gave Gustie a new pair of winter moccasins that she had beaded and sewn herself.

As Gustie ate, she glimpsed off to her left the two Flagstad boys, their frizzy thatches of red hair easy to spot among the black-haired boys with whom they played a game with sticks and a hoop. They appeared to be enjoying themselves so much, Gustie didn’t feel like disturbing them. She finished a bowl of stew and a piece of fry bread and noticed that Dorcas was unusually quiet and not eating. She was about to say something when she saw two older women with a black dog between them come around the corner of a wagon. They each had hold of a rope. The other end of each rope was in a noose around the dog’s neck. She knew that the Sioux ate dog meat. She supposed that this dog was meant for slaughter. A nasty foreboding scrabbled across Gustie’s heart.

The women walked away from each other and began to pull. The dog was lifted up, paddling the air with his front legs. His eyes rolled. Foam bubbled around his mouth as he fought, uselessly, the tightening noose. One woman was now on her knees leaning back hard while the other, still on her feet, bent forward and pulled. Laughter broke out among those who watched when the standing woman slipped on the slick grass and fell. The noose loosened and the dog flopped down on the ground, twitching and gasping for air. The fallen woman got up and the choking began again. Gustie felt her blood pounding till her fingertips throbbed. She looked up. Jordis stood beside her but faced away from the scene. Little Bull glanced up, grinned at the huffing and puffing of the two heavyset women pulling at their ropes and went back to his conversation with Red Standing Horse.

Jordis’s long knife was at hand. Gustie grabbed it, surprising Jordis who looked down and laughed until she saw the terrible look in Gustie’s eyes. Without a word, Gustie went to the dog, gripped his muzzle, met his tortured eyes with her own, and with a single stoke, cut his throat. Arterial blood warmed her hands, spurted up her arms, over the front of her clothing and spattered her glasses. The force of the animal’s heart kept the blood pumping even after he went limp. She let him go and strode down to Shoonkatoh. She dropped to her knees in the shallow water. With shaking hands she cleaned her glasses first, then rinsed her face and arms, and let the water seep up the bloodied fabric of her clothing.

Gustie was still trembling when she looked up, a bright tear of rage in each eye. She said to Jordis who had come after her, “My Christ! Why not kill the animal quickly?”

Jordis did not answer.

Gustie rinsed the blade clean.

The dog’s blood dispersed slowly in the water. From a shallow cavern beneath the mossy outcropping of the embankment, a cloud of leeches appeared undulating toward the cloud of blood. Gustie hastily removed herself from the lake. The bloodsuckers were another reason she didn’t like Shoonkatoh. She watched them swimming, blindly searching for a host on which to feed.

The wind felt raw now as Gustie shivered in her wet clothes.

Gustie held the knife out to Jordis who slipped it back into her boot. They faced each other.

Jordis said, “I think we should leave now. You better get dry.”

The realization of what she had just done chilled her more deeply than Shoonkatoh’s bitter wind, and in the silence between them, what Jordis did not say echoed across the lake. Gustie had transgressed a tradition, insulted her hosts. She had, in short, behaved like an arrogant and ignorant
wasichu
, the very sort of person she despised. And yet, if some wave in time washed the moment up before her again, she would do the same thing. Because it was not killing that outraged her, but the inflicting of fear and pain.

Jordis brushed her fingertips across her lips. Her eyes rested on the thinning cloud of leeches, and Gustie could almost hear, falling all around them, the broken shards of their dream. They had come a long way through bad times to find each other and tentatively claim a place to call home. But the Red Sand would never be that place, at least not for Gustie. Not now.

“Let’s go then,” Jordis said again.

Gustie said, “You don’t have to.” The rest of what she would say swirled around them, unspoken, in the cold wind.
This transgression is mine. These are your people. This place is your home. You can stay.

Jordis never displayed her affection for Gustie in front of others. Now she took Gustie’s hand and walked beside her up the embankment and back through the people who sat quietly by their fires. No one smiled now. Even the children were still and followed them with solemn eyes. Dorcas had disappeared. Little Bull watched them sadly. As Gustie and Jordis passed, Winnie got up with Deborah in her arms and joined them and so did Carrie. The four women walked together to the far side of the church where the horses stood out of the wind.

Jordis took the reins of her white mare. “Can Leonard stay with Dorcas for a while?”

Winnie nodded.

Gustie, unable to speak, leaned in to kiss Deborah, holding her baby cheek close to her own for a moment, and then turned away. Jordis was already on Moon’s back. Winnie and Carrie walked back to their families.

When Gustie went to the back of the wagon for a blanket, she emitted a soft, startled moan. Jordis walked Moon around to see. There, in the center of the wagon bed, was Gustie’s wedding gift to Sarah and Clayton Nighthawk.

Gustie climbed up into the wagon seat, wrapped herself in the blanket, and let the bowl rest in her lap.

They rode slowly for a short time, bearing west. Jordis turned around to check on Gustie, who had not spoken a word since they left the lake shore. The reins were slack in her hands, the returned gift heavy in her lap, her eyes raised only enough to stare dully at Biddie’s rump. Jordis turned the white mare around, leaned over and plucked the bowl out of Gustie’s lap. She pressed Moon’s sides with her knees and the horse trotted forward to where Shoonkatoh looped out before them. She raised the bowl and threw it with a strong backhand. The porcelain with its painted flowers sailed in a high arc and came down far out on the water, indistinguishable from the white caps prancing across the surface of the lake.

Gustie could hear the lake—the continuous in-and-out slip of water over smooth stones and across the soft tissue of water-logged, moss laden tree roots. Crow Kills breathing.

Jordis had made a smoky fire to warm them, cook their coffee, and ward off mosquitoes. Gustie had changed into her split skirt, blouse and one of Jordis’s flannel shirts and washed her bloody clothes, draping them on a willow branch to dry.

A crescent moon was visible in the night sky. Gustie and Jordis sat close together by the fire.

“Are you warm?” Jordis asked.

“Warm enough.”

They sipped hot coffee.

“What did I do today?”

“Something a Dakotah would not do.” Jordis gazed over the rim of her cup into the fire. “I know what you saw.” She folded her legs and sat her cup on the ground and glanced at Gustie who stared at the sparks that flew from a sheaf of wet grass. “You saw an animal being tortured. That was an accident. If the old grandmother had not fallen, the dog would have lost consciousness in a few seconds and died of strangulation in a few more, and no mark would have been left on its body. The dog is treated differently from game or cattle because it shares the fire, food, and in freezing weather, the tipi. It is treated with more respect—killed in a more sacred manner. No knife or weapon is used on it. Its skin is not broken before death. The suffocation happens after the blood is cut off to the brain and the animal is unconscious. It really is the most painless way to kill, when it is done right.”