American Gothic, page 95
“God forgive me; I could not wait to try to resuscitate Jube. I knew he was already past help, so I rushed into the house and to the dead girl’s side. In the excitement they had not yet washed or laid her out. Carefully, carefully, I searched underneath her broken finger nails. There was skin there. I took it out, the little curled pieces, and went with it to my office.
“There, determinedly, I examined it under a powerful glass, and read my own doom. It was the skin of a white man, and in it were embedded strands of short, brown hair or beard.
“How I went out to tell the waiting crowd I do not know, for something kept crying in my ears, ‘Blood guilty! Blood guilty!’
“The men went away stricken into silence and awe. The new prisoner attempted neither denial nor plea. When they were gone I would have helped Ben carry his brother in, but he waved me away fiercely, ‘You he’ped murder my brothah, you dat was his frien’, go ’way, go ’way! I’ll tek him home myse’f.’ I could only respect his wish, and he and his comrade took up the dead man and between them bore him up the street on which the sun was now shining full.
“I saw the few men who had not skulked indoors uncover as they passed, and I – I – stood there between the two murdered ones, while all the while something in my ears kept crying, ‘Blood guilty! Blood guilty!’ ”
The doctor’s head dropped into his hands and he sat for some time in silence, which was broken by neither of the men, then he rose, saying, “Gentlemen, that was my last lynching.”
Alexander Posey (1873–1908)
Alexander Posey was a Muskogee (Creek) journalist and tribal politician. Schooled in both white and Indian culture, he knew the work of writers such as Poe as well as the oral traditions of the Muskogee nation. Posey anticipates later authors like N. Scott Momaday, Leslie Silko, and Louise Erdrich in bringing an indigenous American outlook, culture, and traditional storytelling into English-language narrative.
Posey wrote at least four stories about Chinnubbie Harjo, of which only two have been located. Chinnubbie is a trickster hero, amoral, brutal, humorous, and charismatic. In “Chinnubbie and the Squaws,” the only other surviving story, Chinnubbie not only murders all the women in the household of the chief of a rival tribe when they refuse him food, but scalps them – a technique he is credited with inventing. Chinnubbie is, moreover, a mask or alter ego for Posey himself, since he often used Chinnubbie Harjo as a pseudonym.
“Chinnubbie and the Owl” is a story about storytelling. Chinnubbie tells his tale as part of a contest before tribal elders and shamans, who are the custodians of the tribe’s oral traditions. His story is part joke and part uncanny encounter in the American wilderness, a pattern often seen in this collection.
Text: “Chinnubbie and the Owl” was published in an undated pamphlet by Posey, now at the Gilcrease Museum of the University of Tulsa. It was probably written about 1893. The text used here follows the collection edited by Matthew Wynn Sivils, Chinnubbie and the Owl: Muscogee (Creek) Stories, Orations, and Oral Traditions (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, c.2005). The only changes are corrections of errors in use of quotation marks, and the addition, for clarity, of a space between the end of Chinnubbie’s narrative and the framing narration.
Reprinted with permission from the Alexander Posey Collection, Gilcrease Museum Archives, University of Tulsa. Flat Storage. Registration #4627.33.
Chinnubbie and the Owl
We have learned in a previous story that Chinnubbie was a humorist of unquestioned excellence, as well as being renowned for other traits of character. Traditions claim that he was a storyteller of extraordinary merit; that when he spoke, his hearers gave strict attention, for there was a charm in his speech that was truly admirable and a something in his eloquent wit that captivated the gravest of his audience; that his actions when delivering a tale were as comical and laughable, almost, as the story he told. Yet his genius, as versatile as it was, bore its richest fruits in the circumstances of necessity only; and to one of these exigencies are we indebted for the story following this proem, which is supposed, on the authority of the prophets – the keepers of the oral library – to have been actually experienced by its author and rehearsed to the warlike multitude on an occasion of which we shall presently learn.
It was in the twilight of a lovely summer day, while the chiefs, medicine men, and warriors were grouped in a circle around the blazing campfire, discussing the success of a recent chase, parleying over various topics, and relating numerous anecdotes, that the prophet arose and offered a costly bow and twelve arrows to the one who could relate the best story of his own experience, or the best he could make on the spur of the moment. Of course the offer was readily accepted by scores of valiant warriors, and Chinnubbie was not to be left out among the rivals for the prize. Quickly arising from his grassy lounge and shaking the ashes from the tomahawk that he had just been smoking, he thus conjured the generous sage in his favorite phrase: “By the bears, I wish a part in this myself.”
His desire was immediately granted, and the contestants one by one rehearsed their tales in a plausible manner and exerted every power within them to accomplish their end. But all – save one, Chinnubbie, the last though not the least – were accused of unscrupulous plagiarism. They each had plucked a gem from memory’s treasury of old traditions to veneer the imperfect portions of their unpremeditated story. The guilty rivals became the objects of ridicule and sarcastic remarks, while Chinnubbie, in whose well-told tale no ill-gotten thoughts had been detected, received the praise of the chief and prophet in every manner of endearing expression. The prize was awarded to him with bows and obeisance due the gods. Chinnubbie became the autocrat of the evening’s entertainment, and every word that was lisped was lisped in admiration of his wonderful tale. He had touched the chord whose reverberations echoed fame.
We must not after all be persuaded to believe that Chinnubbie became and remained a favorite of his countrymen. His fickleness and perfidiousness caused his popularity to be very precarious. He would be extoled [sic] today for a noble act and execrated tomorrow for a bad one. Whether famous or infamous, Chinnubbie cared but very little. He was content anywhere and under all circumstances and conditions.
Chinnubbie’s Story
It has been quite awhile since this incident, which I am about to relate to you, was experienced. But, warriors, a good story, however ancient, is always new, and the more frequently it is told, the more attractive it becomes, and is destined to never be obliterated from the memory in which it lives. The campfire is made more cheerful and happier when such stories are told, and the mind is released from the bonds of its cares and solicitudes. So, this one, from that time to present, has been an evergreen in my recollection. None but my most intimate friends have a knowledge of this tale, and I have cautioned them never to communicate the same to others, as it would doubtless excite the jealousy of the prophets, who are my superiors in the creation of such narratives. But whether it will be envied by them or not, the time has arrived when it must be publicly declared.
On one of my first wanderings away from home in foreign lands, I lost the course of my journey, and went astray in a pathless forest, through which, I thought, no man had ever passed. It was a solitary waste, a jungle, and a lair of ferocious beasts and reptiles. Even at noonday, its vast interior seemed dark and dusky, with only a sunbeam here and there to illume its gloom, invigorate its rank epicurean growth. Had I been otherwise than an ingenious bowman, I would not have escaped the savage greed of the puma that clung in his hunger to the arching bough, and the wolf that tracked and sniffed the course I took. At night I sought to rest my wearied limbs in the fork of some lofty oak, but found no repose. Thus I roamed and prowled in hunger, fruitless search, and despondency.
Finally, on the last evening of my almost helpless wandering, a strange but a fortunate incident befell me. The sun was just disappearing in the gold of the western sky, and twilight was gathering its sombre shades over the unhunted woods, when my attention was suddenly attracted by the weird hoots of an owl, perched upon the bough of a desolate oak, beneath which I had been standing quite a while, listening to the dreamy far-off song of the whippoorwill. He seemed as grave and solemn as death itself; his large saffron eyes appeared prophetic of my fate. Recalling to memory the strange stories that had often been related to me in childhood, of such birds, I stood bewitched and motionless in a trance of awe and silence. The owl likewise maintained a gravelike stillness that was broken only by the flutter of his wings. He grew, I thought, exceeding twice his real size; this so increased my horror, that had anyone been near to observe me in this situation, he would have declared that my head, too, grew fabulously huge. Like the squirrel, when charmed by reptile fascination, I could neither move nor wail a voice of despair. Ultimately, like morning mists ascending from the streams, swamps, and morasses, the fog of my stupidity slowly vanished into serene sunlight of consciousness. At this moment of my recuperation, I thought myself the happiest brave that ever twanged a bow. But yet, I could not forbear thinking: “This enchantment is ominous of my end; if not the determination of my career, a misfortune that shall darken all my future years.”
I hope that while mortals have a knowledge of my existence I will never undergo another like experience.
Having now a full possession of my senses, I walked around the tree to quit the bewitching spot, and turned my head in various directions. This was mimicked by the mysterious bird in a most consummate manner, who still seemed to bespeak my untimely fate. Becoming desirous to know the extent of his imitations, which now excited my fancy, I exclaimed in a tremulous tone “Who are you?”
The owl replied: “Who are you? – whoo, whoo!, whoo, whoo!!”
A smile, at this dubious response, forced itself upon my countenance. Again, in a more vehement voice, I asked: “Answer, by the bears and all beside, who are you?”
As the echoes of my impassioned words reverberated through the sable forest, the amber feathered bird imperiously rejoined:
“Answer, by the bears and all beside, who are you?”
He thus continued and repeated all that I said, but would give no answer to my interrogations. Our conversation was the reiteration of one thought. Finally, I thought the task of endeavoring to cause him to converse with me an irksome waste of time, and begun to walk around the tree, to note how long he would mimic my action by turning his head without reversing, and keeping his body at the same time in one position. I continued to walk incessantly around the oak, and still he imitated me with apparent ease and alacrity. Presently, I became somewhat fatigued in my curiosity, being wearied already by my long rambles; but knowing that perseverance triumphs, I did not forsake my singular fancy. When lo! to my surprise and sudden fright, his head fell severed from the body to the ground; exclaiming as it fell, “Take my head and place it in your belt, it will guide you to your home in safety!”
Like a child obeying the command of its affectionate mother, I heeded the behest of the falling head, and fastening it securely in my belt, I journeyed in safety to my home, from which I had long been absent.
Chinnubbie, at the conclusion of his story, departed immediately from the applauding multitude to slack his thirst in the neighboring brook. Upon his return, the bow and twelve arrows which had been pledged to the victorious brave were awarded to him with congratulatory speeches. Chinnubbie, as he received the costly prize, extricated from his buckskins the featherless head of an owl and ejaculated in a most triumphant voice: “Doubt if you will the authenticity of my tale, here is the head of its hero!”
“Doubt your tale? never, never – absurd,” rejoined the prophet much amazed at Chinnubbie’s earnestness, “never, never, it is as true as the reality of day and night!”
“Few, few there are on whom such a fortune smiles and many, many on whom it frowns. Few are born to win. Warn, ye gods, if such as ye there be, warn, I pray, the bears, the fallow deers, the bisons, the pumas of the forest, and the foes of my heroic clan!”
Chinnubbie thus replied, and departed from his comrades in the twilight of blossoming day like a dream, on his journey to – he knew not where, but leaving the impression that his object was to search the wilds in quest of spoils. His fellows anticipated a great feast and a unique occasion on his return, but alas! in vain – he had departed on another tramp.
Long, long years afterwards, Chinnubbie returned, and was welcomed with wild enthusiasm. He was not rebuked for the inexcusable falsehood that he had told on the morning of his setting out, for that was forgotten in the ecstasy of joy on his reappearance. A feast and a great war-dance were given in his honor. On this occasion, Chinnubbie is said to have displayed his oratorical genius in some blood-stirring phillipics [sic]. But tradition has unfortunately failed to embalm them in its unwritten volumes.
Jack London (1876–1916)
Internationally, Jack London has always been one of his country’s most revered authors. At home, until recently, he was dismissed as the writer of a few novels of juvenile fiction. In fact his production, in a short career, was astounding: some fifty books, and over 200 short stories. Impressive as well is the range of his interests. He wrote investigative journalism (his was the great age of “muckraking”), covered wars and athletic events, and produced works on land management and ecological farming. His autobiographical works have surprising freshness and candor. He introduced boxing and the life on the road (anticipating the Beats by forty years) to American literature. He wrote science fiction about cavemen and post-apocalyptic futures. While he would have agreed that his work was uneven, he was not a primitive or inspired amateur, but a professional writer of great talent and energy.
London’s “Samuel” (1909) will be a revelation to readers expecting masculine themes and a setting in the Yukon or the South Seas. His Margaret Henan recalls such strong women as Freeman’s “Old Woman Magoun.” The Gothic quality of the story reveals itself slowly and deliberately. Readers will note an allusion to Poe, a sign that London knew his predecessors. In many ways this domestic tragedy recalls Sigmund Freud’s notion of the unheimlich, the secret which reveals itself inside the apparently safe and familiar. (At the core of the word unheimlich is Heim, home.) The usual English translation of Freud’s German word is “uncanny.” Perhaps not by coincidence, London uses “uncanny” twice in the opening paragraphs of this truly unsettling tale.
Text: Jack London, The Strength of the Strong (New York: Macmillan, 1914).
Samuel
Margaret Henan would have been a striking figure under any circumstances, but never more so than when I first chanced upon her, a sack of grain of fully a hundred-weight on her shoulder, as she walked with sure though tottering stride from the cart-tail to the stable, pausing for an instant to gather strength at the foot of the steep steps that led to the grain-bin. There were four of these steps, and she went up them, a step at a time, slowly, unwaveringly, and with so dogged a certitude that it never entered my mind that her strength could fail her and let that hundred-weight sack fall from the lean and withered frame that well-nigh doubled under it. For she was patently an old woman, and it was her age that made me linger by the cart and watch.
Six times she went between the cart and the stable, each time with a full sack on her back, and beyond passing the time of day with me she took no notice of my presence. Then, the cart empty, she fumbled for matches and lighted a short clay pipe, pressing down the burning surface of the tobacco with a calloused and apparently nerveless thumb. The hands were noteworthy. They were large-knuckled, sinewy and malformed by labor, rimed with callouses, the nails blunt and broken, and with here and there cuts and bruises, healed and healing, such as are common to the hands of hard-working men. On the back were huge, upstanding veins, eloquent of age and toil. Looking at them, it was hard to believe that they were the hands of the woman who had once been the belle of Island McGill. This last, of course, I learned later. At the time I knew neither her history nor her identity.
She wore heavy man’s brogans. Her legs were stockingless, and I had noticed when she walked that her bare feet were thrust into the crinkly, iron-like shoes that sloshed about her lean ankles at every step. Her figure, shapeless and waistless, was garbed in a rough man’s shirt and in a ragged flannel petticoat that had once been red. But it was her face, wrinkled, withered and weather-beaten, surrounded by an aureole of unkempt and straggling wisps of grayish hair, that caught and held me. Neither drifted hair nor serried wrinkles could hide the splendid dome of a forehead, high and broad without verging in the slightest on the abnormal.
The sunken cheeks and pinched nose told little of the quality of the life that flickered behind those clear blue eyes of hers. Despite the minutiae of wrinkle-work that somehow failed to wizen them, her eyes were clear as a girl’s – clear, out-looking, and far-seeing, and with an open and unblinking steadfastness of gaze that was disconcerting. The remarkable thing was the distance between them. It is a lucky man or woman who has the width of an eye between, but with Margaret Henan the width between her eyes was fully that of an eye and a half. Yet so symmetrically molded was her face that this remarkable feature produced no uncanny effect, and, for that matter, would have escaped the casual observer’s notice. The mouth, shapeless and toothless, with down-turned corners and lips dry and parchment-like, nevertheless lacked the muscular slackness so usual with age. The lips might have been those of a mummy, save for that impression of rigid firmness they gave. Not that they were atrophied. On the contrary, they seemed tense and set with a muscular and spiritual determination. There, and in the eyes, was the secret of the certitude with which she carried the heavy sacks up the steep steps, with never a false step or over-balance, and emptied them in the grain-bin.
