Songs of the Dead (7 page)

Or is he delusional, snapping not at Travis standing in front of him, but instead protecting him as he did before and biting at the rabid wolf who gave him the disease? Is he seeing phantoms dancing before him, just out of reach, so each time he lunges, it is at someone who is not there at all?

Or maybe Old Yeller fights with every bit of his emotional strength to not lash out at the humans who are his whole world, these humans for whom he has already many times offered his life. Maybe he feels like he has picked up some sort of addiction, a compulsion, and he just can't help himself.

Or maybe the virus has insinuated itself into his brain in such a way that Old Yeller now perceives the virus as God. He hears its commands, and knows he must obey. Maybe this God tells him that he must convert these others to this one true religion, and that in doing so both he and they will achieve everlasting peace and joy—and a release from the torment of this world. Maybe he perceives himself as thus giving these others a gift.

We act according to the way we experience the world. The virus changed Old Yeller's experience of the world. When Old Yeller acts—or when any of us act—who's in charge? Who actually makes the decisions? Why does Old Yeller act as he does? Why do any of us act as we do?

I always thank my muse after she enters me and gives me her words. Sometimes I ask her what she wants. Sometimes she tells me. Sometimes I don't understand. Sometimes I do.

I am asleep. I am dreaming.

I am standing on a lawn holding a heavy mallet. Have you ever seen or played the arcade game Whack-A-Mole? In this game you stand in front of a large grid with holes in it, holding a plastic hammer. Plastic “moles” pop up from random holes, and your goal is to whack them as quickly as you can. As the game progresses they pop up faster and faster. This is what I dream, except that instead of moles popping up, it is men in business suits, it is politicians, it is CEOs, it is scientists. As fast as they pop up I hit them with my mallet, which in the dream is not plastic, but solid wood. I hear my muse's voice, soft, a whisper in my ear, “Keep smashing cannibals. Keep on smashing them.”

I wake up laughing. I've had this dream many times before. At first I didn't understand it, but now I do.

The morning after our third night together, Allison introduces me to Jack Forbes.

We're in her bedroom. I wake up laughing from my dream of smashing cannibals. At this point I've had the dream only a few times, and I don't yet understand it. I tell it to Allison. She doesn't laugh. She doesn't say a word. She holds up one finger, gently taps my hand, and gets out of bed. I look at her long legs beneath the t-shirt she'd worn to sleep. I like what I see. She leaves the room, then returns a few moments later, holding a slender, brightly-colored book. She gets back in bed. Finally she speaks. “Your dream made me think of this.” The book is
Columbus and Other Cannibals
, by Jack Forbes. “This book blew apart my world. Forbes really filled in some holes for me.”

I move closer. “I like filling in holes for you.”

She's on her stomach. She smiles and shifts her weight so her left thigh pushes against me. “I like you filling in holes for me. As often as possible.”

I push back. “And?”

“And what?”

“Forbes?”

She rolls to face me. Her knee touches mine. “His take on the dominant culture's destructiveness is different than anything else I've seen. The problem, he says, isn't merely that this culture socially rewards destructive behavior—the acquisition of wealth, for example, at the expense of the community or landbase—or that it creates greedy, traumatized, unrelational people through childrearing practices, schooling, and so on. . . .”

“Although both of those are true.”

“Absolutely.”

That single word—
absolutely
, and all it implies—makes me move closer still. The skin on the front of her thighs is soft against mine.

She continues, “The problem is a disease that causes people to consume the souls of others, a spiritual illness with a physical vector.”

I nod, push in closer still. My hand rests on her hip.

“Reading Forbes made the complete insanity of the dominant culture more comprehensible to me. I mean, saying that people are merely greedy just doesn't cut it. What's the use of retiring rich on a planet being killed?”

“So you're saying the behavior makes more sense when you see it as a symptom of a disease.”

“If I have the flu and I cough, and the little germies float through the air and happen to land in your mouth, and if those germs survive and reproduce inside of you. . . .”

“You shouldn't use the word
inside
around me. You'll distract me.”

“You shouldn't use the phrase
around me
around me. Besides, you'll be there soon, if I have anything to say about it.”

“You do.”

“If those germs survive then you might get the flu. You might start coughing, get a fever, chills. Well, if I have the cannibal sickness and I cough and you pick up the germs, you might turn into a cannibal, too. You'll begin to consume the souls of others.”

“I'll become a capitalist.”

She catches her breath and smiles. She says, “I can't believe. . . .”

“What?”

“You.”

“What?”

She puts her lips together for a moment before she says, “Bingo. You become a member of this culture.”

Seriously now, is it even remotely possible for life to get better than to be lying next to a beautiful, intelligent woman who's wearing nothing but a t-shirt that reads, “Every time a developer dies an angel gets her wings,” with whom you're having a conversation about things that matter?

Evidently it is, because she begins to read to me. She holds the book in her left hand, making certain to never let it come between our faces. “‘Many people have examined the subjects of aggression, violence, imperialism, rape, and so on. I propose to do something a little different: first, I propose to examine these things from a Native American perspective; and second, from a perspective as free as possible from assumptions created by the very disease being studied. Finally, I will look at these evils, not simply as “bad” choices that men make, but as a genuine, very real epidemic sickness. Imperialists, rapists, and exploiters are not just people who have strayed down a wrong path. They are insane (unclean) in the true sense of that word. They are mentally ill, and, tragically, the form of soul-sickness that they carry is catching.'”

“So it's not a metaphor.”

“Not on your life.”

“And it strikes me,” I say, “that just like germs grow well in certain physical environments and not so well in others, that certain social environments will make conditions ripe for irruptions of the cannibal sickness, too.”

Another sharp breath, another smile.

“What?” I ask again.

She blushes, looks at the book, blinks twice, flips through the pages, and reads again, sometimes pausing to look at me, not for emphasis, but just to look. “‘The
wétiko
disease, the sickness of exploitation, has been spreading as a contagion for the past several thousand years. And as a contagion unchecked by most vaccines it tends to become worse rather than better with time. More and more people catch it, in more and more places; they become the true teachers of the young.”

I look into her eyes. “This is really good.”

“Do you want me to keep going?”

“God, yes.”

“Do you think I'm overdressed?”

“God, yes.”

She removes her shirt. Her breasts are small, perfect. Her skin is pale. I touch small moles and freckles with my fingertips. She shivers, smiles, says, “I'm so happy.”

“Me, too.”

“Now,” she says, “back to the apocalypse: ‘It is very sad, but the “heroes” of European historiography, the heroes of the history books, are usually imperialists, butchers, founders of authoritarian regimes, exploiters of the poor, liars, cheats, and torturers. What this means is that the
wétiko
disease has so corrupted European thinking (at least of the ruling groups) that
wétiko
behavior and
wétiko
goals are regarded as the very fabric of European evolution. Thus, those who resist
wétiko
values and imperialism and exploitation . . . are regarded as “quirks,” “freaks” . . . who could never exploit enough people to build a St. Peter's Cathedral or a Versailles palace.'”

She's still on her right side. I say, “Do you mind?” and then I gently push on her left shoulder. She follows my lead and lays back. I slide slightly down, and over, to gently kiss the flat space between her breasts.

Her answer is a soft, inarticulate sound. I feel her shift as she puts down the book.

“Oh, don't stop,” I say. “More.”

As she reads, I focus on what she's saying, and also on the taste and texture of her skin. I feel her belly against my chest, her thigh against my belly. I open my eyes, see the movement of her blood in the soft space just below her sternum. I hear her voice, “‘We must keep all this in mind because if we continue to allow the
wétikos
to define reality in their insane way we will never be able to resist or curtail the disease.'”

She stops, takes a deep breath, then continues, “‘I believe that this form of insanity originated long ago in several places, but principally in Egypt and Mesopotamia. Subsequently it appeared in India and northern China and much later in Mexico and Peru.'”

I move down, small kisses below her rib cage.

“‘To a considerable degree the development of the
wétiko
disease corresponds to the rise of what Europeans choose to call “civilization.” This is no coincidence.'”

I turn my face sideways, rest my head on her belly. “No coincidence at all.”

“‘Over and over again we see European writers ranking as “high civilizations” societies with large slave populations, rigid social class systems, unethical or ruthless rulers, and aggressive imperialistic foreign policies. Conversely, societies with no slaves, no distinct social classes, no rulers, and no imperialism are either regarded as insignificant (not worth mentioning) or primitive and uncivilized.'”

I begin to kiss her again, and again move slightly down, then down farther, then farther still. She rises to meet me.

I hear Allison flipping pages, then I hear her voice again, slower now, as though she's having a hard time concentrating, “‘The overriding characteristic of the
wétiko
is that he consumes other human beings, that is, he is a cannibal. This is the central essence of the disease. In other respects, however, the motivation for and forms of the cannibalism may vary. . . .

I pull slightly away, stop what I'm doing. “Yes,” I say.

“Yes,” she says. “Don't stop.”

I start again to softly suck.

Her voice, slower still, “The
wétiko
psychosis is a very contagious and rapidly-spreading disease. It is spread by the
wétikos
themselves as they recruit or corrupt others. It is spread today by history books, television, military training programs, police training programs, comic books, pornographic magazines, films, rightwing movements, fanatics of various kinds, high-pressure missionary groups, and numerous governments.” She turns the page. Then, “Native people have almost always understood that many Europeans were
wétiko
, were insane.”

I lift up slightly again, say, “Most nonhumans know that, too.”

“Yes,” she says.

I begin again.

“No,” she says.

I stop.

“Look at me.”

I do. I like what I see.

She laughs. “No, up here, at my face.”

I do. I still like what I see.

“I can't tell you how nice it is not to have to pretend with you.”

I shake my head, the barest movement.

“I don't have to pretend I'm not as smart as I am so you won't find me intimidating. I don't have to pretend I don't hate this culture so you won't think me crazy. And I don't have to pretend I want you, because I really do. All of me. I'm not divided: brain here, body there; body here, brain there. I'm all here. No hesitation.”

I smile.

She says, “You help me remember I'm an animal.”

I keep smiling. I don't say anything.

She doesn't either. We just look at each other. Finally she says, “I didn't mean to interrupt. . . .”

“Interrupt away,” I say. “We've got plenty of time.”

seven

beauty

I remember the first time I told Allison she was beautiful. She shook her head, and said, “No, no. Don't go there.”

I wasn't sure what I'd said. I apologized anyway, to be safe.

“Oh, no. I'm the one who's sorry. Thank you. That's nice. I just have a hard time engaging with the whole concept of beauty. It seems so random, with all the eye of the beholder stuff, and with what's considered good-looking in one era being the next era's horror.”