by Aaron Latham
“Very well,” Mrs. Sanborn said. “Beggars cannot be choosers. And under these peculiar circumstances, we find ourselves the beggars. We accept your offer of the tepee—and the canyon.”
Goodnight was delighted to be able to escape into work: to give orders, to make decisions, to select a site. It felt good to be doing something he knew how to do, namely, building a tepee, rather than doing something he had no idea how to do, namely, talking to the dragon guarding the princess. He probably knew more about tepees than any other white man, but he was a helpless, ignorant child when facing a pretty girl’s mother. He could feel himself relaxing, even showing off. Finding a level piece of ground beside the red river, Goodnight took a cedar stick and drew an almost perfect circle. Then he marked where the door flap would be, where it should be, facing east. For the skeleton of the tent, he chose cedar logs, which would perfume the air. The Humans would have covered this skeleton with Human-cattle skins, but Goodnight did not have enough of them so he used a combination of buffalo and longhorn hides. One of those skins had once belonged to the woolly old bull that he had roped and regretted, but he was now glad to have the hide. While he worked feverishly, he kept looking around to see if Revelie was paying attention to him doing something he knew how to do. Sometimes she was; other times she was talking to her mother. After a couple of hours, Goodnight and his boys had finished the job.
“Ah, well, Miz Sanborn, Miss Revelie,” he began uncertainly, back to doing something he didn’t know how to do, “would you like to take a look? Huh?”
“You sweat a lot, don’t you, Mr. Goodnight?” said Mrs. Sanborn. “Well, thank you for your hard work. Come, Revelie, shall we inspect?”
Goodnight held the door flap open for the two women as they entered the tepee. He thought about following them inside. A part of him wanted to, the part that wanted to be with Revelie; but another part didn’t, the part that was afraid of Mrs. Sanborn. He told himself that it wasn’t really fear . . . It was a matter of taste . . . It was a conflict of personalities . . . But it sure felt a lot like fear, he had to admit. He waited outside and listened to them moving about inside. Soon they reappeared.
“Revelie says it will be fun,” Mrs. Sanborn announced. “I’m not quite so easily won over. Frankly I have my doubts. My health is fragile, you know. But I don’t see that we have much choice. And anyway, it’s aboveground, so we won’t be living like groundhogs.”
13
Goodnight was happy to be on horseback and away from Miz Sanborn but unhappy about being separated from Revelie. He had suggested that she accompany them on their ride, but the father had pointed out that the young ranch had no sidesaddles.
“But even if you did,” Velvet Pants said, “my daughter still couldn’t join us because she doesn’t ride. She fell from her horse when she was a little girl. Hit her head. She was unconscious for hours. Her mother has refused to let her ride ever since. And you know my wife.”
Goodnight and Mr. Sanborn rode southeast following the canyon on an inspection tour. For Revelie’s father was seriously considering investing some of his British clients’ money in the Home Ranch. Goodnight needed investors because he did not actually own the land on which his herd was growing fat. The red canyon still belonged to the State of Texas. He hoped Mr. Sanborn liked what he was seeing.
The colors were growing brighter moment by moment in the early morning sun. Somber trees cheered up as the light spilled over the canyon rim and fell on them. Boulders emerged from the shadows and reasserted themselves. The river gleamed, and mockingbirds sang. Goodnight felt that nature was conspiring to help him with his sales pitch.
“Every morning I wake up,” he said, “and I think this is the purdiest spot in the whole world.”
“It is nice,” said Mr. Sanborn.
Goodnight felt his guest’s response was a little bit tepid, but he didn’t press him. He wanted more from him than compliments.
“And it’s more than just purdy,” he said. “It’s practical. It’s got plenty of water thanks to the river and a passel of springs. It’s got protection from blizzards and that sorta thing. It don’t need no fences ’cause it’s got walls.”
“That is nice,” said Sanborn.
• • •
That night, Goodnight didn’t feel like sleeping in the stuffy, smelly dugout. With Mrs. Sanborn’s arrival, he had taken refuge there, hoping to avoid her whenever possible. Her presence had literally driven him underground. But he wasn’t a prairie dog, so why should he live like one? He rolled up in a blanket with a chinaberry tree for a roof. A cedar tree rose nearby and made the air fragrant. He loved his new bedroom, but he had a hard time getting to sleep in it. Over and over in his mind, Goodnight walked the red earth of his canyon with Revelie, and time after time he was as mute as the canyon walls. They had both seen a lot, he and the canyon, but neither could put what they had witnessed into words. The canyon made up for its vast silence with its beauty. Goodnight knew he wasn’t that lucky.
When he finally fell asleep, Goodnight dreamed that he had been captured by Gudanuf and the Robbers’ Roost gang. They tied him to a tree, forced his mouth open, and cut out his tongue. Then they rode off and left him there. When he tried to call for help, he sounded like a frightened horse neighing . . .
Goodnight felt somebody shaking him. Still lost in his dream, he tried to fight back, but he was tied too tightly. Then he opened his good eye and saw a steel helmet reflecting the early-morning sun. He was bound in a blanket that was wrapped around and around him. His attacker was Tin Soldier. When Goodnight finally managed to free his hands, he tried to wipe the sleep and the dream images out of his good eye.
“Bad news,” Tin Soldier said in a hushed voice.
“What?” asked Goodnight, fearing that something terrible had happened to Revelie.
“They got Mister.”
“What?”
“Kilt him.”
“How? I didn’t hear no shots.”
“Cut his throat.”
“No!”
Now Goodnight wished he hadn’t trusted his favorite horse to run free at night. There was a makeshift corral where Mister Goddog could have spent the dark hours in the company of other horses, but Goodnight hated to think of him always penned up. He didn’t even hobble the horse at night. Mister always came when he called him in the morning. But he wouldn’t be coming anymore.
“That all?” Goodnight asked hopefully. “They just cut his throat and leave it at that?”
“No,” said Tin Soldier. But he seemed reluctant to say more.
“Well, what? Tell me.”
“They done took his ears.”
“They brand him?”
“No.”
“Well, thank God for that.”
“Carved some initials.”
“No.”
“I’m sorry.”
“RR?”
“Yeah.”
Goodnight felt sick. Now he wished he were back asleep and dreaming that terrible dream.
“Don’t tell Miss Revelie,” Goodnight said. “Don’t tell none of the Sanborns. I don’t want ’em worried. Mum’s the word for now. Unnerstand? We’ll settle up with them RR devils later on.”
Goodnight didn’t want to frighten Revelie off. He didn’t want to lose her, too. But it was hard to wait. The loss of Mister Goddog could not help but remind him of considerably more painful losses, but he told himself not to think about them. It hurt too much.
14
Miss Revelie and Goodnight took an afternoon walk along the river. Again, he tried not to think of his lost horse or all his other losses. He gave all of his mental energy over to trying to think of something to say, but his voice was trapped in his head. He was screaming inside but mute outside. Some villain had cut out his tongue.
“Too Short told me,” Revelie began, “you can talk to animals.”
“I used to could,” Goodnight said.
“How do you do it?” she asked, ignoring his past tense.
<
br /> “Well, I dunno.”
“Please, I’m interested. How’d you learn to? Really.”
Goodnight didn’t want to talk about where his most important learning came from. It was too painful to revisit. Besides, she would probably misunderstand and think him a savage.
“I just learned.”
“Nobody taught you?”
Goodnight wanted to lie to her about this, but at the same time he hated to lie to her about anything. Ever.
“Uh?”
“Please tell me. I’m really interested.”
He hesitated. Not only would it hurt too much to recall those days, but worse, it would completely alter how she saw him forever. He had seen that reaction before. At school . . .
“Please.”
“I, uh, I, uh—”
“Tell me!”
He felt he had no choice.
“I used to live with the Comanches. And they done told me. That’s all I can tell you.” He paused. “If I told you about it, I’d go crazy.” He searched for words. “It’d be like a stampede in my mind. I couldn’t control it. I’d lose my mind and be a babblin’ idiot.”
“We wouldn’t want that,” Revelie said, taken aback. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know it was so private. Please disregard the whole thing. I’m sorry I asked.”
Now Goodnight felt doubly awkward. He felt her recoiling from him. And he sensed that an important opportunity was about to be lost.
“No, no,” he said. “I can—I mean sometimes—I can talk to stuff. Animals, plants, other stuff. Er, well, I just talk to them like they was people. That’s all. Nothin’ much to it.”
They walked along in silence once again. The shadows were deepening and gloom was descending.
“Well, then,” Revelie disturbed the silence of the canyon, “maybe you could turn it around. Maybe you could talk to a person as if she were an animal. Think of me as a buffalo or something.”
“I ain’t had much luck with buffalos lately,” he said.
“Well, then some other animal. I don’t know. What was the first animal you ever talked to?”
“A bee.”
“Well, make believe I’m a bee. What would you say to me?”
Goodnight looked up at the sky as if begging the Great Mystery to help him. He didn’t think he could pretend Revelie was a bee. She didn’t look like a bee. She didn’t sound like a bee. She didn’t smell like a bee. But she was staring at him expecting bee talk, so he figured he had better try.
“Er, well, I usually talk to them in Comanche,” Goodnight said. “I don’t reckon you know Comanche, do you?”
“No,” Revelie said. “Don’t any bees know English? What would you say to a bee who spoke English?”
“Er, well, I reckon I’d say somethin’ like, uh,” he began. “I guess I’d say that I’m not gonna hurt you. And I hope you’re not gonna hurt me. Somethin’ like that.”
“I won’t,” she said. “Go on. Please.”
Goodnight hoped he could count on her promise, but he had misgivings. She might not even know when she was hurting him. It would still hurt.
“Uh,” he said, “I’d say I wanna gather some flowers. I need flowers.”
“Why?”
“Oh, I dunno. Somethin’ or other.”
“Is that what you told the bees?”
“No.”
“Well, what did you tell them?”
“Medicine. I needed some kinda medicine.”
“What kind?”
Goodnight thought about lying to her. He had a choice: tell a lie or get embarrassed. But he didn’t think he could tell stories to Revelie. He figured she would know.
“Well, medicine for coughin’ and that sorta thing.”
He watched her staring at him. He figured she knew he was holding something back. Well, here goes.
“For coughin’ and for babies,” he said.
“For babies’ coughs?” she asked.
“No, not exactly,” he said, and then lowered his gaze so he couldn’t see her. “For makin’ babies.”
“You mean like the birds and the bees?” she asked.
“Well, sorta. The flowers make a medicine for women who cain’t have no babies. They take it and then they can. See?”
“I think so. What kind of flowers?”
Goodnight looked up at the empty sky once again. No help there.
“Horehounds,” he said.
“What?” she asked.
“I didn’t name ’em.”
“But what did you say?”
“Horehounds. I said horehounds. But I didn’t name ’em. That’s just their name. Their name in English, not Comanche. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. I just didn’t hear you. Or anyway I thought I didn’t hear you right. But I guess I did. Horehounds, huh? The flowers out here have more colorful names than I realized.”
“Yeah.”
Neither of them knew quite what to say now. They looked at each other, and then they looked away.
“What other animals do you talk to?” she asked, evidently deciding that a slight change of subject was in order. “You said you talked to buffalos?”
“Not lately,” he said.
Then silence descended again.
“What else do you talk to?” she asked at last. “Trees? Do you talk to trees?”
“Sometimes.”
“Well, make believe I’m a tree. Talk tree talk to me. What about that? Do I remind you of a tree? I mean any particular tree?”
Goodnight studied Revelie, trying to see her as a tree. He tried to imagine her as a chinaberry tree because it had a long trunk and she had long legs. But somehow he couldn’t quite picture her as a chinaberry. He attempted to see her as a cedar, but cedars were too chunky. Then he realized . . .
“You’re not one tree,” he told her. “You’re lots of trees. You’re a whole forest of trees.”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
Goodnight noticed her green eyes. They were beautiful, but at the moment, they were something else, too. But he couldn’t figure out what.
“Well, the Comanches figure,” he said, and then took a deep breath for the hard work ahead, “that we’re all a part a nature. Right? Thass on the one hand. But we’re a reflection a nature, too. Thass on the other hand. See?”
“No, not really.”
“The Comanches figure we’ve all got forests inside us. And rivers inside us. And springs inside us. And canyons inside us. And thunder and lightnin’. That sort a stuff. See?”
“I think so. Tell me what you see in me.”
Goodnight studied her again. He was glad to have the license to stare at her.
“Well, I reckon I see a dark forest in you,” he said, willing to play this game. “It’s full of big ol’ trees. Not mesquites or cedars or chinaberries like we got out here. But oaks. Live oaks. Like they got in East Texas where I used to live. So there’s lots a shade in your forest. It feels cool. And it’s kinda mysterious like.”
“That’s what you see?”
He nodded. He was no longer playing. He really saw a primeval forest.
“The forest in you is quiet and calm,” he said. “It seems safe. But there are wild animals in it.”
“What kind of animals?” she asked.
“Deer. Lots of deer.”
“I like deer.”
“But there are also wolves. Not coyotes like out here. But wolves.”
“I don’t like wolves.”
He shrugged. “And mountain lions.”
As they were walking “home”—back toward the dugout and the tepee—Goodnight felt better and better. More confident. He had talked to her. He had actually had a conversation with her in which he had done most of the talking. Somehow he had performed a miracle. He could hardly believe it, and yet he knew that believing was just what had made it possible. Somehow by sheer act of will—or desperation— he had forced himself to believe in himself enough to tiptoe back into the realm of enchantment. For h
e considered being able to talk to Revelie a much greater feat of magic than being able to talk to buffalo or anvils.
Seeing a small tribe of bright yellow sunflowers growing beside the red river, Goodnight decided to pick a bouquet of them to present to Revelie. He wanted her to carry back with her something beautiful to decorate the memory of their talk. He led the way and she followed. But when they reached the sunflowers, which all looked in the direction of the sun, they found them covered by bumblebees. Revelie stopped, but Goodnight stepped closer. He looked for the chief of the sunflowers, the one with the most magnificent headdress of yellow feathers, and soon located him at the center of his tribe. Goodnight dropped down on his knees.
“O, Great Sunflower Chief,” he said, not in the Human tongue but in the tongue of the Writers.
He had never tried to talk to a flower in this alien language before, and he wondered why he did so now. He supposed he was probably showing off for the Writer woman. But he didn’t suppose the Chief of the Sunflowers would much care which language got used. He figured flowers didn’t understand the tongues of man but rather the spirit in which the languages were used. All he could do was hope like hell he was right on account of he sure wasn’t anxious to look like a damn fool in front of Revelie. And he didn’t want to get stung.
“O, Great Sunflower Chief, I wanta ask a favor of you. I’d sure like to gather some of your flowers. Not all, you unnerstand, just some. I need ’em to give to this here young lady whose name is Revelie. I want her to have ’em as a token of my feelin’s for her. How about it?”
Goodnight couldn’t be sure, but he had the feeling he was getting through. Two fists, one inside his head and the other in his chest, seemed to unclench and relax.
Now he turned his attention to the bumblebees. He knew none of them was the chief because the high-toned bees stayed home close to the honey: These were just the warrior-workers. So he could be more democratic and talk to all these workin’-stiff bees at the same time.
“O Bumblebees,” he said, “I know some of your little cousin bees purdy well, but I don’t know you, so let me introduce myself. My name’s Jimmy Goodnight, or Crying Coyote, whichever. And I’m gonna ranch this here canyon, if you don’t mind. It’s gonna be the best ranch in Texas. And this is the purdiest spot in the whole world. And this young lady here’s the purdiest girl in the world. And I’m hopin’ with your help we can kinda get all these here things together. The best damn ranch. The purdiest damn spot. And the purdiest girl who’d make the purdiest wife in the whole damn world. Now you kin do your part by sorta movin’ on back and lettin’ me pick some of these here flowers for Miss Revelie. How about it?”
