The Trials of Solomon Parker

by Eric Scott Fischl

  Maybe today is a good day for restitution after all.

  And, really, what’s the worst that can happen? When there are no real consequences, what’s the worst?

  The back of his chair hits the wall as he jumps upward, awkward in the room’s tight space. The thick, heavy glass cracks into two big pieces as Sol slams it into Mickey’s face, badly cutting his own palm in the process, liquor burning into the wound. One of the pieces is driven into Mickey’s eye and he releases the belt around Nancy’s neck with a cry, putting his hands to his head, falling backward.

  Even in the moment, Sol is unpleasantly reminded of cutting Billy. Maybe Billy is living an image of this life, himself. What part is he reading, this time around? Still the victim? Or maybe Billy’s breaking a man down like this, this time. Maybe he’ll come for Sol at some point. Come to make things right, his own form of restitution.

  Before Mickey has even hit the ground, Sol is moving, trying to get around the slow bulk of Nancy and over the desk to Sean. If there’s anything Sol has learned over the years, it’s that it’s best to act when you act, quickly and to the point. Once you start a thing like this, it needs to be finished, fast as you can: doesn’t matter how it’s done, just finish it.

  Sean’s eyes are wide with surprise – comically so, really – and his jaw sags open although, when Sean’s hand comes up with a pistol in it, a bit of the humor leaves the situation. Sol is almost past Nancy, bloody hand reaching forward, when the gun goes off. Later, he’ll swear that the boy pushed him back, right there at the end.

  9.

  “Where is my father?” Billy says.

  “Oh, I expect he’s around somewhere, Nephew. I haven’t seen him. You are sure you’re not hungry?” Marked Face sits up on the cot, the little bones tied into his hair rattling softly. He leans his back against the wall of the cabin, smiling, pointing at the other cot against the opposite wall. “Sit, Sagiistoo, sit. You look tired.”

  Billy edges near the cot, uneasily. The room is over-hot, stifling, and the smell of the stew is making him sick. He can feel sweat at the small of his back. The cot gives a weary, low squeak as he settles into it.

  “Where have you been, Uncle? It’s been years.”

  Marked Face raises a hand, waves it vaguely. “Oh, around. The world is a big place, Nephew. How is my brother?”

  “You really haven’t seen him?”

  The smile bleeds off his uncle’s face. “When I say a thing, it is said, boy.”

  “He’s the same, Uncle. Same as before. Back at the hospital, with me. Or he was before he ran off, couple days ago. I was hoping to find him here.”

  “My brother has always been a crazy one. I expect he’ll turn up. He always has, before.”

  “Before.” It’s a word that’s become completely inadequate to the task of conveying its meaning.

  “Yes, before. When we were young he was prone to go after visions. Our mother was the same, would talk to spirits that only she could see, would do very strange things. One of our uncles was this way too. At first, we thought that maybe Bad Bird was destined to become a great shaman but, really, his thoughts would just go out of his head, from time to time. And then all that we went through with the whites probably cracked him for good. It’s a shame because, once, my brother was a good man. Maybe the best of us.”

  “The best of you.”

  “There’s an echo in this room, maybe. Yes, he was the best of us. He had a beautiful wife. Not your mother, one before. Such a beautiful girl, but she died young. Maybe that hurt my brother’s thoughts some, too. She died in a bad way, that girl. I can’t even remember her name, now. A bird name.”

  “Dove.” It’s out before Billy even thinks it.

  “Yes, Dove, that’s it. She was a lovely one, Dove. Ah, those were bad times.” He shakes his head sadly.

  “Father told me that Dove was your wife, Uncle. That you killed her, that that’s how you got your medicine. That you killed her and ate her. Ate the baby inside her. He told me.” Billy is breathing hard. “That’s how you got your power. And my father told me how to take it from you, Uncle. He told me how to use it.”

  For the first time he can remember, Billy sees a look of real surprise on his uncle’s face. Gone is the smug sneer, the anger, that flat and watchful distaste that usually roosts there. Marked Face’s eyes widen, the brow furrowed, jaw slightly open.

  And then he laughs: long, loud, braying laughter, head bumping back against the wall of the cabin. It’s disconcerting, to say the least. “My power?” Marked Face says once he has control of himself again. He rubs with a knuckle at the tears pooling in the corners of his eyes. “My power, you say?”

  The fear is gone now and Billy wants to put a fist in the old man’s face. Drop it over and over until his hand breaks, pound that goddamn smile down that old, lying throat. “Yes, your fucking power, Uncle.”

  Marked Face sits up straight, holding his hands out, palms up. Putting himself on display. “Behold me, then, Nephew. Behold mighty Marked Face, who has to get up a dozen times at night to make water. Behold Marked Face, who has no money, has one change of clothes, who lives in a falling-down shack on a tiny slice of poor government land. Marked Face, scourge of the whites, champion of the People! Marked Face, the powerful, whose prick will not rise any more and whose knees ache always. Behold my power!” He starts off laughing again.

  It’s too much. Billy is up and across the room, fist raised. Before he can bring it down, though, his uncle brings up an arm, quailing, seeing what’s coming. With his free hand, Billy grabs Marked Face by his dirty, ratty shirt, pulling him off the cot. He seems to weigh nothing, like a husk. Billy pulls his fist back again, tries to push it forward. But he can’t.

  Marked Face is just an old man. A tired, rheumy eyed, shabby old man. Something has changed, either in his uncle or inside himself. Something is different.

  He lets his uncle go, backing up until the cot hits the backs of his knees. Feeling weak inside, he sags back down to the cot, putting his head in his hands. He doesn’t understand anything any more. For a long time, they’re both quiet, not looking at each other. Something akin to shame hangs in the air between them, like a stink.

  “Let me tell you a thing, Nephew,” Marked Face says, finally, softly. He closes his eyes, head resting back against the cabin wall. “Bad Bird was always a storyteller, even as a boy. He knew all our songs, knew some that perhaps he just made up on his own. Maybe this one, about his poor Dove and this supposed power of mine, is one of those. I think maybe those stories got into his head, with his thoughts loose as they were. He was always obsessed with those stories of Maatakssi and his brother Siinatssi, the fathers of the People, too. Maybe he saw something of himself in those stupid Old Ones, saw a power in the world that is no longer there. Wanted to see it, needed it, maybe. He’s always said he sees the world as it truly is. But he is broken, my brother, and he is mad. They are just stories.”

  “We have had our differences, my brother and I, have them still, though I love him and have tried to protect him, as best I could. I always have, even when we fought. I have lived a long time, Sagiistoo. I have maybe not lived a good life and have been cruel at times but, even after my brother gave me this scar, I have tried to protect him.” Marked Face taps his cheek and is quiet again. “Ah, poor Dove,” he says, finally, breathing out a sigh. “Let me tell you a thing, Sagiistoo, which will maybe help you to understand your father and the rest of it.”

  He sings:

  10.

  A short time after he had flown off, Raven returned to broken, eyeless, dying Maatakssi, lying in the dust, tortured and banished from the tribes of the People by his mad brother, Siinatssi. Riding on Raven’s back, gripping tight with his many legs, was the one called Nihaat. In the true tongue, his name means Spider. Spider was ancient, old with power, wily and strong. Some say he was one of the Above Ones, cast out to the middle lands for some sin; some merely suspect he was a clever being who learned his medicine on hi
s own. Regardless of who or what he was, Spider was a cunning creature, but one who did things for his own reasons. Truly, Raven must have had a heavy heart that things had reached the point that they had, if he looked to rely on the power of that trickster Nihaat. Rarely did anything come without a steep price, when Spider was involved.

  “Here is the one of which I spoke, Nihaat,” Raven said. “You can see that he’s in bad shape. Can your medicine heal him?”

  “It is already done,” Spider said, sounding offended that this mangy bird would doubt his ability. He hopped down from Raven’s back, perching himself on a stone. Two of his front legs rubbed together in a way that, in a man, would look unseemly. But Nihaat was who he was.

  Maatakssi was standing on strong legs, seeing the world again through the new eyes that had appeared in his head. “Thank you, noble Nihaat,” he said with his new tongue. “Thank you for healing me in this way.”

  “It is nothing,” Spider said, waving one of his long, spindly legs dismissively. “It is the least I can do for my friend Raven.”

  “Raven, I thank you as well. Forgive me for ever doubting our friendship.” Maatakssi knelt on the ground, pressing his forehead into the dirt in his shame. “I will reverence you always; myself only, for I no longer have a People. I no longer have a name, even. I am no one, or anyone, nameless and with no place in this world, but I will reverence you always, noble Raven.”

  “Oh, get up,” Raven croaked, irritated at the two-leg walker’s humility and theatrics. “The name of a thing is not important and besides, you have a People, but they are sunk into evil ways without you to check the madness of your brother. I have seen it. Listen, now. You may weep to hear it, but you must understand this thing so that, through you, it can be made right. Listen:

  “The People have become a terrible thing. A low smoke hangs over their camps, a smoke made from the burning meat and fat of the bodies of the men and women, the old and the children. It has become a place of horrors. Siinatssi has become convinced that he has found great medicine in eating of the flesh of men, that, by doing this, he takes of their strength and the strength of the spirits that cling to their fear, their pain, as they are butchered. Siinatssi thinks this medicine will allow his band to cover the whole Earth, to rule it as he sees fit. So he and his kin kill their own people, without mercy, to get at this flesh. True, there is a power in this, repugnant though it is, but it is as the snake eating its own tail. The circle is closed and, soon enough, Siinatssi and his followers will eat themselves hollow, from the inside, will become nothing but empty, ravenous spirits.

  “This, you must stop. Siinatssi and the People are the creations of the Above Ones, children and grandchildren of their friend Old Man. To let them be destroyed in such a way would be a great sin. Many of those folk are my friends, too, and I mourn to see them used in such a way.” Raven looked away at this.

  Maatakssi wept to hear this fate of his People, which had come about in such a short time through the evil of his brother. “But what can I do, Raven? I am one man, with no medicine of my own. How can I stop my brother, Siinatssi?”

  Feeling a fear deep in his chest, Raven looked over at Nihaat, who was again rubbing his front legs together in that way of his.

  “Maatakssi,” Spider said, “perhaps I can help you in this thing. As a favor to my friend Raven, who I do not like to see grieve in this way.”

  “What would be the cost of your help, Spider?” Maatakssi asked. Even he had heard rumors of Nihaat’s bargains.

  “Cost? Pah, there is no cost. I told you, I do this as a favor to Raven, and to stop an evil thing. My own people, the Big-Bellies, would be threatened by this power of your brother, and I must look out for them. We will help each other, you and I. Is that acceptable?” Maatakssi nodded, but Spider said, “You must ask for my help, Maatakssi.” This was a condition of Nihaat’s medicine, that it must be freely asked for in so many words.

  “You must choose this path or turn from it, Maatakssi,” Raven said. “To save the People and, in saving them, save your brother Siinatssi, who has used you so poorly, from his own evil, even though the cost may be greater than you can imagine.” He paused and looked away. “You must decide for yourself.”

  Maatakssi was silent for a time, weighing his decision. It was tempting to simply go from this place, to make a quiet life elsewhere and leave the People to whatever fate the Above Ones had decreed for them in this world. To let his brother Siinatssi suffer as he had. But, he knew, the People were where they were because of his own sins, so he said, “Nihaat, great one, will you help me to save the People from the evil of my brother?” Raven, from his perch in a nearby tree, closed his far-seeing eyes, knowing a bit of the future, as he did. It was a terrible bargain he’d made, but it was the only way to help the two-leg walkers that were his friends.

  “Maatakssi, I will help you,” Nihaat said, smiling, and the contract was sealed. What he did, he did for his own reasons. “Lie down in the dirt now, Maatakssi, and let me stand on your chest.” Maatakssi did so, and Spider hopped down from his rock, onto his chest, where he did a dance that only Nihaat knew, moving his many legs in a particular pattern and singing a medicine song. He danced for long hours, singing as the sun went down and the moon rose, heavy and full. Finally, exhausted, he hopped back up to his rock. “You may rise, Maatakssi,” he said in a weary voice.

  Raven flew away, croaking something that sounded like weeping.

  Maatakssi stood up, but had no sooner made it to his feet than a powerful cramp gripped his guts, forcing him back to his knees with a cry. There was a hot, shooting pain in his belly that folded him over. Gasping and shaking, he vomited and vomited again. Three, four times, more, he gagged up his belly, spitting the mess out in front of him. He was hot, feverish and, before he fell into darkness, he was sure he could see shapes moving in the puddle of sick. White shapes that looked like tiny men and women.

  When Maatakssi came to, the sun was high in the sky and a band of slick, naked, white creatures were squatting in the dirt in front of Nihaat, listening attentively to his quiet speech. Maatakssi blinked his eyes to see this. The people looked like men and women, but their skin was pale, their eyes light. They looked like humans who had been washed in some bitter fluid that had stripped the color from them. As one, they stood, bowing their heads for the blessing of Spider, and then they ran off in small groups.

  “What have I done?” Maatakssi asked. “What are those things?”

  Spider was smiling, but he also seemed sad, in his way. He was a changeable creature, powerful though he was. “Maatakssi, I have kept my side of the bargain,” he said. “Soon enough, your new children will grow strong, and they will stop the evil of your brother, Siinatssi. These new children will spread over the land and learn great medicine, and they will destroy the People. It is the only way to save them from becoming an evil thing. One day, maybe, your People – and mine – will rise again. That I cannot see. But if your brother is left unchecked, they will descend into darkness for all time.

  “Maatakssi,” he said then, “our bargain has concluded. Do not hate me for doing what needed to be done. Do not hate yourself, for this is the way things needed to pass. Raven knew this. Sometimes the Above Ones are cruel, to allow such things to happen, but that is the way of things. They constantly test us, to make us stronger, some say, although others say they do so simply out of boredom. I do not know. But the guilt you feel now will be a reminder of that first sin of yours, the murder of your brother that first time, which set this all in motion. A lesson, for you. Maybe this was always the plan of the Above Ones. Who knows the minds of gods?”

  And, with that, Spider left, and Maatakssi never saw him again.

  As Nihaat promised, the whites grew strong and eventually destroyed the People, taking their hunting, driving them from their lands, covering them with sickness until they were barely anything, only a few poor remnants left, by the end. Maatakssi saw this, condemned by the Above Ones to walk the Earth wi
th the People, feeling every child’s death, the rape of every woman, every man’s drunken tears. This was his fate, until he could end it.

  To this day, in the tongue of the Big-Bellies, the word for white men is Nihaat.

  11.

  Billy feels like he could sleep for days. This room is so hot, airless; his head is throbbing and he feels sick, breathing in the stink of boiling meat. He just wants to rest. Be by himself. Think. He knows what he’s seen, what he remembers, Sol and the bets and the fires and the rest of it. The past circling around and again to bring him to this place, now. Like Maatakssi, cursed to live beyond his years. He’d come to terms with it, in a way, even though he didn’t understand any of it, had tried to forget it. But, now, seeing Marked Face like this, hearing what he’s said, he doesn’t know any more. He can’t trust his uncle. If ever there was a trickster, it’s Marked Face. There’s something itching at the back of his mind, though, and he doesn’t want to let it lean any closer to his ear.

  “What am I supposed to understand, Uncle?” he asks, wearily. “It’s just another story.”

  “Yes, you have it exactly, Nephew: it is just a story. Here is the thing: those stories long ago got into your father’s head, as I have said. Maybe he doesn’t even remember what really happened to Dove, that she was taken and raped by the whites, pregnant as she was, used so harshly that she took her own life in her shame. My brother’s thoughts were already loose when this happened, like our mother’s, our crazy uncle who heard the spirits. What happened to poor Dove maybe drove him past the edge. He was never strong, my brother. Who knows how these things work. If not that, then the years of war with the whites, the sickness, losing our land, all of it. My brother belongs in that hospital of yours, Sagiistoo. You do the right thing, looking after him. I am old, and can’t do that nearly as well any more. Our days are drawing to an end, my brother and I; you must keep him safe until that time.”