The Translation of Dr Apelles

by David Treuer

  The delegates, seated on woven cedar mats, cattail screens, and buffalo robes, were served first. The villagers gathered around to watch, and eventually they too were served and ate along with the delegates. The Governor and the Agent praised the food and the garden and gazed out to the lake in obvious appreciation of the natural beauty of the spot. The Agent, along with the trader, pointed out the local powers and personalities from the village. All in all, everyone was happy. Bimaadiz and his parents edged close. They wanted to see the people on whom Bimaadiz’s future rested.

  The Governor praised the roast venison. He declared he had never tasted venison so tender, so full of juice: venison that had been prepared so well. He asked who had provided it and Schiller, who was seated nearby, began to tell the story of the hunt.

  Just then he spied Bimaadiz in the crowd. Schiller motioned him forward and said, “Here is the hunter himself. It is only fitting that he should tell the story of the hunt.”

  Bimaadiz hesitated. He had never been among so many people in his life and had never spoken to so many and to so many important people either. But Schiller beckoned, and the others, all of them—the Governor, Agent, Priest, local and visiting Chiefs—clamored for the tale.

  Still Bimaadiz hesitated until his father pushed him forward and hissed, “ You will gain credit by telling your story and telling it well.”

  So, trembling inside, Bimaadiz stepped out and stood in front of the seated dignitaries.

  He clasped his hands behind his back because he was afraid they would shake, and, not daring to look the guests in the eyes, stared at the ground and began to speak.

  “I did not want to step forward,” he began, “because I do not think that providing game for my people and our guests is something deserving of special praise. So I did not want to come forward until the one who raised me, my father, said I should. Since I follow him in all things, as is only fitting, I stand here now, before you.”

  Bimaadiz paused and looked up at the treetops.

  “Schiller asked me to accompany him out in the bush and, since it was an honor I could not and did not want to refuse, I said yes. We went together to good hunting grounds and after posting him at a good crossing, I drove the high ground, careful to work the wind and cover together. I heard him shoot and was glad because I was certain that a man as experienced as he is would be sure not to miss. Meanwhile I saw seven deer. One after another they came to me. They each fell with a single bullet each—some I shot in the head and some in the heart. Many times I have gone out, seen game, and missed, and was forced to come home empty-handed. But this time was different. And the only thing that was different was that instead of hunting for my parents, the ones who raised me, I was hunting for the credit of my village and the hunger of our guests. And so, it was not I who was honored with luck. Rather, the deer were offering themselves to you. Just as you are the agents of our future, I was the agent for your satisfaction, merely the instrument that brought you and your meal together. You are the ones who deserve praise because if you were not worthy the deer wouldn’t have offered themselves to you.”

  Bimaadiz finished speaking, placed his hand over his heart, and stepped back into the crowd. The delegates and even the villagers were amazed and impressed with Bimaadiz’s speech.

  Those who knew him were surprised at how well he expressed himself, at how clear he was. He didn’t stutter or tremble at all. And what he said was posed just so! So humbly, so modestly did Bimaadiz give the honor back to those who sought to bestow it. It was every bit the speech of a Chief. Those who didn’t know him, the delegates and officials, were doubly impressed. They were amazed at the spirit of his speech and at his generosity and grace. And as he spoke they marveled at his bearing and physical grace, too. He looked so tall, so broad shouldered and fit. His eyes were clear and his skin burnished and smooth. They felt that they had never seen a young man so handsome and sure. Fitted out in his beaded vest and black trousers with one eagle feather tied to his hair, he was an impressive sight. The visitors were moved. One of them particularly so.

  He was the proud Chief of the enemy band who had raided across the river the winter before.

  He stood and gathered his buffalo robe about him. He was very impressive in his own right. He was tall, with a clean, well-weathered face. He wore seven eagle feathers in his hair and they were clearly war honors. Everything about him suggested the wealth of his position—from the quilled sheath of his scalping knife, the necklace of bearclaws around his neck, to the jangle of brass bracelets on both wrists. And more than that, he appeared wealthy in spirit, a kind leader for his people, a terrible enemy to those opposed to him.

  He stood and faced Bimaadiz and said in Bimaadiz’s language, “On coming here I did not anticipate the rise of ignoble feelings in my heart and it shames me to admit it. But I must speak my conscience even if it contributes to my dishonor.”

  The crowd fell silent, made nervous by the strong language of the Chief.

  “And my jealousy,” he continued, “(for that is what it is) is not directed at the fine young man who spoke just now. He is beyond the reach of such low thoughts. My jealousy is directed at his father.”

  Jiigibiig bowed his head.

  “Would that I had a son like his! I do not. Would that I could be sure of my future when I am too old to hunt, would that I could place my future, and the future of my people, in the hands of a son like him. I cannot. If I could, my people would have nothing to fear—we could be sure that a strong sapling would be standing when the old trees fall.

  “I had four sons but they died and no others were given to me.” The Chief reached down and picked up his rifle. It was sheathed in a buckskin scabbard covered with dyed quills and expensive trade beads.

  “The spirits have blessed you with sense and ability,” he said to Bimaadiz. “You could not speak so well nor could you kill seven deer with seven shots if it were otherwise. And as they bless you so must I. Take this gun and keep it and continue to bring honor to your people.”

  The enemy Chief stepped forward and handed the rifle to Bimaadiz, who, for the moment, was speechless. Those gathered around cheered and grunted in agreement with the Chief. Such good feeling was an auspicious start to the negotiations, and everyone was filled with hope as the day drew to a close.

  They broke for the evening. Some began the gambling games, others visited and gossiped by their lodge fires, others told stories, and still others plotted their moves for the coming negotiations. Bimaadiz rushed to his cabin, and unable to tell Eta the good luck he had had, unable to tell her how good things looked for the two of them, he tossed and turned all through the night.

  7. The delegates retired to their lodges and whatever accommodations had been offered to them—tents for the Governor, Agent, and cavalry, hastily constructed lodges for the visiting Indian Chiefs and their families. Here and there games of chance lasted long into the night, and most agreed that the first day of talks had been a success. But not everyone felt that way.

  One man in particular was having a hard time of it. That man was Charles Luce. He had managed to quell, if not quench, his feelings for Bimaadiz. After that first meeting he had been able to suppress his passion and attend to the business at hand, but that was no longer possible. When Bimaadiz spoke at the feast Luce had been smitten all over again. He thought Bimaadiz was the most beautiful boy he had ever seen, his voice the sweetest he had ever heard. In short, Luce was consumed, and Bimaadiz was the fire. He felt that he would die if he could not get Bimaadiz for himself. But how?

  So that night he stalked between the lodges and out among the horses and went so far as to go into the woods and back again. He moaned and stroked his beard incessantly. When he couldn’t take it any longer and could not find an exit from the prison of his passion, he hurried to Schiller’s tent and scratched the canvas and asked if he could enter.

  Schiller was at his traveling
desk writing up a document in the language and when he looked up at Luce he could not believe his eyes.

  Luce was disheveled. His beard was pulled and puffed up. His eyes were red. And his hair was coronalled with leaves. Schiller was alarmed and half rose from his stool. But before he could stand Luce went so far as to drop to his knees.

  “I am so miserable!” cried Luce. “I don’t know what to do. I have tried to find a way out, to avail myself of more divine supplements, but nothing works. I must have the boy Bimaadiz. I can teach him to read and write,” he said with a quivering voice. “I can introduce him to mathematics and accounting. He shows himself to be intelligent and hardworking. If you allow me to have him I can improve upon him. He can enter the service and have an open future. So what if I receive payment in the form of pleasure? It would be a small price to pay considering the advantages I would be giving him.”

  Schiller wanted everyone around him to be happy, and Luce was clearly not happy. And what Luce was proposing did contain some truths even if he was motivated by passion. If the boy stayed in the village he would die of disease or hunger or be killed sooner or later. None of the villagers had much of a future. So why not? And Luce was a good man at heart and he was a good teacher, too.

  Schiller said, “Don’t despair, my friend. Rise. Stand. We will make you happy and help the boy in the same stroke. He shall be yours.”

  Luce smiled and thanked Schiller. They shook hands and Luce left for his own tent, secure in his future happiness and finally able to sleep.

  8. Bimaadiz woke before dawn and immediately stole over to Eta’s cabin. There was only one window near where the family ate at the small table but knowing where she slept he tapped lightly on the tar paper. She awoke right away, smart girl! She knew who it was. She rose on the pretence of visiting the earth house. And Bimaadiz, the smart boy! He knew to be there waiting for her. In the smelly confines of the outhouse Bimaadiz told Eta to be ready that day—he would gain permission at the first feast and they were sure to be married in the evening, before the sun set. They kissed quickly, and then Eta hurried away to begin her preparations.

  The village was by now fully awake and everyone began to trickle down to the garden and as they arrived they arranged themselves in front of the sycamore tree while the delegates spread themselves out beneath its branches. The first feast was almost ready—men had been tending it all night. It promised to be a beautiful day, exactly like the day before. By the end of the hour everyone was in place. After a short speech by the village Chief, they began to feast and smoke because food and tobacco must go together and precede every great deliberation. Bimaadiz watched the Chiefs and officials carefully. He was waiting for a lull in conversation, the moment when he could step forward and declare his intentions. He did not want to interrupt anyone and yet he didn’t want to wait too long either. It would be impossible to present himself later on when the official business began. He was merely an Indian after all—not a chief or an interpreter or a government agent. He had no status and any interruption by him would be greeted most unfavorably.

  Time moved very slowly. Bimaadiz would be on the verge of stepping out of the crowd, but then one of the Chiefs would launch into a long story about some past exploit, and Bimaadiz would have to swallow the words that had by that time climbed into his mouth. And again, after the Chief had finished his story, and as Bimaadiz was about to break free of the crowd and declare himself, his hopes and affections, the Governor himself would tell a tale. It could go on like this forever, or so it seemed, but chance preened and a pause ensued, and for a few precious seconds the delegates’ lips spoke only to the food. Bimaadiz shouldered his way out of the crowd, but before he could say anything he looked up and caught Schiller’s eye and Schiller caught his.

  Schiller had been looking for an opportunity of his own and now that Bimaadiz had moved forward the opportunity had arrived. Schiller stood and Bimaadiz held his peace.

  “We met a remarkable man here yesterday,” began Schiller. “He showed himself to be honest and intelligent and most of all, willing to put the concerns of his village first.” Schiller paused and waited for the translator to catch up.

  “And as time flows, the needs of the people change. Instead of hunting for game, soon you will be hunting for a place in the larger world.” Schiller paused again so his words could both be taken in and translated into the language. None of the villagers were sure where the speech was going.

  “And we would like to give you, one of you, a chance to acquire the new skills that will be needed in this new world. And so, we would like to take away the young hunter who spoke yesterday and teach him our language, and teach him our ways, and give him the skills to succeed in this new hunt. He will be attached to my assistant and trained in all things.”

  Schiller stopped again and watched Bimaadiz’s reaction as the translator handed Bimaadiz this terrible news. As soon as Bimaadiz understood what he had been offered, he turned pale and began to shake. He felt faint and thought he might fall over. Those around him were marveling at his luck and shaking his hand but Bimaadiz did not feel lucky. He felt sick.

  “If only I had spoken sooner!” he wailed. “By holding my peace I will now end up holding Luce’s!”

  Bimaadiz was wise enough to know that this teacher would teach him things he did not want to learn.

  He did not know what to say, but he knew how he felt—if he were forced to live without Eta his life would be short. He would kill himself the first chance he got.

  So instead of addressing Schiller and thanking him as he should have, he turned and pushed his way through the crowd and ran for home. There was no way out. They thought they were offering him an honor but it was the worst kind! He had the new gun, the one the enemy Chief had given him, and as soon as he reached home, he planned on using it against himself. The enemy would get a scalp after all. His feet led him to his parent’s shack and his heart kept crying Eta! Eta! Eta!

  None of the villagers or the delegates knew what to think except for Bimaadiz’s parents who hurried after him. They had a suspicion that Bimaadiz might do something rash. The feast was interrupted, people gossiped openly amongst themselves, and while they were confused, they were also curious as to how it would all work out.

  Bimaadiz arrived at the shack just ahead of his parents. He had the rifle in his hands and was looking for shells when they reached him.

  “Bimaadiz, son, think what you are doing!” said Jiigibiig. “It is an honor for our family. So you won’t marry Eta. There are other girls.” They both said these things and other things like them, but they underestimated the depth of his emotions.

  “There are no other girls,” he replied as he found the shells.

  Seeing that he really meant to kill himself, Zhookaagiizhigookwe turned to Jiigibiig.

  “There’s nothing for it,” she said. “He won’t go with the white-men, and if it is an honor it is an empty one; tomorrow this will be a gravehouse. Let us see what we can do—it is time to tell him and everyone else the truth. He isn’t our son and so we can’t give him away. You can’t give something away that you don’t possess.”

  With that she grabbed the stool and stood on it and reached into the rafters and took down the tokens with which Bimaadiz had been found.

  And, old though she was, she ran back to the gathering place.

  The ones who had raised Bimaadiz were old and could not run very fast, even so, his father was faster than his mother. Well ahead of his wife and Bimaadiz, he reached the gathered feasters under the ash tree, pushed his way through the crowd, and threw himself on the ground in front of the delegates and said—

  “Please don’t take Bimaadiz away, don’t ask for my permission or that of my wife, because it isn’t ours to give. Even if we did say that you could take him, he would rather kill himself so much does he want to marry a certain girl. But we can’t give our permission. He is not ou
r son. I swear by my honor and by all the pipes present that I am not lying. I found him in the woods, suckling on a cow moose. It’s strange, I know. But the rest of the village had starved or had been laid low by some plague. He was the only one left alive—we burned the rest of the bodies fearing the disease might spread. And whoever his parents were, they must have been important because his clothes and the pipe we found with him suggest that he came from an important family.

  “So please don’t take him. It is an honor to be chosen to work for the Agent, but that other man is a drunk, and violent, too. And what’s more, he wants to make Bimaadiz his wife!”

  The delegates looked at one another with surprised expressions. Here was a strange interruption and a preposterous story.

  The Governor told Jiigibiig to stand up. He represented the law of the territory and he would get to the bottom of all of this. He questioned Jiigibiig on all aspects of the story and asked to see the items that had been found with Bimaadiz. Encouraged, Jiigibiig turned and motioned for Zhookaagiizhigookwe to come forward. She did, hesitantly. She was shy and never spoke up except when in her own home. She opened the bundle and handed it to the Governor. He inspected each item and held them up, one by one, for all to see. First came the pipebag. It was of very fine make with exquisitely worked geometric patterns made with trade beads. The Governor turned it in his hands and suddenly the enemy Chief, the one who spoke the day before, jumped to his feet.

  “It cannot be!” he exclaimed. And he began to tremble all over. “Tell me,” he said, in a quavering voice, “is the pipe red with a white band of stone running through the center of the bowl?”

  The Governor reached into the bag and withdrew the pipe-bowl. Sure enough, it was just as the enemy Chief had described. The crowd gasped.

  “It is! It is!” he exclaimed. “Bimaadiz is my son! The one I thought I lost all those years ago. That is the pipe I carried. It was made by my father. And the bag!—my dear wife made that before she died. It was a terrible winter—the snow was so deep, the wind the most bitter I have ever tasted. Our people were starving and I left in search of food. I tried to make it back but could not. It was spring by the time I returned, but the bodies—my wife and all six of my children—had been burned. Their bones had been put on scaffolds to keep them away from the animals.” He paused, unable to stop his tears. “and now to find my first-born and to find him alive!”