City, Sister, Silver, page 26
Soaring sat on a hillside, a dog rolled in the grass a few steps away. We climbed off our horses. We looked at our daughter and none of us wanted to do it. She’d had enough time to do it too. And yet there she sat, head bent. Waiting for us. My fathers, she said … you know who Soaring is … she lifted her head and looked up at us. She was very powerful. You do not want to do it because you know who I am, she went on, and because you want to know … why I left. So I will tell you … something happened … I directed the building of the tower … and I was driving the slaves, but then something happened … this man’s heart spoke to me and its speech was very beautiful … I wanted to listen, my fathers, I blushed and turned away … but he spoke so beautifully, his speech sang inside me … and I knew, my fathers, that if that slave wanted me to, I would kill every one of you … you know who I am … and I would torture my brothers and set fire to the stockade and the tower … if that slave wanted me to … but he wanted only to leave … he is no sorcerer, my fathers … he is but a man … and a dog. She stood and went to the slave, who was rolling around in the grass whimpering, afraid … she spat on him, then gave him a hug and wiped him dry with her hair. She walked up the slope, stopped, back to us, then swung her arms and fell to the ground. One of us killed the slave, and then we stood over our daughter, knowing it still hadn’t been enough after what Soaring had done, we needed to renew our strength, make it greater. And one of us rolled Soaring over with his foot, and another opened her with the tip of his sword, and the next one cut out her liver, and the fourth one divided it among us. And we went on ruling the land and feeding Morana. And waiting.
Then a new tribe came out of the forest. Driving the multitudes before it. The fleeing tribes mixed with one another. Our sons told us these new men were Boii,* People of Battle, and wore helmets with bull’s horns. In battle they chewed the edges of their shields and sometimes tore up trees, roots and all, hurling them forward as they attacked. Nothing could stop them except death. We erected new palisades and dug the moat deeper. When the fugitives pounded on our gates, we drove them off with arrows and stones. We whipped our slaves, hoping they would finish the tower so we would have a chance to climb it. The People of Battle stormed us in broad daylight. The men howled like wolves, suddenly they were behind every tree, charging out of the woods in droves, leaping rocks, dodging arrows. Some of our sons dashed out the gate, seeking to test the new warriors. They greeted one another with howls and laughter. But we saw that our sons’ swords cracked and split under the blows of the Boii. Their swords and axes were different than ours. We slayed a great many with arrows and stones, but not one of our sons returned.
We knew our time was finished, and went to the slaves. Unless we killed them, they might attack our rear. They knew what awaited them and tried to chew through their ropes. The Boii will defeat you! one of them cried. They are gods, forest gods, and your land will be theirs. Then we heard the howling again and ran out on the ramparts. One of us went back and set fire to the tower. We appealed to Morana for the last time and felt an icy touch on our ribs.
We were blinded by sparks from the flaming tower. And as they ran the first of us through, we began to lose our strength. The new people tore our bodies to shreds. The tower fell and the slaves burned with it. That’s the way it was.
Ugh, Sharky … Bohler pleaded, c’mon, enough aready … Yeah, I said, I mean we all know the wheel turns … Hey, an did I really get two guys at once the very first day? said Micka. We looked over to where David had been sitting. He wasn’t there. Cripes, it’s just a fairy tale, Sharky cried. I only dreamed it! It’s just a dream!
We went racing out of the flat. David wasn’t in the hall. We ran downstairs. Look! one of us cried. On the light switch by the front door was a bloody thumbprint. Oh yeah, it’s been bleedin, I noticed that, said Bohler. He went out, Micka said despairingly, but how far can he get like that, I mean the guy’s like some kina zombie. Maybe we can find him, I said. Sharky was off and running. He went out in back of the buildings. I’ll check the sheds an the yards, you guys run out to the tram, barked Bohler. Micka and I took off. I gotta say, that pseudodroog’s one strong fella, but he can’t take me in a sprint. Maybe he’s on that one, I pointed. The tram pulled away, heading into the city, its curving route illuminated by sparks of electricity. The lights in the distance sat ready to swallow it up, to merge with its hazy yellow glow. Outta luck, Micka kicked a stone, sending it skidding across the tracks. Maybe he’s feelin better, maybe he changed his mind. C’mon, Potok, you know the tribe’s bust. Yeah, but where can he go?
We’ve got to believe, said Sharky, that he’s all right. Yeah, nothin else we can do, said someone. We can check out the usual spots, ask around, I suggested. Yeah, we will, all in good time … Right now there’s the Zone, that’s the first thing. After all, he left on his own. After all, guys, his business. He can look out for himself … he’ll hafta. But we knew our pseudodroog was very, very weak. An unless he’d made some kina arrangement with Helena, the Scarred One … he didn’t know anyone in town except for other crews’ bosses and byznys officials … can’t rely on them … all those guys care about is getting a spot at the watering hole … we’d taught him how to get around all right, but not when things change, we reflected.
Settle in now, O vultures and scavengers, cause things’ve gotta come to an end an I haven’t even begun, Sharky warned us. My dream continues, an it’s about another pack. It’s fast and slow, and you’ll find out what the earth is under your feet. So don’t shake your heads an quit tryin to solve the unsolvable a while, believe me, there’s various paths, various possibilities, various things … an one of the paths was the path of the people of Dull Knife when their pack’s G-night began.
The fleeing tribes mixed together. And then what was left of them was herded into corrals. And enemy tribes were herded into the same corrals so they’d kill each other off … the tribes’ time was shattered, and the new people, who wanted to give the land their own name, couldn’t stand them … they put collars on Dull Knife’s people, forcing them to eat the same ridiculous things and move the same ridiculous way … at least that’s how it seemed to the people in the corrals … and they called their slavemasters Wasichu, white spirits, on account of their ridiculous skin color, and didn’t consider them human, because only they were Déné, people. And coincidentally, the people who locked them in the corrals considered them to be the subhumans.
The Déné were dying because the grass there stank and the water was undrinkable … there weren’t any moving animals to shoot at or chase, and no eagles either, there was nothing there but vultures … the Déné didn’t like them … and soon there were no more enemies either, the Déné wiped them out, all except the Wasichu, of course.
And … for the Déné this was the worst part … the corrals didn’t have any trees in them. The Déné, you see, laid their dead to rest in the treetops. They knew what the Earth was, they knew the Earth was a mass human grave. It was totally obvious to them that only fools and slaves to Evil buried or burned their dead. They knew the heaps of dead and ashes were overloading the Earth. They had dreams about the next tribe or nation thrown into the pits sending the Earth veering off its path. Forfeit its place, lose its mysterious way, and go shooting off somewhere, up the ass of the old Invader, or more likely the Devil.
That was the Déné’s teaching. That was why they gave their dead to the trees, the air, the wind, and the eagles and their ravenous cousins … some of them they didn’t like, but what could they do, that’s the way it was … and since the corrals didn’t have any trees, they buried and burned their dead Wasichu-style, but they knew what it did to the Earth. They got bored and died, and in between they drank the Fiery, of which oddly enough there was plenty … in spite of its being strictly forbidden, since, as stated in numerous studies and dissertations, the Déné after consuming it in large doses turned into “psychopathic murderers.” However, there were several kulchural foundations that for tax purposes supported basket makers, poetasters, and daubers, and so the Fiery went to the reservations by the wagonload … and some dailies even ran humanist articles about the subhumans’ art. When the juries laid eyes on the hungover works, they said all kinds of crap, to keep the metal flowing and earn their living, the critics tuned up their ballpoints, and the guilt-tripped idiots expounded their views with impunity ad infinitum … and, dear listeners and anchorwomen, it got to the point where all the boredom and pointless death drove Grinning Man to kill his wife … he was under the influence of the Fiery, so no one blamed him for it, but it was no good … and when he came to again, Grinning Man bitterly regretted his deed and slashed his wrists and spoke to his wife, begging her to forgive him … and maybe she did and maybe she didn’t, no one knows since she never revived … and then Necklace cut off his little sister’s nose, laughing as he did it … also under the influence, so he didn’t know what he was doing … and everyone realized he did it because of the collar, no one said a word, but they knew that what was going on wasn’t any good. And it has been objectively established that Natanis’s collar made him climb a tree, tie his legs to a branch, and drop headfirst into an anthill, and as numerous prominent studies and several dissertations have noted, the Déné said to cut it out … but he told them to cut it out an watch, and they shared his fate like brothers, because he suffered his collar in silence, until at last he was so ashamed he decided … to have it out with death … overnight he sobered up, but he didn’t change his mind … and along came Pte-San-Waste-Win, and she said: Firewater is worse than Thunderstick! Smash the bottles and slaughter the Wasichu who sell you this filth in exchange for your women. You immoral drunkards. You’ve forgotten everything. Are you still people? The men were all drunk at the time, and it seemed like a good idea, so they went ahead and did it. Pte-San-Waste-Win was powerful and they usually did what she said. When nobody was watching, she put an end to Natanis’s suffering too. The Déné slaughtered all the Wasichu, including the corral overseer, who had the most titles and sat on many boards of directors. Whenever they had complained to him that there was nothing to eat, he had told them to eat grass. So they killed him and stuffed his mouth with grass, and he’s still eating it now. They had their fun, but they knew it was time to disappear.
They put together rifles and pistols, which they weren’t supposed to have. Some time ago, though, they had taken apart a bunch of them and braided the barrels and triggers and hammers into their hair, along with their clasps and feathers. The Wasichu laughed at them, rattling on about stupid barbaric ornaments and childish superstitions. But there were no more Wasichu around now. And when the people of Dull Knife’s G-night began, a great many more Wasichu stopped laughing at those ornaments. They stopped smiling, they stopped being.
The men on horseback led the way, followed by the women and children on foot, they didn’t have too many horses yet. Not far from the corrals, they knew, were a few squadrons of cavalrymen. It is said that Grinning Man and Necklace led the charge. They had sinned greatly and nothing mattered to them anymore. The cavalrymen weren’t expecting it, and that day plenty of them stopped laughing. Grinning Man fell and found out whether his wife had forgiven him. He wasn’t the only one to fall. But they got lots of rifles and horses and their strength began to return to them. In a nearby woods the riders dismounted, and Dull Knife took on the responsibility that was tumbling across the prairie. All right, all right, brother, said the others … Chief Joseph, Little Bear, Ollokot, Sleeping Rabbit, Abenak, Bloody Knife, and the rest … okay, but you know … they didn’t have to say it, but they began to live by the rules again … and Dull Knife nodded because he knew … what would happen if he didn’t steer his people through the pitfalls and they fell in the traps and snares, if he didn’t make the right moves, if his heart turned sour with fear. They headed north, back to their home.
They had their own language and clung to it, foolishly, dully, fatuously … just as they clung to their motion, and with every step toward G-night, away from the corrals, their strength returned to them … they were from various tribes … Chief Joseph and his son, Necklace, were Nez Perce; Wovoka, who taught them to dance the forbidden dance, was Paiute; the rest were mostly Cheyenne … but it made no difference now, they were a new defensive community, and they traded words because they needed to understand one another in order not to perish, or at least not right away … they were the Dull Knife pack.
And Dull Knife’s heart did not turn sour, just the opposite, now it was sweeter and redder than ever before, and the pulse of Dull Knife’s heart helped his people move through the pitfalls … steering clear of the traps and turning the snares inside out.
But the cavalry encircled them. Charging out of places where before there had been nothing. Dull Knife’s people soon discovered that even though the earth was still just as big, it had shrunk. Wired and wireless links guided the cavalry unerringly. But Dull Knife’s people had links to other worlds and began using their powers. The forces of Nature were favorably inclined to them. When there was fog, they used it. When the rain fell, it helped them. When the sun beat down and the soldiers’ palms were breaking out in blisters from their rifles’ cocks and barrels, Dull Knife’s warriors would emerge from the glare, hammers and hatchets cool in their hands. Sometimes it was good to walk through the water, sinking happily into its soft, shiny world, to throw off the dogs of the citizens’ search parties. Little Bear fell. Abenak, the young men’s leader, was slain. Even Wovoka danced his last.
For every man of the pack that went down, a new throng of pursuers sprang up on the side of the Wasichu. It is said it was obvious to Sleeping Rabbit, and he saw fit to tell the others, that it was like a man’s corpse and a thousand maggots. It is said the others nodded. When Sleeping Rabbit fell, they didn’t mourn much, remembering what he’d said about man and his maggots, and their lips curled back in a smile. They bared their teeth to the leaves of the forest and the sand of the pits and the rocks among which they hid. And they say the things of the trees and the soil adopted the wolfish smile as their own and helped the people of the pack.
Chief Joseph and Necklace brought up the rear. Circling. The others rode on the flanks and in front, protecting the women and children, who obeyed the words of Pte-San-Waste-Win, Buffalo Calf Sister, Many Baskets, and Yellow Woman. Most of the women were from different tribes, but they abridged their vocabularies and mixed their alphabets in order to understand one another. Supposedly they were upset that they couldn’t use many adjectives, given that they lived in such a wild and colorful time. But they had to give things names on the run. Sometimes a couple of nouns were enough to name the things you had to dodge. Often the most urgent sentence was nothing but a muffled cry. A whisper and a gesture. Dull Knife’s people knew that as long as one warrior and at least one of the Protected Ones survived, the seed of the pack would not perish. But Ollokot, Bear Head, and Heap of Meat had fallen. Crooked Lightning and Carrying Pumpkin had passed on. The people with those ridiculous and incomprehensible names in a tongue that almost no longer existed, even as it was being created, were dying one after the next. By now they had lots of weapons, so the old women, or anyone else who didn’t want to live anymore, rode on the flanks and at the head, putting enemies to death. Some cavalrymen boasted to their companions of the distinguished decorations they’d won in their war with the tribes. They carved out women’s private parts and slung them on their saddlehorns. The decorations quickly dried in the air and never turned moist again, except in the rain.
On receiving this old information, the man of the time of reading, swallower of a full spectrum of data flows and deaths, the cripple of today’s age when there are no rules and all is permitted, should conceal any potentially unwarranted and pseudohumanistic indignation. And not just because of the fires all around us. Because when the women of the pack got to the hostages, they tested their manly strength with instruments. In the scholarly volumes and history books it is written that it lasted a long time and that it hurt. No one knows who started it.
It was the cavalry versus Dull Knife’s people, bullet to bullet and knife to knife. That it was a hundred knives to one, and then a thousand, is a different matter, but there were rules. Then something happened. Chief Joseph told Necklace: Ahem, ahem. Respectable citizens joined the hunt from every village, every town, every farm where cows or chickens were raised in slavery. Sheriffs, bosses, chefs, bankers, psychoanalysts, jailers, teachers, politicians, voters, brake-men, and eurojournalists all flipped through the channels and, finding no reruns of Dallas or Denver, grabbed their rifles, said goodbye to their wives and little ones, and walked out the door. Chief Joseph caught a lot of them. But then he fell too. The citizens ran the pack out of their backyards, then went home and told stories and wrote screenplays and drew up assessments, convening peace conferences and printing moving accounts. Some even produced resolutions calling for an end to the hunting of subhumans. They made lots of resolutions, right up to the end.
The land of animals and people was transformed into an unbroken tract of cottages, one great big never-ending chicken farm, and wherever there wasn’t a building someone had a backyard. Nothing lay fallow or untamed anymore. And new citizens were constantly coming along who hadn’t learned their lesson yet. The ones who had could no longer speak. Their experience was incommunicable. Some only wanted to get a snapshot of the savages, but their incomparably dull subjects couldn’t tell the difference and took their scalps along with their cameras.
Winter set in. The pack found itself in its usual situation: encircled. But this time there were settlers gathered in droves behind the string of cavalrymen. Holding carnivals, raffles, and peace conferences. Having fun. Bloody Knife thought they were out of their minds. Let’s slaughter them, he said. But then others will come, said Wolf Cub. Too late. Bloody Knife had ridden off. The grandstands fell silent, his singing the only sound until he came into shooting range. The pack charged. Some fell under the hail of bullets. They say Bloody Knife caught the bullets in flight and deflected them into his chest, many shots were fired. Thunderbolt, who prided himself on his singing, couldn’t take it and decided to outdo Bloody Knife. Their voices crossed in the night, catching bullets. They couldn’t afford to waste time killing settlers. Their pride was too great to make meat out of them, they measured their strength by their songs. But many shots were fired. Afterward, at the agreed spot, Dull Knife counted his people. Only thirty of them remained, they say, a few braves, plus old people and children. Just three women were left now: Pte-San-Waste-Win, Armadillo Sister, and Yellow Woman.
