by Sarah Cortez
EDITED BY SARAH CORTEZ & LIZ MARTINEZ
ALSO IN THE AKASHIC NOIR SERIES:
Baltimore Noir, edited by Laura Lippman
Boston Noir, edited by Dennis Lehane
Bronx Noir, edited by S.J. Rozan
Brooklyn Noir, edited by Tim McLoughlin
Brooklyn Noir2: The Classics, edited by Tim McLoughlin
Brooklyn Noir 3: Nothing but the Truth edited by Tim McLoughlin &'Ihomas Adcock
Chicago Noir, edited by Neal Pollack
D.C. Noir, edited by George Pelecanos
D.C. Noir2: The Classics, edited by George Pelecanos
Delhi Noir (India), edited by Hirsh Sawhney
Detroit Noir, edited by E.J. Olsen & John C. Hocking
Dublin Noir (Ireland), edited by Ken Bruen
HavanaNoir (Cuba), edited by Achy Obejas
IstanbulNoir (Turkey), edited by Mustafa Ziyalan & Amy Spangler
Las VegasNoir, edited byJarret Keene &ToddJames Pierce
London Noir (England), edited by Cathi Unsworth
LosAngeles Noir, edited by Denise Hamilton
Los Angeles Noir2: The Classics, edited by Denise Hamilton
Manhattan Noir, edited by Lawrence Block
Manhattan Noir2: The Classics, edited by Lawrence Block
Mexico City Noir (Mexico), edited by Paco I. Taibo II
Miami Noir, edited by Les Standiford
Moscow Noir (Russia), edited by Natalia Smirnova &Julia Goumen
New Orleans Noir, edited by Julie Smith
Orange County Noir, edited by Gary Phillips
ParisNoir (France), edited by Aurelien Masson
Phoenix Noir, edited by Patrick Millikin
Portland Noir, edited by Kevin Sampsell
Queens Noir, edited by Robert Knightly
Richmond Noir, edited by edited by Andrew Blossom,
Brian Castleberry &Tom De Haven
Rome Noir (Italy), edited by Chiara Stangalino & Maxim Jakubowski
San Francisco Noir, edited by Peter Maravelis
San Francisco Noir2: The Classics, edited by Peter Maravelis
Seattle Noir, edited by Curt Colbert
Toronto Noir (Canada), edited by Janine Armin & Nathaniel G. Moore
Trinidad Noir, Lisa Allen-Agostini & Jeanne Mason
Twin Cities Noir, edited by Julie Schaper & Steven Horwitz
Wall Street Noir, edited by Peter Spiegelman
FORTHCOMING:
Barcelona Noir (Spain), edited by Adriana Lopez & Carmen Ospina
Cape CodNoir, edited by David L. Ulin
Copenhagen Noir (Denmark), edited by Bo Tao Michaelis
Haiti Noir, edited by Edwidge Danticat
Lagos Noir (Nigeria), edited by Chris Abani
Lone StarNoir, edited by Bobby Byrd & John Byrd
Mumbai Noir (India), edited by Altaf Tyrewala
Philadelphia Noir, edited by Carlin Romano
11 Foreword by Richard B. Williams
13 Introduction
PART I: EAST
17 JOSEPH BRUCHAC Adirondacks, New York Helper
37 JEAN RAE BAXTER Eastern Woodlands, Canada Osprey Lake
59 GERARD HOUARNER New York, New York Dead Medicine Snake Woman
85 MELISSA Yi Ontario, Canada Indian Time
PART II: SOUTH
103 A.A. HEDGECOKE Charlotte, North Carolina On Drowning Pond
109 MISTINA BATES Memphis, Tennessee Daddy's Girl
129 O'NEIL DE Noux New Orleans, Louisiana The Raven and the Wolf
150 R. NARVAEZ San Juan, Puerto Rico Juracan
PART III: WEST
177 DAVID COLE Tucson, Arizona JaneJohnDoe. com
201 LEONARD SCHONBERG Ashland, Montana Lame Elk
214 REED FARREL COLEMAN Los Angeles, California Another Role
PART IV NORTH
241 LAWRENCE BLOCK Upper Peninsula, Michigan Getting Lucky
252 Liz MARTINEZ Chicago, Illinois Prowling Wolves
273 KIMBERLY ROPPOLO Alberta, Canada Quilt like a Night Sky
280 About the Contributors
tories have been central to communication among Indian people for thousands of years. And the stories you are about to read are truly incredible. They will make your blood boil with fear, anger, passion, and, ultimately, remorse.
These stories are so real that you believe without questioning, so loving that you accept without strings attached, and yet so challenging that your soul is tugged by hundreds of lost spirits. Each tale leaves the reader feeling vulnerable to inner voices calling for you to do something, yet wondering what it is that you are supposed to do.
How can you tell if dreams are real? What do you do when there is such deep sadness because there is no hope? Why is there no real word for goodbye? Does Ashland, Montana really exist? Does being Indian mean that life will be filled with death, pain, shootings, drugs, alcohol, and abuse? I can't answer these questions for you. You have to read and experience this book yourself to understand.
For centuries, Indian people faced extinction, brutality, and racism. Ours was a harsh existence, where success meant survival. In our world, boarding schools were killing children, war heroes were dying without hope or dignity, and gifted and talented writers were lost in their own intellectualism with no place to tell their stories.
That horrible existence finally began to change in the 1960s. Since then we have seen a resurgence of Native pride. People are returning to their Indian culture for a sense of who they are. This renaissance is captured powerfully in the work of these authors. Each story evokes deep emotions for the reader. Yet introspection is always a challenge. In these stories, by both Native and non-Native writers, cultures are being exposed; lies, and truths as well, are being told; and all you can do is shake your head and try to determine what is real.
The beauty of Natives writing their own stories means that the experience comes without boundaries, literally and figuratively. These stories from all across North America do not carry the burden of Western political, philosophical, and literary expectations. The results are spectacular and will cause you to raise your eyebrows repeatedly.
We are pleased and honored to share these stories as examples of the passion, violence, and beauty that our people have to share, underscoring the centuries of acquired knowledge that we carry. I can hear the Indian haters saying, What are those damn Indians thinking? The beauty is, of course, that Indian people are thinking, using their natural intellect. Gone is the time when the sole focus was on survival. Now the focus is on thriving.
As you read this volume, remember: it's fiction ... or is it?
Richard B. Williams is the president and CEO of the American Indian College Fund.
SPIRITUAL TRANSGRESSION
elcome to Indian Country ... It lies within the physical and emotional antipodes of NorthSouth-East-West, and encompasses territory both familiar and unknown. Many who inhabit Indian Country love it, and they often stay after their time on Earth is done. Others have died trying to claim it. They continue to wander there in the endless circle of time. This book has stories by both Native and non-Native authors reflecting them all.
The circle defined by the cardinal directions of the Medicine Wheel is your reminder that a harmonious relationship with nature and all living beings is how creation was ordained, with all of us equal and connected. Thus, all directions lead to each other, just as all these stories, in turn, point toward one another through a shared ethos.
As you step back into the troubled history of Joseph Bruchac's "Helper" and Liz Martinez's "Prowling Wolves," you will find yourself swept up by a fresh and powerful look into personal revisionist histories. It is, perhaps, not unpredi- cable that some of these tales show the
narrator partaking in what appears to be an eminently satisfying dose of revenge: Jean Rae Baxter's "Osprey Lake," Mistina Bates's "Daddy's Girl," and David Cole's "JaneJohnDoe.com" among them. And while eliminating the person perceived as evil may have its own brand of dark glee, Melissa Yi's "Indian Time" gives us a truly haunting tale of twisted intention and vengeance. Two of the stories are breathtakingly lyrical in their approach and articulation of the hard price paid by some Indians for spiritual homelessness and transgression: Kimberly Roppolo's "Quilt like a Night Sky" and A.A. HedgeCoke's "On Drowning Pond." Leonard Schonberg's "Lame Elk" takes us to the bitter cold of January in Montana for another tale of a crushed life.
For a glimpse at how a contemporary character with Indian blood functions in an urban environment, enjoy the fastpaced lives created by O'Neil De Noux in "The Raven and the Wolf" and R. Narvaez in "Juracan." Gerard Houarner keeps us in a contemporary setting in Manhattan's underground, yet masterfully weaves the mythological and historical through several different planes of reality. And speaking of myths, are there any stronger, especially in our media-driven society, than that of the "American Indian"? See how non-Native authors Lawrence Block in "Getting Lucky" and Reed Farrel Coleman in "Another Role" use the Hollywood-engendered mythos to bring us to yet other unexpected places.
Before you journey with these talented authors through the north, south, east, and west of Indian Country, you might wish to reflect upon the words of the famous Oglala Lakota teacher Black Elk: "Birds make their nests in circles; we dance in circles; the circle stands for the Sun and Moon and all round things in the natural world. The circle is an endless creation, with endless connections to the present, all that went before and all that will come in the future."
Sarah Cortez
Houston, Texas
March 2010
Adirondacks, New York
he one with the missing front teeth. He's the one who shot me. Before his teeth were missing.
Getting shot was, in a way, my fault. I heard them coming when they were still a mile away. I could've run. But running never suited me, even before I got this piece of German steel in my hip. My Helper. Plus I'd been heating the stones for my sweat lodge since the sun was a hand high above the hill. I run off, the fire would burn down and they'd cool off. Wouldn't be respectful to those stones.
See what they want, I figured. Probably just deer hunters who'd heard about my reputation. You want to get a trophy, hire Indian Charley.
Yup, that was what it had to be. A couple of flatlanders out to hire me to guide them for the weekend. Boys who'd seen the piece about me in the paper, posing with two good old boys from Brooklyn and the twelve pointer they bagged. Good picture of me, actually. Too good, I realized later. But that wasn't what I was thinking then. Just about potential customers. Not that I needed the money. But a man has to keep busy. And it was better in general if folks just saw me as a typical Indian. Scraping by, not too well educated, a threat to no one. Good old Indian Charley.
Make me a sawbuck or two, get them a buck or two. Good trade.
I was ready to say that to them. Rehearsing it in my head. For a sawbuck or two, I'll get you boys a buck or two. Good trade. Indian humor. Funny enough to get me killed.
I really should have made myself scarce when I heard their voices clear enough to make out what the fat one was saying. It was also when I felt the first twinge in my hip. They were struggling up the last two hundred yards of the trail. That's when I should have done it. Not ran, maybe. But faded back into the hemlocks.
Son of a bidgin' Indin, the heavy-footed one said. And kept on saying it in between labored breaths and the sound of his heavy feet, slipping and dislodging stones. The other one, who wasn't so clumsy but was still making more noise than a lame moose, didn't say anything.
I imagined Heavy Foot was just ticked off at me for making my camp two miles from the road and the last of it straight up. It may have discouraged some who might've hired me. But it weeded out the weaker clientele. And the view was worth it, hills rolling away down to the river that glistened with the rising sun like a silver bracelet, the town on the other side that turned into a constellation of lights mirroring the stars in the sky above it at night.
The arrowhead-shaped piece of metal in my flesh sent another little shiver down the outside of my thigh. I ignored it again. Not a smart thing to do, but I was curious about my visitors.
Curiosity killed the Chippewa, as my grampa, who had also been to Carlisle, used to joke.
For some reason the picture of the superintendent's long face the last day I saw him came to mind. Twenty years ago. He was sitting behind his desk, his pale face getting red as one of those beets I'd spent two summers digging on the farm where they sent me to work for slave labor wages-like every other Indian kid at the school. The superintendent got his cut, of course. How many farm hands and house maids do you need? We got hundreds of them here at Carlisle. Nice, civilized, docile little Indian boys and girls. Do whatever you want with them.
That was before I got my growth and Pop Warner saw me and made me one of his athletic boys. Special quarters, good food and lots of it, an expense account at Blumenthal's department store, a share of the gate. Plus a chance to get as many concussions as any young warrior could ever dream of, butting heads against the linemen of Harvard and Syracuse and Army. I also found some of the best friends I ever had on that football squad.
It was because of one of them that I'd been able to end up here on this hilltop-which, according to my name on a piece of paper filed in the county seat belonged to me. As well as the other two hundred acres all the way down to the river. I'd worked hard for the money that made it possible for me to get my name on that deed. But that's another story to tell another time.
As Heavy Foot and his quieter companion labored up the last narrow stretch of trail, where it passed through a hemlock thicket and then came out on an open face of bedrock, I was still replaying that scene in the superintendent's office.
You can't come in here like this.
I just did.
I'll have you expelled.
I almost laughed at that one. Throw an Indian out of Carlisle? Where some children were brought in chains? Where they cut our hair, stole the fine jewelry that our parents arrayed its in, took our clothes, changed our names, dressed its in military uniforms, and turned us into little soldiers? Where more kids ran away than ever graduated?
You won't get the chance. I held up my hand and made a fist.
The super cringed back when I did that. I suppose when you have bear paw hands like mine, they could be a little scary to someone with a guilty conscience.
I lifted my little finger. First, I said, I'm not here alone. I looked back over my shoulder where the boys of the Carlisle football team were waiting in the hall.
I held up my ring finger. Second, I talk; you listen.
Middle finger. Third, he goes. Out of here. Today.
The super knew who I meant. The head disciplinarian of the school. Mr. Morissey. Who was already packing his bags with the help of our two tackles. Help Morissey needed because of his dislocated right shoulder and broken jaw.
The super started to say something. But the sound of my other hand coming down hard on his desk stopped his words as effectively as a cork in a bottle. His nervous eyes focused for a second on the skinned knuckles of my hand.
Fourth, I said, extending my index finger. No one will ever be sent to that farm again. No, don't talk. You know the one I mean. Just nod if you understand. Good.
Last, my thumb extended, leaning forward so that it touched his nose. You never mention my name again. You do not contact the agent on my reservation or anyone else. You just take me out of the records. I am a violent Indian. Maybe I have killed people. You do not ever want to see me again. Just nod.
The super nodded.
Good, I said. Now, my hand patting the air as if I was giving a command to a dog, stay!
He stayed. I walked out into the hall where
every man on the football squad except for our two tackles was waiting, including our Indian coach. The super stayed in his office as they all shook my hand, patted me on the back. No one said goodbye. There's no word for goodbye. Travel good. Maybe we see you further down the road.
The super didn't even come out as they moved with me to the school gate, past the mansion built with the big bucks from football ticket sales where Pop Warner had lived. As I walked away, down to the train station, never looking back, the super remained in his seat. His legs too weak with fear for him to stand. According to what I heard later in France-from Gus Welch, who was my company commander and had been our quarterback at Carlisle-the superintendent sat there for the rest of the day without moving. The football boys finally took pity on him and sent one of the girls from the sewing class in to tell him that Charles, the big dangerous Indian, was gone and he could come out now.
Gus laughed. You know what he said when she told him that? Don't mention his name. That's what he said.
I might have been smiling at the memory when the two men came into view, but that wasn't where my recollections had stopped. They'd kept walking me past the Carlisle gate, down the road to the trolley tracks. They'd taken me on the journey I made back then, by rail, by wagon, and on foot, until I reached the dark hills that surrounded that farm. The one more Carlisle kids had run away from than any other. Or at least it was reported that they had run away-too many of them were never seen again
That had been the first time I acted on the voice that spoke within me. An old voice with clear purpose. I'd sat down on the slope under an old apple tree and watched, feeling the wrongness of the place. I waited until it was late, the face of the Night Traveler looking sadly down from the sky. Then I made my way downhill to the place that Thomas Goodwaters, age eleven, had come to me about because he knew I'd help after he told me what happened there. Told me after he'd been beaten by the school disciplinarian for running away from his Outing assignment at the Bullweather Farm. But the older, half-healed marks on his back had not come from the disciplinarian's cane.
Just the start, he'd told me, his voice calm despite it all, speaking Chippewa. They were going to do worse. I heard what they said they'd done before.
