The Trials of Solomon Parker

by Eric Scott Fischl

  Some say Old Man did not turn his ears from his sons Maatakssi and Siinatssi at all, but that he himself came to the lands of the People, searching for his lost children. Some say that he watched over his sons in a new form, watched over the People who became his grandchildren.

  We came to these lands and, for a time, it was good. Game was plentiful and the weather still. We talked to Black Bear, and to Beaver in his lodge. Particularly we reverenced Raven, though, who was always our friend.

  For a time, it was good, but we became lonely, for we were the only two in the lands of the People, and we longed for wives. We asked Siyakohah where we could find wives to give us sons and daughters, but Black Bear did not know, nor did Beaver at his labors. Raven, though, had seen many places in his travels.

  “I have seen a people,” he said, “east along the great river. They are traders from the north lands. Maybe they will have wives for you.”

  “Are their women strong? Are they beautiful?” we asked.

  Raven shrugged. “Truly, it is difficult for me to tell you two-leg walkers apart. Now I must get back to my own wives, who will be missing me.” And with that he flew off.

  We headed east along the gorge of the great river. We decided to race, that the first to reach the northern traders would have first choosing of their women. We ran, racing towards our new wives.

  Dr Agamemnon Rideout reaches up to help Elizabeth out of the cart. Owen is in Sara’s arms, sleeping peacefully. Setting Elizabeth down, Dr Rideout straightens the black band he wears on his sleeve, his expression weary. He slides one arm around his wife’s ample waist, kisses her on the top of her head. He takes Elizabeth’s hand, then, gently leading her towards his large house behind the hospital. Soon enough there would be time to get her settled into a ward but, now, she needs the comfort of family.

  Later, at dusk, he sits on the porch at the back of the main hospital building, watching the sun set. He rolls a cigarette and passes it to the old Indian sitting beside him, even though technically it’s against the rules. The old man nods, smiles, reaching forward for a light. He has long, white hair, the ends of his braids tied with raven feathers. His seamed face crinkles into a satisfied smile as he pulls the smoke into his chest. Lately they’ve taken to sitting like this, of an evening, doctor and patient enjoying the end of the day, smoking and listening to the soft hooting of hunting owls.

  I will tell you one last story.

  I will tell you how man came into the world.

  In the early days, when this world was young and only partly built, the Above Ones made a man out of river mud. The man was ill-formed and the mud difficult to work with, so the Above Ones became angry and moved to destroy it.

  Old Man, who was in the form of Raven that day, watched this from his perch on a tall pine. Before the Above Ones could destroy their half-made creation, Raven said, “Above Ones, why are you angry with this thing?”

  “It does not move, Raven,” they said, “it only lies there.”

  “It has no legs,” the bird said. “Give me one moment.” He flew off and came back with two sticks in his beak. He put them into the half-made man’s body and the man stood up. The Above Ones were pleased, and enjoyed watching the man walk around, although soon they became angry, and again moved to destroy their creation.

  “Above Ones,” Raven said, before they could crush the man, “why are you angry with this thing?”

  “It does not dance,” they said, “it only stumbles around.”

  “It has no eyes and cannot see, Above Ones. Give me one moment.” He flew off once more, returning with two stones in his beak, which he placed in the man’s head for eyes. The man blinked and began to move in a purposeful manner, mimicking the steps Raven showed him. Once again, the Above Ones were pleased, and enjoyed watching the man dance.

  The Above Ones made more and more of these mud men and had great pleasure from their new creations, putting them to this and that and dicing upon the outcome, until they lost interest for a time.

  Raven knew the fickle nature of the Above Ones, though; he knew that they could be cruel with the things they had made. Always a responsible bird, he vowed that he would watch over these new people and be as a father to them, given the part he had played in their creation. This is why we reverence Raven above all others, and give him the prime parts of our kills.

  Like the world itself, we men are imperfect things, but we can be made better.

  Listen.

  I am Sagiistoo, the Night Announcer.

  I am Maatakssi.

  I am Siinatssi.

  I have been all these people, and I have been others.

  I have played many roles in these many worlds.

  I have told you: the name of a thing is not important.

  I remember.

  I am memory.

  Once, Sagiistoo, the Night Announcer, was tested and made the choice at the end of things, on a mountain shaped like an ear. Sagiistoo of the People. Sagiistoo, the point of the spear. Who did not choose the easy life of one man but went back, to the beginning, and made a new path. Who brought the People into being once more, and reworked the shape of the world.

  This I did, although I am not the man I was then.

  The point of the spear did not break, that time, but cut the branch like the beak of a great bird and, after many years, we are brought back to this place once more. Things passed a different way, but we are here again. It is the story of the world I sing to you, and it has been sung a thousand thousand times, in a thousand thousand ways. I remember the stories, and those other roles I have played. Memory is the legacy of my family, or perhaps it is our curse for long-ago sins.

  The Above Ones are cruel, as I have said all along, and they try to break us, but the People remain. That is the test, again and again. Novelty is a rare thing for those gods. But they are not heartless, and there are these moments of peace, of happiness, which fall to me even now, as I draw near the end once more. I can feel my time approaching and, soon enough, I will seek out the unlucky boy, as once I was sought out. My part is different, this time, as is his. A name has no meaning, as I have said again and again: there is only the role itself.

  There will come another moment, and a man of the People will be tested. A choice will be made, a wager won or lost, and we will begin once more.

  Some fear this fate but I choose to see hope, because the Above Ones made many mistakes with their creations and the People have many flaws yet. But we are sharpened each time like a blade; we become more perfect with every pass. The old women say that, when the People have been completed and made whole, this will be the end of Time because the Earth will have lost its purpose.

  I say, perhaps then this world will be a paradise and the Above Ones will leave us in peace. Perhaps there is the novelty they seek. I am a hopeful man and this is what I believe, but then again I have had my fill of gods.

  Listen, I will tell you a secret:

  Some days, I think that maybe I am just another lunatic in this place.

  Perhaps I am just a man who let the stories crawl into his head. Just an old man with feathers in his hair, who shovels cowshit in a barn and sits smoking tobacco in the evenings with his white doctor. But then I feel the warm bones in the pouch I keep next to my skin and I remember.

  I remember Raven, the smiling bird, flying above me, eyes bright like the sun.

  I remember the joys, the laughter of my children and my children’s children. I remember the sadnesses, the mistakes, even then. I remember the beauty, and also the terrible things that came to pass for the People, my children, my kinfolk, before they were saved. The coming of the whites again, for other reasons, but coming nonetheless. For such are the gods’ designs and those people must play their part, even now.

  I remember all of these things.

  I am tired and it has been a long life, bringing me to this place. Near the end, once more. Close to another beginning.

  It is I who sings you this tale.

 
AUTHOR’S NOTE

  This not a Native story. I want to be especially clear with that, because it’s important. This is a “Native” story, by which I mean it does not reflect any particular tribe or culture; when writing The Trials of Solomon Parker I very deliberately set out to anonymize those elements because, frankly, I’m not a Native and those aren’t my stories to tell. That said, I’ve lived in the Western US for almost the entirety of my life, and Native stories are part of this place. I’m of the belief that anyone should be allowed to tell a type of story, if perhaps not a certain particular, so long as it’s treated with respect, and that was the goal here.

  The “Native” elements of this book, then, have been picked and chosen from a variety of indigenous traditions from here in the West, and assembled into something that reflects them in the general rather than the specific. The “myths” themselves I simply made up, but are modeled on the kinds of stories that appear across all sorts of cultures, not only Native American ones. Some things that I left intact are the (translated into English) names of Marked Face, Bad Bird, and Night Announcer, which are the Blackfoot words for badger, bat, and owl, respectively, although the “Native” words I used are fabrications. I couldn’t resist keeping the Gros Ventre trickster Nihaat in, as-is, because I liked the fact that his name became the word for “whites” in that language; the rest of his role in this story, aside from his association with the Big-Bellies, is my own fiction. Raven, of course, appears as a character in a variety of tribal mythologies. The story of Rabbit Woman and Moon’s carrot is based on the Blackfoot myth of Feather Woman and the Great Turnip, which is itself of course similar to the stories of Pandora, or Adam and Eve and the tree of knowledge.

  The flavor of these “Native” parts of the story owes a great debt to a number of genuine Native writers, particularly James Welch; his book Fools Crow I’ve probably read half a dozen times, if not more, and is absolutely magnificent. The idea for my story about the original creation of the whites was inspired by Leslie Marmon Silko’s in Ceremony, although hers (a contest between evil sorcerers) is terrifying and, in fairness, much better.

  Finally, even given the setting and cosmological framework, as the epigraph at the beginning of this book suggests, The Trials of Solomon Parker is, in some ways, a loose retelling of the Biblical story of Job. Which, again, is itself a common sort of myth across cultures, this idea of powerful beings making wagers on the actions of their own tormented people. It’s a grim sort of idea that has always fascinated me.

  Moving on to some history, then.

  Butte, Montana, was an amazing place during the period written about in this book. It was a classic boomtown and, at 100,000-plus people at its peak, the largest city between Denver and the Pacific coast. These days its population is a third of that, and Butte has something of a faded grandeur to it. Some fun facts: Butte was the second city in the world to have electric lighting (the first: Paris, France) and the oldest continuously operating Chinese restaurant in America is in, you guessed it, Butte.

  The hill on which Butte sits has been a mining site from the 1860s onward. First, gold and silver; then, as technology (and investment) improved and mines were able to go deeper and grow more elaborate, copper, the metal that made Butte’s fortune, and its name: the Richest Hill on Earth. Fueled in part by the new demand for electrical wiring, copper drove the boom that turned Butte from a small mining camp to a cosmopolitan industrial city. People came from all over the world to get in on the rush, and money was being made hand over fist, particularly by those at the top of the heap. Several of these titans of industry collided over power and influence, the so-called Copper Wars which included, among others, William Rockefeller, Marcus Daly, F Augustus Heinze, and the fabulously corrupt William Clark. Clark was a Gilded Age robber baron of an easily recognized type; no friend to the working man, flaunting his wealth, he used his money, influence, and lax morality to eventually purchase a position as a US Senator.

  With the copper boom came some of the things that one associates with a boomtown: disposable income, vice, and crime. For a time, Butte had all three in spades. What Butte also came to be known for, however, was its important position in the nascent Labor movement during the early parts of the twentieth century. The Gibraltar of Unionism, it was called, the scene of many pitched battles of Labor against the ACM for workers’ rights and improvements to workplace safety. Life as a miner was tough and dangerous; Butte and the surrounding environs were the sites of a number of major industrial disasters, not to mention the day-to-day injuries and occasional deaths that came with mine work. Over all of that was the specter of very real health dangers posed by working conditions, including the dreaded silicosis, AKA miners’ consumption.

  I’ve conflated or modified some of this history to fit the story in this book. There were in fact deadly fires at both the Pennsylvania and Speculator/Granite Mountain mines (among others), although of course the cause of the latter was not as I described it. These fires resulted in catastrophic loss of life and highlighted the dangers that miners endured every day. The broad strokes of the “Bloody Tuesday” riot here come from the “Bloody Wednesday” riot of 1920, when ACM guards opened fire on striking miners, killing two. IWW organizer Frank Little was an American labor leader who came to Butte after the 1917 Speculator/Granite Mountain fire (not the Pennsylvania in 1916) and was later abducted from his boardinghouse and killed, left hanging from a railroad trestle with a sign warning other activists to stay away. No one was ever convicted of his murder. While Little was an actual figure, I’ve fictionalized details of his time in Butte for purposes of this story.

  Finally, while I tried to stay close to the actual conditions in the various mines, and the processes used to get the ore out, I’ve fudged a few details here and there or likely simply gotten some things wrong. The various mines honeycombing the hill under Butte were in fact connected to one another (later standardized), making it a maze of hot, wet, dusty tunnels that were eventually allowed to fill with groundwater when played out. This water soon oxidized into acidity and dissolved out various remaining metals like arsenic, copper, cadmium, and so forth; that toxic soup then leached into the environment. Butte has been left a very polluted and poisoned place, the home of the largest Superfund site in America. With mining petering out and largely moving overseas in the decades after World War II, Butte’s economy has largely collapsed, leaving it a shell of its former glory.

  If you’re interested in more of Butte’s history, I recommend Michael Punke’s Fire and Brimstone, Janet L Finn’s Mining Childhood, and the WPA’s Copper Camp, among others. It’s still an amazing place to visit… a trip to the Mining Museum (and associated tour down a mine) and the Butte Labor History Center is a great way to pass a few hours. Maybe afterward go have some Chinese food at the Pekin Noodle parlor, and a beer and a shot at one of the bars, breweries, or distilleries… raise your glass to the Richest Hill on Earth.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  These sections are the one part of any book that is actually consistently enjoyable to write. That said, it is my duty and pleasure to thank (and in no particular order):

  Once again, my wonderful agent, Jennie Goloboy, who somehow managed to sell this book, even if she confessed to me afterward that she had no idea how she was going to do so.

  All of the fantastic Angry Robot crew. Alphabetically: Marc Gascoigne, Mike Underwood, Nick Tyler, and Penny “Marmite Yourself Before You Spite Yourself” Reeve (publicist to the stars and also me), who are all, hands down, absolutely lovely people to work with. Also, uh, still alphabetically: my editor, Phil Jourdan, who through some vague, mystical editorial Zen alchemy helped turn a convoluted manuscript into this book.

  Copy editor Paul Simpson, who, among other things, smoothed out and clarified many tricky tenses (“it’s someone in the future back to the past remembering forward … is that a was or is or had been or …?”) while leaving intact the voice I was going for.

  Amazing cover artist Steven M
eyer-Rassow, because just look at the covers of my books (and an extra shout-out here to both Steven and Marc – wearing his art-director hat – for tolerating my many, fussy suggestions).

  All of my writer friends, who are such a great, supportive cast of misfits. To the previous suspects in the back of Dr Potter’s Medicine Show I’d like to add: Wendy Wagner, for book-tour Powell’s conversations and just generally being awesome; Peter McLean, for sending me a magazine with my first print review, all the way from England; and Dr Adam Rakunas, also for book-tour interviewing and for opening his home up to my plague-ridden presence on more than one occasion, plus flaming rum drinks. There are plenty more writer friends to thank, but hopefully there will be more books in which to thank them.

  Beta readers for this book include: Tex Thompson (also a writer friend; fine you’re in here twice, Thompson), and the always fabulous Megan Fiero and Randi Mysse Ristau (who also did some amazing pro bono photographic work for Dr Potter’s Medicine Show, the acknowledgment for same being too late to make it into that book so thank you in retrospect for that).

  Brent Richford and Juan Manuel Valdez, who moaned that they weren’t in the last book’s acknowledgments but, fair enough, are my greatest of friends and have done all sorts of supportive things over the years, so they’ve earned it. Fine, are you happy now?

  Everyone who came out to see me yammer and wave my arms around on my last book tour.

  My family, just because.

  Delia, my canine support unit, to whom I say hah.

  And, finally, again, Tara “Tata” Fields, for all of the long ridiculous list of things she’s done to help with this book nonsense since it got started, from beta-reading to non-eye-rolling to crafting promotional things to just being supportive in general of this weird second job of mine that eats up my time, that I love doing, and which I never stop griping about.