Never Name the Dead, page 1
Never Name the Dead
A Novel
D. M. ROWELL
Koyh Mi O Boy Dah
For All My Relations
Author’s Note
Although this is a work of fiction, the Kiowa customs and oral traditions shared are real. I share the information on the Kiowa culture intentionally. It is my hope that by adding a touch of Kiowa to my stories, it will keep the culture alive. I do this with nothing but respect for the culture my grandfather and his brother and sisters instilled within me.
—Ah Ho
Prologue
A storm brewed outside and inside the cluttered workroom. Two men stood, long hook nose to long hook nose, rocking unsteadily on their old legs. James Sawpole stepped back, shook his head and snorted, “Mawbane! You dishonor the Kiowa Tribe, your family.”
Wilson Crow shuffled backward and dropped onto the threadbare couch. He cleared his throat before pushing out, “It’s better this way. Others will—”
James cut in, “You choke on your lies! You’ve done that since you were a boy. We all knew a lie was coming when you had to clear its way.”
Wilson struggled to rise from the low-slung couch. Once righted, he pleaded, “You don’t understand … it’s my property—”
“Enough.” James reached past Wilson to open a cedar spirit box sitting on a table by the couch. “My granddaughter is coming from California.” He pulled out a pouch of cedar and a sage bundle. “You need to cleanse yourself, right yourself, find balance. You will see how shameful—”
“Don’t lecture me, James. I have done what is necessary for my family.” Wilson turned and watched as James retrieved his eagle-feather prayer fan before closing the box.
A buffalo jawbone club lay on the coffee-ringed table beside the spirit box. The dawn’s first light fell on a table lamp with a Kiowa camp scene painted around its shade. For James, everything was a canvas.
James moved to his handmade easel desk. “My granddaughter arrives today. We will speak to the Tribal Council.”
Wilson took a halting step. “Does she know?”
Shaking his head with disgust, James dropped into his desk chair, rocked the desk, splashing gray water from a multicolor speckled jar holding his well-used paintbrushes. “You’ve heard nothing.”
Standing above James, Wilson looked about the room. His eyes settled on the buffalo jawbone club. “James, you’re leaving me no choice.”
James turned his chair to the desk. “There is no more to say.” Signaling the end, James turned his back on Wilson.
Chapter One
This really was not a good time for me to leave.
But Grandpa had called. His message, “Granddaughter, Bow anh tah geah daw. Aim hay ah, I have a bad feeling—come now,” worried me, but it had been Grandpa’s voice that tugged at me. He sounded … wrong … out of balance.
Since then, I had not been able to reach him. I’d left a message telling him I had the earliest flight out. I was coming.
I didn’t want to, but I was coming.
I swung the messenger bag over my shoulder. Thought a moment, then dropped the bag and unzipped the center compartment. I found the pocket hidden within and touched the supple leather of my medicine bundle. All these years away from the Reservation, our traditions; yet I kept the bundle close to me as if it held the medicine necessary to enrich my spirit, as my traditional Kiowa grandfather insisted.
I shook my head: enough stalling. I needed to catch a flight to Oklahoma.
During my ride to the San Jose International Airport, I left the necessary messages to keep production moving forward at the agency for the few days I would be away. After six months of careful research, strategy, and development, everything was in place for the announcement of my client’s initial public offering, or IPO. Richard was taking his privately owned company public, and my agency was creating the story and images that would define it. We were down to reviews and executive rehearsals for the big day’s announcements. I would be back before the final rehearsal for the big event. I told Richard the agency had everything handled. I would be gone two days, three max. Back as soon as possible.
Now, I paced from one end of Lawton–Fort Sill Regional Airport to the other. The airport was too small for me to work off my rising anxiety. I spun around to face the baggage area again. I’d left Grandpa a message that I would be on this flight, the only daily arrival. When I’d gotten off the plane, I’d left another voice message that I had arrived, and I’d called again just a few minutes ago. He wasn’t answering his phone or returning my calls. I had expected Grandpa to be here, waiting for me. My worries mounted. This was not like him.
His summons had spurred me into immediate action. Grandpa sounded off—not like himself. I wanted to get here, help him, and get back to my Silicon Valley agency. Work needed me. I glanced at the digital clock above the baggage conveyor. An hour already wasted, waiting. Things were not going according to plan.
The annoying rattles and buzz of the baggage room AC continued as it struggled to keep the humidity and heat outside. I looked through the sliding glass doors, the small airport’s only public entrance and exit. Where was he?
Back to pacing. I tugged my rolling suitcase behind me one short length of the airport to the other, my phone grasped tightly in my free hand while my eyes scanned the few gathered to greet or leave. Not much of a crowd. Mostly military personnel, with country folks scattered here and there. To one corner I noticed a man in a dress shirt and tie in an intense conversation with a small Kiowa woman. His yellow tie with, yes, matching yellow cowboy boots stood out in the sea of military green and faded jeans. Obviously, this guy was someone playing at cowboy.
My eyes returned to the digital display of the outside temperature and time, claiming it was a hundred and two degrees outside. That seemed impossible—it was only ten o’clock in the morning. But this was late June in Lawton, Oklahoma.
There by the luggage conveyor, I spotted the back of an elderly Kiowa man, his braids, more gray than black, hanging down below his collar. I waved and called out, “Hey, Grandpa.”
Before the man turned fully around, I knew he wasn’t my grandfather. I tossed a “Sorry—wrong grandpa” toward him and moved away, letting a slight smile slip out as I wondered how many other “grandpas” had turned with my call.
The hiss of the automatic doors opening pulled my eyes to the front of the airport. A solid, fifty-something Kiowa woman marched in. Her head swiveled, making her silver disk earrings swing as she looked quickly around the airport. She caught sight of me and headed in my direction.
Chapter Two
The woman looked faintly familiar. She had the typical look of the older Kiowa women that I had grown up with: one dark braid with threads of gray, pulled back tight as if to center a long straight nose on a scowling face. She aimed her scowl at me as she strode over. The woman announced, “You’re James Sawpole’s granddaughter.” Before I could say yes, she continued, “I see you still got that curly hair.”
The old jab was a direct hit. I was different. I had been born with naturally curly hair amid a reservation full of people with stereotypical straight Indian hair. Even in my family, I’d been the only one born with this wild hair. My curly hair branded me a mixed breed to the tribes while my high cheekbones and long hook nose marked me Indian to Hanpokos, the non-Indians.
Despite the jab, I smiled. My grandfather had called my hair “buffalo hair” to make me feel special rather than an outsider in my family and tribe.
I dropped my messenger bag from my shoulder. “Yes, James Sawpole is my grandfather. Have we met?” I took in her going-to-town clothes—dark slacks topped with a matching blouse and a Pendleton blanket–style blazer. The silver of her handmade earrings reflected the bright colors of her jacket.
She faced me, but her eyes scanned the area, searching. She seemed anxious, looking for something, someone. Then she did something very un-Kiowa: she did not formally introduce herself, reciting her ancestors, so that I could then reply, noting our cross points through the generations. She simply launched into “You may remember, I’m Anna ManyHorse. I am a legislator for the Kiowa Tribe. Your grandpa and I were supposed to meet early this morning. He made it sound urgent, but didn’t show up. James mentioned he planned on being at your flight. I thought I would catch him here.” Anna continued scanning nearby faces. “I need to talk with him.”
Grandpa’s words echoed in my mind: “Bow anh tah geah daw. Aim ah. I have a bad feeling.”
Anna’s eyes settled on me. In typical Kiowa fashion, she waited for me to consider what she had said. I didn’t have a response. Grandpa hadn’t left any other message, and I couldn’t reach him. But maybe Anna had some answers.
“My grandfather’s not here. Why were you meeting? Do you know what he—”
A shrill voice rang out, “Is he here? Where is he?”
The screeching voice came from a small, colorful Kiowa woman, about the same age as Anna but decked out in a clash of a floral pink top and an orange blossoms jacket topping plum-colored pants. She pushed in alongside Anna. The woman placed her hands on her hips and aggressively leaned forward—at me. “Well, where is he? Just like him to call a meeting and not show. He’s always been full of himself.” Her dark, shoulder-length hair bounced.
Before I could respond to the small woman, Anna faced her, lifted her left palm up while making a quick horizontal swiping motion with her right hand across the upturned palm—the Plains Indian sign language “stop now” motion. One I wa
Anna followed the motion with “Ohdayhah—enough. James is a Tribal Elder, our sacred story keeper. I was talking with his granddaughter before you interrupted—”
I heard a low harrumph behind me. It came from the man that I had thought was Grandpa earlier. He seemed to know the two women. “Anna, what are you doing here?”
Before Anna could answer, the smaller woman announced, “Anna’s on important business.” She wiggled as she declared, “Tribe business.”
At that comment, I remembered I had met Anna years ago with my grandfather. She was one of the few in the Kiowa Nation government that Grandpa liked and, more importantly, respected.
The man that I had mistaken for my grandfather cracked a smile at Anna and the small woman. “Tribe business at the airport? You all runnin’ off?” He laughed at his joke. No one joined.
Up close, I recognized the older man: Wilson. I couldn’t remember his last name or family connections. He had been a tribe legislator years ago. Grandpa had known Wilson since their shared childhood, yet Grandpa had never voted for or endorsed Wilson.
Anna scowled at the two intruders and turned back to me. “As I said, I’m Anna.” She shifted to include the others. “This is Nita Yee, an admin at the Kiowa Tribal Complex, and you may know Wilson Crow.”
Crow … My eyes shifted from Anna to Wilson Crow. I knew someone named Crow. Nita moved closer to Wilson, and under her breath, barely audible, she hissed, “Just stop!” Wilson scowled and shifted away from her.
Anna went on, not noticing the exchange, “Wilson, you are no longer on the Kiowa Tribal Council or a legislator; why I am here is none of your concern.”
“More than hers,” Wilson used his chin to point at Nita Yee. “She’s never been a legislator. Just a lifetime hanger-on, always got a job at the tribe, don’t you, Nita?” Wilson smiled with no humor at the small woman.
Before Nita could respond, Anna demanded, “And you, why are you here?”
Wilson coughed, cleared his throat, and muttered, “Guess same as you. Lookin’ for James.”
Nita scowled at Wilson while Anna glared at them both. All three seemed to have forgotten me. I stayed silent standing to the side. No one seemed happy to see the other. Even though I had been gone for years, I knew this display of hostility was wrong. Kiowas usually behaved better than this—in public, anyway.
Grandpa would be embarrassed for them. Where was he? I thumbed the “Redial” button on my phone, and this time the call went straight to voicemail. I let the others hear Grandpa’s recorded greeting. At the beep, I responded, “Grandpa, I’m still here at the airport. There are a few others looking for you too. Give me a call. I’m worried.” I hit the “End” button and faced the three.
Nita shook her head, “Well, isn’t that just like James? Can’t be bothered.”
Anna gave her a stern look, seemed to want to say something, but squeezed her lips together.
Wilson’s eyes focused on something over Anna’s shoulder. Almost in a daze he muttered, “Things are happening. Bow anh tah geah daw.”
Hair bristled up my neck, I shivered in the heat. “Bow anh tah geah daw. I have a bad feeling.” It’s what Grandpa had said in his message. The last thing I had heard from him.
A dread hit me. I turned to Wilson. “Mr. Crow … Wilson, is my grandfather all right?”
Anna and Nita leaned in.
Wilson cleared his throat. “He … yeah …”
Anna reached toward Wilson. “You talked to James this morning?”
Wilson stepped back. “He said his granddaughter was coming in.” Wilson’s eyes slid across Anna to me. “Time’s wasting. We gotta go.”
Wilson stooped, took my roller suitcase with my messenger bag on top and marched out of the airport. The door hissed behind him. Wilson didn’t look back.
I watched him rolling my bags out to the parking lot. I turned back to Anna and Nita. Both remained in place, staring at where Wilson had been.
Grandpa’s words, “Bow anh tah geah daw. I have a bad feeling,” drummed through my head and sent a chill up my neck.
Was Grandpa in danger?
I was wasting time here. I needed information from Wilson. Now. He couldn’t leave without me.
“Sorry. I have to …” I trailed off.
I nodded to the two women, turned, and chased Wilson, my suitcases, and—I hoped—answers.
Chapter Three
I caught up with Wilson as he slung my messenger bag into a faded blue 1963 Chevy pickup truck that looked like it still did chores on a working farm. My roller case followed the messenger bag, sliding across a long bench seat. Wilson grunted, grabbed the steering wheel, and pulled himself up into the old truck. I opened the passenger door and jumped inside as the truck’s engine coughed to life.
Wilson jammed the floor stick shift into reverse, which shoved my suitcase and messenger bag farther down the bench seat and pushed me tight into the metal door. I started a futile search for a seat belt. “Grandfather … Wilson, right? I think we met when I was younger.” We both jostled forward as Wilson found and engaged first gear.
Sweat collected and dropped down my forehead as I waited for a reply. I tried again to get a conversation started. “Did my grandpa send you for me?” My question met silence. Fishing for a response, I muttered, “Strange, with all the family around …”
Wilson bit. “I told James I was headed to town. No sense wasting good rubber.”
I looked around my suitcase at the driver of the old pickup. Wilson had the typical look of a full-blood Kiowa elder. Long hook nose, braids more gray than black, and the Kiowa long earlobes—cursed with growing longer and longer as we aged. I was in fear of my earlobes eventually sitting on my shoulders at the rate they were stretching.
Since I had Wilson talking, I threw another question at him, the one that mattered: “Is my grandfather all right?”
Wilson cleared his throat again, kept his eyes on the road. “We was talkin’ early this morning about some frackin’ problems around the Slick Hills. We was discussin’ what to do after them oil boys wouldn’t listen to James.” Wilson stole a look my way.
I leaned toward him. “Oil boys? Fracking? Is Grandpa having problems with wildcatters out in his back pastures?”
Much of the backcountry pasture lands were miles from the nearest house. Anything could happen out in that solitude. It could be days, maybe weeks before unwanted activities would be discovered.
“Your granddaddy will have to tell you about it, but it’s not good.” Wilson slammed the truck into third gear. It bucked forward, and this shook a bit more out of Wilson. “They’re messin’ with the spring. That hurts everyone farmin’ down river.” He nodded his head in agreement with his statement. “But I ain’t got nothin’ to say—you’ll have to talk to your granddaddy ’bout them oil boys messin’ with him.” His lips smacked close.
That’s where he left it—“Them oil boys messin’ with him.” My mood shifted; I started getting mad at “them oil boys.”
We bounced down the road, heat building and silence growing. Stereotype though it may be, it was true of my tribe—my family: the stoic, silent Indian lives. I returned Wilson’s silence. I was tired of trying to get more out of him. Why didn’t Grandpa explain what was going on? My nagging worry over my grandpa had evolved to frustration. I wasn’t sure who to be most irritated with: Grandpa, Wilson, or “them oil boys.” The old truck’s AC blew hot air about. I sweated and brooded while watching the town go past.
In the ten years since I had last been in Lawton, a lot had changed. Lawton had started as an early U.S. Cavalry town on the fringes of Fort Sill, built during the 1860s Indian wars. The small town thrived and died, depending on the Fort’s roller-coaster existence. For the last dozen years, Lawton and Fort Sill had been riding a rapid upswing.
Lawton now sported two Walmart Supercenters and too many restaurant chains to count, catering to the always-on-the-go military families. Cars streamed here and there; people went from one air-conditioned location to another. No one ventured outside in the mounting heat and humidity. Even the blackbirds stayed put, lined up on the wires above. They hunched forward with wings partially open in hopes of capturing a wayward puff of cool air. I swear I could see small black tongues hanging out of beaks as we drove by.
