Almost Complete Short Fiction, page 11
I sat down beside him. “You did something fine tonight, Spearshaker. You made the People happy. They have a hard life, and you made them laugh.”
He made a snorting sound. “Yes. They laughed to see us making fools of ourselves. Perhaps that is good.”
“No, no.” I saw it now. “Is that what you think? That they laughed because we did the plei so badly?”
I put my hand on his shoulder and turned him to face me. “My friend, no one there tonight ever saw a plei before, except for you. How would they know if it was bad? It was certainly the best plei they ever saw.”
He blinked slowly, like a turtle. I saw his eyes were red.
“Believe me, Spearshaker,” I told him, “they were laughing because it was such a funny story. And that was your doing.”
His expression was very strange indeed. “They thought it comical?”
“Well, who wouldn’t? All those crazy people up there, killing each otherand themselves—and then that part at the end, where everyone gets killed!” I had to stop and laugh, myself, remembering. “I tell you,” I said when I had my breath back, “even though I knew the whole thing by memory, I nearly lost control of myself a few times there.”
I got up. “Come, Spearshaker. You need to go to sleep. You have been working too hard.”
But he only put his head down in his hands and made some odd sounds in his throat, and muttered some words I did not know. And so I left him there and went to bed.
If I live until the mountains fall, I will never understand white men.
If I hue vntil our Saviour’s returne, I shall neuer vnderstande Indians.
Warre they count as Sport, and bloody Murther an occasion of Mer riment: ’tis because they hold Life itselfe but lightly, and think Death no greate matter neyther: and so that which we call Tragick, they take for Comedie. And though I be damned fort, I cannot sweare that they haue not the Right of it.
Whatever happened that night, it changed something in Spearshaker. He lived with us for many more years, but never again did he make a plei for us.
That was sad, for we had all enjoyed the Amaledi story so much, and were hoping for more. And many people tried to get Spearshaker to change his mind—Tsigeyu actually begged him; I think it was the only time in her life she ever begged anyone for anything—but it did no good. He would not even talk about it.
And at last we realized that his medicine had gone, and we left him in peace. It is a terrible thing for a didahnvwisgi when his power leaves him. Perhaps his ancestors’ spirits were somehow offended by our plei. I hope not, since it was my idea.
That summer Ninekiller’s daughter Cricket became Spearshaker’s wife. I gave them my house, and moved in with the Paint Clan woman. I visited my friend often, and we talked of many things, but of one thing we never spoke.
Cricket told me he still made his talking marks, from time to time. If he ever tried to make another plei, though, he never told anyone.
I believe it was five winters ago—it was not more—when Cricket came in one day and found him dead. It was a strange thing, for he had not been sick, and was still a fairly young man. As far as anyone knew there was nothing wrong with him, except that his hair had fallen out.
I think his spirit simply decided to go back to his native land.
Cricket grieved for a long time. She still has not taken another husband. Did you happen to see a small boy with pale skin and brown hair, as you came through our town? That is their son Wili.
Look what Cricket gave me. This is the turkey feather that was in Spearshaker’s hand when she found him that day. And this is the piece of mulberry bark that was lying beside him. I will always wonder what it says.
We are such stuff as Dreames are made on: and our little Life
Is rounded in a sleep.
NOTES
1. Elizabethan spelling was fabulously irregular; the same person might spell the same word in various ways on a single page. Shakespeare’s own spelling is known only from the Quarto and Folio printings of the plays, and the published poetry; and no one knows how far this may have been altered by the printer. It is not even known how close the published texts are to Shakespeare’s original in wording, let alone spelling. All we have in his own hand is his signature, and this indicates that he spelled his own name differently almost every time he wrote it.
I have followed the spelling of the Folio for the most part, but felt free to use my own judgment and even whim, since that was what the original speller did.
I have, however, regularized spelling and punctuation to some extent, and modernized spelling and usage in some instances, so that the text would be readable. I assume this book’s readership is well-educated, but it seems unrealistic to expect them to be Elizabethan scholars.
2. Cherokee pronunciation is difficult to render in Roman letters. Even our own syllabary system of writing, invented in the nineteenth century by Sequoyah, does not entirely succeed, as there is no way to indicate the tones and glottal stops. I have followed, more or less, the standard system of transliteration, in which “y” is used for the nasal grunting vowel that has no English equivalent.
It hardly matters, since we do not know how sixteenth-century Cherokees pronounced the language. The sounds have changed considerably in the century and a half since the forced march to Oklahoma; what they were like four hundred years ago is highly conjectural. So is the location of the various tribes of Virginia and the Carolinas during this period; and, of course, so is their culture. (The Cherokees may not then have been the warlike tribe they later became—though, given the national penchant for names incorporating the verb “to kill,” this is unlikely.) The Catawbas were a very old and hated enemy.
3. Edward Spicer’s voyage to America to learn the fate of the Roanoke Colony—or rather his detour to Virginia after a successful privateering operation—did happen, including the bad weather and the loss of a couple of boats, though there is no record that any boat reached the mainland. The disappearance of the Roanoke colonists is a famous event.
It is only conjecture—though based on considerable evidence, and accepted by many historians—that Powhatan had the colonists murdered, after they had taken sanctuary with a minor coastal tribe. Disney fantasies to the contrary, Powhatan was not a nice man.
4. I have accepted, for the sake of the story, the view of many scholars that Shakespeare first got the concept of Hamlet in the process of revising Thomas Kyd’s earlier play on the same subject. Thus he might well have had the general idea in his head as early as 1591—assuming, as most do, that by this time he was employed with a regular theatrical company—even though the historic Hamlet is generally agreed to have been written considerably later.
5. As to those who argue that William Shakespeare was not actually the author of Hamlet, but that the plays were written by Francis Bacon or the Earl of Southampton or Elvis Presley, one can only reply: Hah! And again, Hah!
Omnia Mutantur
Good evening. Tonight’s top story: the Church has a new leader.
Today in Rome, in the ancient Basilica of St. Peter, His Holiness Pope John Paul IV was officially consecrated as titular head of the Roman Catholic Church. He will be the two hundred and sixty-seventh holder of the two-thousand- year-old office, first held, according to Church tradition, by St. Peter the Apostle during the first century A.D.
The coronation ceremonies proceeded without incident. There had been some concern that radical elements might attempt to stage a demonstration--if not worse--and Italian police worked closely with the Vatican’s own security force to maintain order and protect the new pontiff, but only a few minor scuffles were reported.
Unofficial sources in Rome attribute the orderly atmosphere in large part to the efforts of Cardinal Nencini, leader of the ultraconservative opposition faction. Yesterday, in a nationally televised speech, the controversial Cardinal surprised Italians by calling on all dissidents to refrain from violent or disruptive acts during the coronation. Instead, he said, they should register their protest by staying home and praying for God’s mercy in what he described as “this blackest hour in all the long history of our Holy Mother Church.”
An outspoken critic of modern trends within the Catholic Church, Cardinal Nencini was one of the first to publicly condemn the election of the present pope, which he denounced as “this latest and most shameful in a long line of capitulations to the pressures of an obscene American social imperialism.”
Cardinal Nencini was referring to the sweeping changes within the Church during the last decade, brought on by a series of U.S. court rulings and legislation, beginning with the famous--or infamous, depending on one’s viewpoint--case of Lafferty versus St. Dismas. In its landmark decision, the Supreme Court held that any church which operates enterprises or institutions not directly religious in nature, or owns property not used specifically for worship services, may be considered a corporation under law, and is therefore subject to anti- discrimination statutes.
Subsequent cases clarified and expanded the principle, eventually forcing churches to choose between compliance and the abandonment of all secular properties and interests. Despite the vigorous protests of such persons as Cardinal Nencini, all major denominations chose compliance.
As a result, the Catholic Church--as well as many other churches which had long resisted such ideas--began to ordain women and, later, practicing gays and lesbians to the clergy. There was also the celebrated case of former Detroit Lions quarterback Stanley Wisznewski, now known as Sister Mary Margaret of the Carmelite order.
Meanwhile, five years ago, Congress passed the so-called Xiang-Kennedy Act, which imposed near-prohibitive restrictions against trade with nations failing to meet U.S. standards on human rights. A clause, little noted at the time of passage, extended the bill’s proscriptions to include operations or holdings within the U.S. of corporations headquartered in such countries.
On April 28 of last year, a federal court in New York ruled that the Vatican was a recognized nation and therefore subject to the bill’s provisions. The Supreme Court has refused to hear an appeal. Despite widespread protest, including statements by the bill’s authors that this was not what they had in mind, there has so far been no organized effort in Congress to repeal or modify the law.
Church spokespersons have consistently denied that last year’s vote of the College of Cardinals was in any way influenced by fear of financial ruin for the American dioceses. Inside sources, however, admit that there is much truth in Cardinal Nencini’s allegations. A high-ranking U.S. churchman, who asked that he not be identified, said, “They saw the handwriting on the wall--fall in line or lose it all, right down to the bingo games.”
And so His Holiness John Paul IV takes office amid a storm of controversy such as the Church has not seen since the days of the Reformation. Whatever may lie ahead for him, his place in history is secure. First, of course, he is the first pope to take office during the twenty-first century. And, second, the new pontiff--the former Reverend Grady Roy Hardcastle, of the World Gospel Tabernacle in Tulsa, Oklahoma--is the first pope in history who is not a Catholic.
Now for an altogether different story, and rather a sad one:
Wildlife authorities announced today the discovery, in northern Montana, of the body of what may have been the last living black bear in North America. It had apparently been killed by the same mysterious virus which over the last two years has wiped out all known bear populations in the U.S. and Canada--with the exception of the white bears of the polar icecap, which for unknown reasons remain unaffected.
Scientists still have little understanding of the origin and operation of the disease, the most obvious effect of which is a severe and eventually fatal blockage of the lower intestine.
We will return following these commercial messages.
Words and Music
William Sanders, a former powwow dancer and Cherokee gospel singer, lives in Tahlequah, Oklahoma. In his latest story for Asimov’s, he reveals the magical power of . . .
Jimmy Hominy was fifty-four years old and had been a didahnvwisgi—what the whites called a shaman or medicine man; a lot of Cherokees said adanisgi, wizard, and some said plainly ’sgili, witch, though not to his face—for most of his adult life. He had also done a hitch in Nam, played guitar for Buck Owens on two national tours, and been married to a Kiowa woman, so all in all he figured he’d been around and not much could surprise him. But when the preacher from Limestone showed up at Jimmy’s trailer out on Stick Ross Mountain Road and said his church house was being witched, Jimmy’s chin dropped so far it nearly hit his chest.
“Doyu?” he said, rubbing a big callused hand over a face the color and texture of an old saddle. “Somebody’s witching a church?”
“So they say,” the preacher said. “You hadn’t heard?”
“Hey,” Jimmy Hominy said, “I stay clear of that end of the county. You go listening to those Indians down around Limestone, you’re liable to hear anything.”
He grinned at the preacher. “But then that’s your job, right? Got to love all God’s children. Even the ones he probably wishes he’d drowned, like the Sparrowhawk brothers. Better you than me, chooch.”
The preacher didn’t return the grin. He was a bony-faced man somewhere in his forties, with a big nose and dark brown eyes. His thin straight black hair was combed forward in a failed effort to hide a hairline in full retreat, the inheritance of a white grandfather. He had on a really bad black suit.
His name was Eli Blackbird, but Jimmy Hominy usually thought of him simply as the preacher, because he was the only preacher Jimmy knew personally. Oh, every now and then some local Bible wrangler would come calling with the missionary light in his eyes—it would be a big coup to talk a notorious character like Jimmy Hominy into taking the Jesus road—but they didn’t stay long enough to get acquainted.
But this one never got on Jimmy’s case about following the old ways, or accused him of worshipping the Devil, and Jimmy had finally decided he was all right. Now here he was sitting at Jimmy’s kitchen table with a story about the Sparrowhawk boys witching his church, and Jimmy didn’t know what to think.
The preacher let out a long sigh and began fumbling in the pockets of his suit jacket. “I admit the Sparrowhawks aren’t easy to love—”
He pulled out a black briar pipe and a plastic pouch and began cramming tobacco into the bowl, spilling a little blizzard of Prince Albert flakes in the process. Jimmy didn’t say anything about it. The place was already in a mess anyway. Had been for a couple of years, ever since his wife had died.
Jimmy said, “Yeah, Luther and Bobby Sparrowhawk been nothing but bullies and sneak thieves since they were kids. And yet their mama was a real fine lady.”
The preacher nodded. “Oh, yes. Old Annie Sparrowhawk.” He was fishing around in his pockets again. Jimmy pushed a box of wooden matches across the table. “Thanks . . . as a matter of fact, that’s where the trouble began. Annie left that property to the church when she died, and her sons have been trying to get it back ever since.”
He struck a match and applied it to his pipe. “Which,” he said, puffing, “they can’t do. Annie paid a lawyer to draw up a will, legal and airtight.”
“What do they want with it? That rocky old land around Limestone’s not worth anything. So damn poor the whites never even bothered to steal it.”
“It is now,” the preacher told him through a cloud of bluish smoke. “Word is some developer from Tulsa has plans for the area.”
Jimmy thought about it. While he thought he held out his hand. “Uh, you think you could spare—”
The preacher handed over the tobacco pouch. Jimmy got his own pipe from his shirt pocket and loaded it and lit up. The preacher didn’t notice that Jimmy didn’t bother to use a match. Or if he did notice he pretended not to.
“Surprised they don’t just burn you out,” Jimmy said at last.
“They’ve made threats. But they’re both on probation for assault as it is. Any rough stuff, they go to the pen. The sheriff already warned them.”
“So now they’re trying to witch you out. Wonder who they got to do it.”
The preacher looked disappointed. He must have been hoping Jimmy would know who was doing the witching, or could find out. Probably thought people like Jimmy stayed in touch some way, like those white kids Jimmy’s grandson was always talking with on his computer.
Jimmy said, “Could be they’re trying to do it themselves. That’s crazy, but then they’re crazy.”
“It’s possible,” the preacher agreed. “They do have a reputation for dabbling in, uh, the occult. And yet they both got religion last year. Bobby married a white girl from one of those holy-roller churches and now he and Luther are in there at every revival, shouting and speaking in tongues, even handling snakes.”
“The snakes got my sympathy,” Jimmy said sincerely.
He knew what the preacher was getting at. The boondock holiness outfits were even stricter than other Indian churches when it came to “heathen” ways; some would kick you out just for going to stomp dances, let alone anything heavy.
But there was nothing so unusual about Cherokees trying to work both sides of that particular street. Almost all the people who came to Jimmy seeking cures for illness or protection against witchcraft or interpretations of dreams—he didn’t do love charms—were solid members of Bible churches that officially condemned such things as the Devil’s work. It was just something people didn’t talk about.
Jimmy said, “I didn’t think you preachers believed in these superstitions.”
This time the preacher did grin. “That’s the white half of me. The Indian half—” He spread his hands. “It doesn’t really matter what I think. If the people believe the place is being witched, they’ll stay away. You know that. Last Sunday we had half the usual turnout.”
