Counting Coup, page 34
part #1 of The Benediction of Paul Series
“Let them run,” Grandma Tiama said as she tapped Karl’s arm. “They will return.”
Karl sat in the refectory, surrounded by food and the belongings of the dead. Normally, these items would be given to family and friends, but Karl let them select what they needed instead. The ritual was a mixture of Apsáalooke and white. Tribal members had helped with the cooking. They would be near the monastery for several days. He wondered how long the monks would tolerate their presence.
People moved like ghosts around him. Karl stood, glancing at it all—a great giveaway. Ambrose picked up a wooly sheep and slipped it into his pocket. He had given that to Amber Rose on her first birthday.
Karl fingered a lopsided clay basin, not quite a fruit bowl or cup, Faith’s attempt at pottery. He could feel her love and his loneliness.
“Why would anyone want this stuff?” Father Pius asked, standing next to Brother Ambrose. “Personal toothbrushes, combs?” He cracked the knuckles on his right hand. “I can’t believe those silly novices gathered that.”
“I told them to treat everything as if it were a chalice,” Ambrose said.
“They consider all objects as having an essence. A purpose,” Father Joannicus said. “What they said in the graveyard makes me think they have much in common with our Benedictine ideals.”
Karl took the pottery. God, earth, breath, Faith, clay, spirit. He hugged the bowl to his chest.
Insulated in his bubble of grief, he sat, watching the tears, the hugs, and the calls. Their bodies were gone, but not their spirits.
In a year, he would release them—too long.
Karl watched the room divide between monks and tribes. Each side was leery yet united in food and purpose. Judith stood out only because she wasn’t wearing black or the traditional black scarf. She refused to honor any tradition. Todd hovered over Grandma Tiama. Terence seemed the only one comfortable enough to move among them all.
What were they doing here? Rebecca had severed the bond. Or had she? He snorted. Bond? What bond?
A three-year-old child approached Karl, smiling. She looked at the bowl in his lap, which now held the sacred bundles. Karl stared at her. They locked eyes, and slowly her face sagged as a frown weighed her chin, and it quivered as tears formed in her eyes.
Rebecca grabbed the child from Karl’s vision.
“Stop that,” she hissed at him as she stroked the tearful girl’s head, returning her to her mother.
Rebecca appeared next to him.
“You can’t do that. You can’t drink her spirit.”
Karl caressed the leather bundle. The deer hide was soft.
A shadow loomed. Judith cleared her throat. She stood before him, flanked by Sister Marie and Terence.
“This has been nice. I hope you thanked the Abbot for his kindness,” Judith said. “But we shouldn’t overstay our welcome. Let’s go. Gather your things.”
What was she talking about?
“Go?” Rebecca’s voice was pinched.
“Home,” Judith quipped, giving her a hard stare.
“No,” Rebecca said.
Karl glanced from one to the other. He must be invisible.
“Rebecca, I don’t think this is your concern,” Terence said. “Your brother needs family, time, and a place to grieve and heal.”
“The sacred bundles, he can’t leave,” Rebecca said. He knew she was grasping for a reason to stop him from returning to the farmhouse.
“That isn’t even our tradition.” Judith crossed her arms.
He had blended Lakota and Apsáalooke. He accepted the bundles, so he was duty-bound.
Karl covered his ears. Their squawking hurt.
“They can erect a teepee anywhere,” Judith said. “Honestly, souls can be kept in cookie jars.”
Karl stood. Enough.
“Many will come, disturbing your peace at the farmhouse, But I will consider your kind offer,” Karl said, knowing he was lying, for he had dismissed the idea even as it fell from her lips.
“No, you won’t consider it,” Rebecca said.
“That’s the problem. You two are selfish. They were my grandchildren. You kept them from me,” Judith said, her voice calm and treacherous.
“This isn’t about you, Mother,” Rebecca said.
“Ihkaa, they are gone. You can have whatever possession they had that brings you comfort. That is what the giveaway is about,” Karl said, baffled by Judith’s grief. Had he dishonored her by keeping their visits to a minimum?
“Don’t be fooled,” the Elder in his mind whispered.
Judith looked sincere, hands gripped in each other, standing close to him, peering up.
“Go home. Father, take her home,” Rebecca said, her voice hard and gravelly.
“Rebecca, calm yourself,” Terence said. “You’re overreacting. We’ve all suffered loss here.”
Rebecca turned to Karl and grabbed his arm. “Don’t go home.”
“Balakibia,” Judith said to Rebecca in Crow. “Leave him. He’s not your son. You’re not his wife.”
Karl felt the gut punch and knew Rebecca did, too. She had spoken in Apsáalooke. Yes, they were close. That was how they had survived. Judith was right. It was time to walk his own path.
Rebecca trembled as the words spewed forth. “How dare you call yourself Basahke, his mother, my mother? You never wanted Karl. Why now? He has nothing for you. Leave him alone.”
Karl heard the rosary beads of Sister Marie clicking. Judith was baiting them to react. Did she think in his weakness that she could send his spirit to walk on and join Faith and the children? He needed to stop this.
Karl placed a hand on Rebecca’s shoulder. “Do not follow her down this path. It is a trap.”
Rebecca turned to him, placing her head on his chest as he held her.
“She should have been your Basahke, loved you, and taken care of you like she has others. She left it for me to do. I have always fixed things. I can’t this time. I can’t bring them back.”
As if approaching a feral animal, Todd moved closer to Rebecca. The elk teeth on her dress trembled like wind on the water’s surface.
“It hurts more than any beating. I could heal you then. I did. Long ago, you wanted to stay. So, we stayed. And for what? To be standing here with her fake outreach of compassion. If you go, it will kill you. She blames you for their deaths. She blames you for her life,” Rebecca sputtered. “You cannot go. Promise. I’m tired of the circle of silence. You know it will happen again. She will make sure of it.”
The vein on Terence’s forehead pulsed. Rebecca’s body stiffened. Someone was going to get hit. Karl closed his eyes.
Todd stepped forward, and Karl pushed Rebecca to him. He encompassed her, crushing her to his chest even as she tried to push him away. Karl saw his exit. He stepped away from them and headed to the hallway, colliding with Joannicus. He shoved the bowl into his arm as he scooped out the sacred bundles.
“Keep this safe for me,” Karl said.
“Sure,” Joannicus said without hesitation.
Karl scooted past him and out into the daylight. He could hear Rebecca wailing. He headed to the church. The bundles weighed heavily in his hands. A place, a hallowed place. He entered the little chapel inside the church and ran his fingers under the table for the key. He unlocked the tabernacle and removed the chalice that held the extra hosts. The wooden floor of the tabernacle was false. Mellitus had shown him the hidden spot. They had argued about its purpose and who knew about it.
“Sorry,” he murmured, just in case there was a relic in there. He knew about the relics. All Catholic churches had at least one somewhere. He hadn’t found where the pieces of St. Alberic were hiding. The Latin relinquo meant “I leave” or “I abandon.”
“These are the relics I leave behind. It is a first-class relic I surrender. Earthly remains,” he said to the Jesus on the crucifix.
Guilt nudged him, for he knew he should not relinquish them.
“I am sorry,” he said, his voice constricting as he caressed the bundle one last time. “This is a good place. Many will come and pray. You could grant them miracles if you get bored. I will be back. I cannot take you with me, and I fear you will get lost with me.”
Moisture darkened the bundle, and Karl wiped his cheeks and slipped the sacred bundles into the hollow. He replaced the wooden board and chalice, locked the tabernacle, and returned the key. He stood gripping the little table. The atrium door opened, and voices echoed like thunder. Karl slipped out the side exit.
Chapter 38
Tiny
You have to look deeper, way below the anger, the hurt, the hate, the jealousy,
the self-pity, way down deeper where the dreams lie, son.
Find your dream. It’s the pursuit of the dream that heals you.
Tamakoce Te’Hila (Billy Mills). 1938- . Oglala Lakota, 1964 Gold medalist. 2012 Presidential Citizens medal, co-founder of Running Strong for American Indian Youth.
In late spring in Montana, the weather is unpredictable but stable enough to live outdoors. Karl built a lean-to, cutting branches for a roof and sides, arguing with the forest that he could use a knife because he abandoned the sacred bundles. The blade glistened, and the echo of the Lakota Elder swirled in the air every time he gutted a rabbit or fish. He wasn’t sure if he was winning the argument.
Shame.
He didn’t want to be here.
Karl went through the motions of living. Every physical pain, cut, and sore muscle reminded him he lived.
He was a blade of grass, stuck bending to the whims of nature and gods.
Day after day, he questioned—shouting, singing, and screaming.
Why?
“Lakota winyan, where are you? I have nothing to follow. Come back,” Karl spoke to the huckleberry bush.
“Nobody comes for you?” the mountains asked in response to his questions.
Where was Rebecca?
“So, end it, warrior,” buzzed the insects that floated around him.
Shut up.
But you are here in the silence to hear me, echoed the voice in his mind. Let me in.
The voices danced with the sun, the rain, and the moon.
Spring welcomed summer. Coolness gave way to boiling. He existed, but why? Exhaustion followed him like a Rez dog.
Every night he sat wondering, watching, weeping. For what? The fire burned and crackled, and sparks rose. At night, visions of the ER dotted his sleep like the stars. Anger bubbled every time he woke from the terror.
“If you are waiting for death, then perhaps you should not eat,” the voice boomed. He sat up, looking for the person who spoke. He saw nothing but the dying embers of his fire. Were the little people talking to him? He knew they existed and often aided the Apsáalooke people, but he was not near the Pryor Gap or Castle Rock. He had not left an offering. Why would they visit him?
One hot August morning, Karl hiked out of the forest and sat in an open field, determined to wait for death. Birds sang. Insects buzzed. The day waned. Bats darted. Raccoons waddled by. Twigs snapped. Karl startled awake. Nothing had feasted upon him but mosquitoes. Dawn peaked over the horizon. The sun warmed his cooled skin. The damp grass stood up. Closed buds opened, and a mother uuxe with her twin fawns stepped cautiously on spindly legs.
The sun baked his already tan skin. Sweat dripped and thirst cracked his lips. Heat exhaustion threatened to bring visions of the dead. Soon.
Then the sun ran away. Thunder rumbled in the distance. The storm would not make him leave. It would pass.
Perhaps taking the sadness with it, for nothing seemed to fill the emptiness.
Karl rested his head on his knees and folded his arms. The rain flowed freely from the sky.
Water dripped from his nose and short hair. The clouds ran away, and Karl stretched out in the grass. The odor of earth and sweat surrounded him as the sun sucked the moisture from his clothing. Soon.
Karl stayed another day, another night. Soon.
Twilight. Yellow eyes stared at him in the moonlight, a low growl.
Move along, he was not dead yet. Come wolf pack, and he wouldn’t resist. Brother cheete.
Hunger gnawed. All night the appaake buzzed, whispering in his ear, sucking the blood from his veins.
Night gave way to dawn another day. He had waited. Death refused to embrace him. Life filled his lungs.
Not soon enough.
An iisashpite jumped into his lap, warm and full of life. Karl grabbed the unsuspecting rabbit and snapped its neck.
Dinner.
Fall colors filled the forest. Animals began the forage for winter. Rain soaked his lean-to. Coldness nipped at him every evening as the sun went down. Nights took on a frosty grip. The squirrel scolded him for staying so long. Like a Rez dog, he wandered along the border of Indian country. Taverns marked his trail.
The bare trees and hard, cold ground made sheltering outside a challenge. Sleep consisted of a nap on a bench or the public library. Winter leaned closer with each day.
Karl sat in the dark corner of the tavern, peeling his arm off the sticky table.
He raised his near-empty pitcher. The bartender yielded no guilt for causing another Indian to fall into the brown bottle. The bartender continued to serve you until you ran out of money. Karl’s week in this bar would soon be over—drinking from opening till closing, living off greasy burgers and fries.
He imagined the headline. Another Indian froze to death. The survivors would be so angry, and Judith would celebrate. He swirled the beer and watched the foam shift like snow drifts.
Glancing up, he saw the shiny black head of a short man standing next to his table.
“Karl,” the man said.
“Tiny?”
“What are you doing here?”
“Drinking beer. What do you want?” He hadn’t seen Tiny Stones in the River in years, not since they were teens. Karl still had the rock, the flat, plain, ugly one Tiny had given him. It was a good skipping rock, yet he had never thrown it into the water. Tiny wore his name well. His shoulder was even with the high bar table.
“This isn’t a place for you. Disahkaate is looking for you,” Tiny said.
Rebecca could have found him. Everyone knew where the drunks lay. Had she rejected him like she had Jimmy? Silly notion. Rebecca would never abandon him unless death came. He snorted, imagining a bony hand reaching for him from the grave. Not even mortality would stop her. A childhood emotion of independence fussed over him.
He wished she would just let him go, let him out, let him run free.
“Since when do we run when she calls? Have a beer with me,” Karl said.
“I think not. You need to come with me.”
“I need to finish my beer. One should not be wasteful.”
“What do you call drinking the white man’s swill?”
That hurt. He was not numb yet.
“Tiny, have you heard? I am alone.”
“Not true,” the small Indian said. His braid whipped from side to side as he shook his head. “You just want to be left alone.”
“They are dead. I have nothing,” Karl said. Seeing the hardness on Tiny’s face, he added. “Go home.”
Tiny wagged his head again. “I’m here.”
“Sent.”
“Regardless of how I got here, I’m here. Even bishee scat has a purpose,” Tiny said, climbing onto the stool. He wrinkled his nose.
Karl looked at his dirty fingers. He attempted to wipe them on his stained jeans. There was no use. The earth had encrusted him. Perhaps he was half in the grave already.
“You stink,” Tiny said.
“That is downright mean. You are still small,” Karl said.
The server came.
“Two coffees and lots of sugar.”
Tiny remembered.
“Coffee does not diminish the effects of beer,” Karl said, gulping the contents of the mug, fearful that Tiny might send it away before he could numb his brain.
“Beer does not diminish the effects of living.”
The coffee arrived, and the beer mugs clinked as they were removed.
“You should just go away,” Karl said. He didn’t want to live without his family. Gloominess had not washed away with the changing seasons nor drowned in the liquid he consumed.
Tiny looked at his coffee mug. “Tell me a story.”
The beer raced in Karl’s veins. A story. Which story? His story wasn’t a happy one. It didn’t even hold hope.
“The man should have died. Instead, he did not live happily ever after.”
“That is not your story.” Tiny snorted. “You are happy because you aren’t living.”
His story wasn’t the tale of Cold Feet and Sings in the Night. What about them? Ancestor myths. He was not like either of them. He wasn’t called from death to be someone’s lover. The keeper of knowledge and wisdom was not his path.
The room spun. The alcohol made him feel heavy in mind, limb, and spirit.
“How is Rebecca?” Karl asked.
“The Elders have told her to stop wearing the black.”
Karl poured more sugar into his mug. The year wasn’t up, and she was told to stop grieving. He was not ready to do that.
Karl squeezed his mug. He had envisioned her in a hut composed of willow sticks wrapped with blankets and canvas. The rug covered the earthen floor with a fire pit glowing white hot. Pitchers of water hissed as the steam rose. The cedar scent filled the air. A sweat lodge—yes, she was praying and purifying herself from the poisons surrounding her. Was he included in that toxicity?
“Good for her. Shake me off like the sweat of a sweltering day.”
Tiny clunked his mug down with a thump.
“I’m sorry for your loss.” Tiny looked at the table, the dirty dishes, and then around Karl.
He was looking for the sacred bundle.
“They are not with me.”
“Why not? It was your responsibility. You gave your word.”
