Shell Shaker

by LeAnne Howe

  Hoppy looks as if he wants to ask a question about Shakbatina, but thinks better of it and remains quiet.

  “I must know, who is after my family?” Isaac asks patiently.

  “The spirits have come back to pick a fight, that’s what I’m supposed to tell you. Didn’t you see the prairie fire? Miles and miles of the countryside have burned. And who could forget the Doberman pinschers?”

  “So that was you playing tricks on me,” says Isaac, with a smile in his voice.

  “Naturalle. C’est bon pour chiens!” Divine Sarah’s yawn radiates a warmth from her mouth that makes Isaac drowsy. He can barely keep his eyes open. The two young Choctaws slump over in their chairs. Someone is beating a drum far away, and Isaac follows it until he finds himself in an open field. It’s sunrise and the sky is red and yellow. Warriors from three different towns are hunting together. They track the old fields belonging to the Alibamu, a people related to everyone on the hunt. Although Isaac is in the field, he can hear Divine Sarah’s voice. It’s as if he’s in two places at once.

  “It all started for me when a Red Fox boy shot a porcupine with a blow gun,” laments Divine Sarah, her voice betraying her hatred. “Today we’d call him Redford McAlester, back then he was Red Shoes. So, Koi Chitto gave my body to Shakbatina, who cut the red sumac leaves and smoked in my honor. It was a grand ceremony for me in the full light of Hashtali. When she stitched my skin into those beautiful designs, I was so flattered that I promised I’d be her family’s protector.”

  Dry raspy sounds come out of Divine Sarah’s mouth and she coughs. “I’ve been waiting so long to tell you this,” she says, “I’m all choked up.” Regaining her voice, she begins again.

  “Red Shoes’ mother was a Chickasaw. His father was a Choctaw warrior from the Western District town of Couechitto. His mother sent him to Couechitto to live and learn how to be an interpreter. The Choctaws tattooed Red Shoes’ face with the inter-tribal sign of friendship. He became a messenger for both tribes. What a perfect job for a covetous man! Think of Red Shoes like you would a postman. The postman knows where everyone lives. Maybe he gives the mail to the wrong person. Maybe he waits a few extra days before delivering it. Red Shoes rose to power by trading information for muskets—to the English, or the French, or his own. Clever man.

  “Then something strange happened. In 1731 he turned on his mother’s people. He murdered two Chickasaw men and sold their scalps to a French officer. This was a sign: he thought he could become a leader of warriors in the Choctaw towns. During the next seven years Red Shoes convinced the young Choctaw warriors in the western towns that he was Imataha Chitto, the greatest giver, the red leader who could unite the people against the foreigners, but in truth he was a bloodsucker.”

  Divine Sarah looks at the red-hot tip of her cigarette. She seems to disappear, as if she is killed by the life of her story. After a long pause her voice shatters the quiet like thunder. “RED SHOES WAS NOT IMATAHA CHITTO!”

  The birds fly off the curtain rods, the raccoons jump off the tables, and the rabbits run for cover under her tooth chair. Hoppy and Nick remain sleeping, but Isaac is in both places, seeing all that is happening then and now.

  “He couldn’t unite anyone. All he did was cause problems. He was a man with two hearts. The first belonged to the Red Fox, the Chickasaws. The second, a puny one, was his Choctaw heart,” she hisses. “Shakbatina’s family became entangled with this ravenous man. He ran after Anoleta pretending to be Rudolph Valentino because he wanted her family’s influence among the eastern Choctaws who controlled the rich bottom lands. If you controlled the land, you controlled all things the Osano craved. Anoleta loved Red Shoes. She brought him into Yanàbi Town and tried to make everyone accept him. He repaid her by causing her mother’s death.”

  Divine Sarah takes a final drag of her cigarette and mashes it out. “Red Shoes started the war that continues even now, two hundred and fifty years later. I’ve come to tell you—what is in the past has not passed. The time has come, Nitakechi, for you to fulfill your destiny. No more waiting to make amends. Prophet boy here will do his part, too.”

  Isaac opens his eyes, he has returned to his one self. Divine Sarah’s story spanned eons. He saw the time when the energy of a thousand created the Nanih Waiya. Rivers took flight, leaving mud and stone that marked its fragrance with life. Everywhere he looked he saw eyes practically identical to his staring back at him. Behind those eyes, he felt sure, were minds overcome by the same astonishment he felt. He saw himself, the most frightening Choctaw he’d ever seen. His eyes, like black grapes, gazed out of a thin angular face. His long hair hung to his waist and blended into the blackness as he stood silhouetted in the doorway of his cabin. His skin stretched tautly across the knife of his features. A hard belly, a muscular chest, proved he was an expert hunter with a bow and arrow.

  A dark, pulsating energy flows between Isaac and his past. He was there when his sister Shakbatina exchanged her life for the life of Anoleta. She had sacrificed herself in order to buy the Choctaws more time. But before her death she had told him to find the Imataha Chitto, the greatest giver, and marry her. She made him promise to prepare her body in the Choctaw way for the long journey. He also witnessed the fatal mistake he had made that has plagued him ever since.

  “So what happens now?” Isaac asks, forgetting that one does not ask direct questions of a trickster or an actress.

  “See my new rabbit,” exclaims Divine Sarah, ignoring his question. “Not really red, but this color is what Choctaws used to call red before they had crayons and red high-heeled shoes. Jean Baptiste came running up here and asked me if he could stay awhile. He’s a beauty, but he has such a potty-mouth. Oh, can he cuss!”

  Divine Sarah sings softly to the rabbit who has poked his head out from under her chair.

  “Some old ladies chain, rabbit putting in the garden, can’t come out, I bet you five dollars, can’t come out.”

  Isaac listens to the wind circling the house. A gloomy sound comes from his throat. “But Choctaws have completely forgotten Red Shoes. It is the fate of the greedy.”

  “But they haven’t forgotten Redford McAlester. Besides, that is the reason the Osano returns,” warns Divine Sarah. “To continue consuming—it’s his job.”

  Isaac looks over at his young companions and wonders what their children will remember of Choctaw history.

  “Nitakechi, you better go, the house is on fire. Your family—I’m watching out for them, but sacrifice is coming. Do you understand?”

  He nods yes and feels as if he’s dying, but it’s not him—it’s the old woman dissolving into a sweet musk. Sitting in her place is a big porcupine with quills the size of feathers flaring out like a headdress. He jumps up, yanks Hoppy and Nick out of their chairs, and the three run willy-nilly out of her place. The door swings open and her voice booms behind them. “Che pisa lauchi.” I’ll see you.

  When they reach the truck, Nick passes out next to the passenger door. When he comes to, Hoppy is splashing his face with warm coffee from his thermos.

  “Whaddaya doin’?” asks Nick, in a weak voice. “You’re getting my hair all sticky.”

  “You stroked out—I had to do something.”

  “I’ve never been chased by a big hulking porcupine before,” he says. “She really got to me.”

  “C’mon,” says Isaac. “We’ve got to get home. Divine Sarah said our house is on fire.”

  His nephew stomps the gas peddle to the floorboard of the truck and they race away. Isaac tries to remember everything Divine Sarah showed him. He ticks off some of the details of his past, but Hoppy and Nick keep asking him questions.

  “Imoshe, the woman slammed us, didn’t she?” yells his nephew over the roar of the truck engine.

  “What?”

  “Made us see stuff that had happened a long time ago.”

  “Yup.”

  Hoppy drives like a wild man; some of the curves he takes at fifty miles an hour, then he jams fourt
h gear into third and guns the pedal again. The truck whipsaws down the mountain roads back to Durant, where chaos resides. Off and on, Isaac grabs the dashboard. He takes comfort in what Divine Sarah said. “The boy will do his part.”

  “I saw a whole bunch of people sitting on white cane mats,” shouts Hoppy, excitedly. “Others were on red mats. You and Grandmother were there. Man, are you guys Choctough!”

  “What’s that?” asks Isaac.

  “Rugged.”

  “Good, I wouldn’t want you to think we were wimps. What else?” asks Isaac.

  “Everyone in my dream was trying to decide what to do about a bad guy named Red Shoes,” says Nick.

  “What do you think that means?” asks Hoppy.

  “That councils talk about a problem openly, and they debate and debate until they reach consensus,” explains Isaac. “A long time ago, Choctaw councils believed that everyone had to agree but, more important, they discussed things openly in public.”

  “I understand,” says Nick. “Today, at our tribal council meetings, McAlester is the only one allowed to speak.”

  “We’ve gotten away from our traditions,” says Isaac. “It’s as much my fault as the other elders my age. We should have banded together and put a stop to McAlester’s corruption. But that’s about to change, I’m back on the right path now, and I know others who will join with me. I’ll tell you a story about the old days. The Choctaw councils met for nearly twenty years before deciding to move against Red Shoes. They waited until everyone agreed. When twenty-two Choctaw towns allied against Red Shoes, he was assassinated, on June 22, 1747, the longest day of the year. A very sacred day for the old-timers.”

  Isaac waits a long time for Nick and Hoppy to respond. It’s a lot to consider: Big Mother Porcupine, Divine Sarah, Sarah Bernhardt, the French actress with her anecdotes of Victor Hugo and her visions of war. This is a trickster’s story of what is coming.

  Finally Hoppy replies, measuring his words, “Don’t worry, Imoshe, we are learning from you, and no matter how much time we have left, I will do my part.”

  “Me too,” says Nick.

  When they reach the outskirts of Durant at four A.M., Isaac smells smoke. He worries that his sister’s house is on fire. Revenge of the Peanut Growers’ Club. But at the corner of Main Street, it’s Bryan County Jail that’s burning. He leaps out of the truck and hurries toward the smoldering building. Someone tackles him from behind. “My sister and niece are in there,” he yells.

  “No they’re not,” says a sheriff’s deputy, pulling him off the ground. “Everyone got out safely hours ago, sir. Please go on home, this area is off-limits to the public. Too dangerous.”

  Isaac limps toward the truck. “Must have pulled a muscle,” he says, but before he opens the door, he gets switched. Instead of stepping into the truck cab, he is standing in McAlester’s office. The chief slumps in a chair, his boxer shorts wadded around his ankles. Auda is sprawled out, unconscious on the floor next to the dead chief, the gun beside her. Two men in suits are standing above her, arguing in Italian.

  “You can stop playing tricks on me now, I know what to do,” he yells at the two men. Just as the words leave his mouth, the door to his pickup opens and Hoppy is asking if his leg is okay.

  In the distance he hears a throaty cackle. Divine Sarah laughing like hell.

  A soft yellow light glows in the stomach of the Billy house.

  Hoppy parks the truck on the street. As Isaac steps down he asks Nick to stay outside and watch for strangers. Hoppy was the first one out of the car, but Isaac insists that he go in first and his nephew agrees. Isaac walks inside, putting one foot quietly down, then the other, as if on a forest floor. At the door of the library, Isaac can make out the outlines of two shapes. His heart quickens and he draws his knife. He slips in ahead of his nephew, and when his eyes adjust he sees Susan and Auda sitting like drugged birds in the dark. He switches on the light and his sister looks up from her stupor.

  “It’s about time, old man,” says Susan Billy, stirring from sleep. “I was afraid to turn on all the lights until my warriors arrived to protect me,” she says, in a mocking tone.

  Susan’s long hair is pinned up in a bun. Gray wispy bangs lightly touch her forehead. Her clothes are simple: a high turtleneck, and loose-fitting pants, with Kleenex and hard candy stuffed in the pockets in case she encounters children on the streets. Lying across her lap is the porcupine sash. She looks down at it and lovingly strokes the quills.

  “It’s okay, Grandmother,” says Hoppy, leaning down to kiss her. “Your warriors are late, but we made it in time for the battle.”

  Susan Billy stands up and hugs her grandson, then examines his green hair without making a comment.

  “Yup, I was worried too,” says Isaac. “Afraid you weren’t going to make it home in time to cook us breakfast.”

  “I wouldn’t miss trying out my new recipe. It’s called chicken-fried Tonica. Supposed to be real tasty,” she says, chuckling.

  Isaac looks at Auda. Her eyes are open, unfocused; she doesn’t see him. Her mouth is swollen and her long hair is badly matted with blood.

  Just then, the front door opens, followed by the sound of running footsteps. Tema Billy enters the library, and she’s breathing fast. “We’ve been looking all over for you two. The sheriff’s men probably aren’t far behind. How did you get out of jail?”

  “Walked out,” replies Susan, as she places the porcupine sash back inside the trunk. “Everyone was shouting and running around on account of the fire. The deputy seemed to forget us. When our cell opened, I walked us out of the building and on home. It was the strangest thing, as if we were invisible.”

  “Oh Mom, we’ve been so worried.” Tema grabs her mother and holds her. Finally she bends down to kiss Auda on the cheek.

  “Where is Adair?” asks Susan Billy.

  “Bringing up the rear, Ma,” answers Adair, who is followed by a tall slender man with braided hair and a briefcase. “We stopped to talk to the young man outside.”

  “That’s Nick Carney, my friend,” says Hoppy.

  “Oh, he must be Martha Carney’s boy. He’s such a talented artist,” says Susan. “Bring him inside, and both of you boys get something to eat.”

  Hoppy goes to get Nick, and Susan talks to her daughters. Isaac studies the Indian lawyer. He’s seen many a good Indian sell himself to the Inkilish okla profession. Multitudes of them pedal “sovereignty” like liquor. To him, these paper warriors, men and women who’ve never handled a real weapon in their lives, have come forward only to collect five hundred years of back pay for themselves. Rarely, if ever, do they do anything for the people, and never for free. McAlester, another worthless plug, used to brag, “Even if we’re wrong, we must fight to protect our sovereignty!”

  Isaac turns his back on his sister and her girls, and the man they’ve hired. He reminds himself that they know what they’re doing. He sighs.

  Susan must sense what he’s thinking because she stands up and walks over to Isaac, putting her hand on his shoulder. “Tomorrow, please get Auda to the doctor. I don’t know what’s wrong with her, but after I arrived at the jail, she suddenly went blank. The sheriff will probably be here any minute now. If I give myself up, maybe they’ll leave Auda with you.”

  “I’ve spoken to Delores,” says Isaac, dropping his voice low. “She and Dovie are coming.”

  Adair, who has been sitting quietly on the arm of the couch, finally takes charge. “Ma, Uncle Isaac, we’re all here and we can help each other. Auda will see a doctor in the morning, and Mr. Battiste will work out your legal releases from the county jail,” she says soothingly. “Mr. Battiste doesn’t think the county technically has jurisdiction over the tribe.”

  Isaac studies Adair. She sure seems to be putting a lot of faith in a man she hardly knows.

  Susan politely extends her hand to the lawyer. “I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Battiste. Do you know Leota Battiste?”

  “Yes, ma’am, she�
�s my aunt.”

  “She and I used to sew star quilts at a women’s sewing group in Tulsa, about a hundred years ago. So you’re Alabama Conchatys. You know, our families are probably related if we go back far enough.”

  “That’s what I’ve heard.”

  “Girls, please take Auda upstairs and put her to bed, I want to tell Mr. Battiste how I killed the chief, so when the sheriff comes, he’ll know if he can help me.”

  Isaac listens without reacting. He doesn’t believe for a second that his sister killed McAlester, because in his vision Auda was unconscious in the chief’s office. And the two D’Amato brothers were standing over her.

  He walks outside. Morning is coming and once again his family is together. The gate in Isaac’s head has finally opened. The wind has blown away the smoke and soot caused by the prairie fire, and the Oklahoma skies are clearing. The world has a roof of clouds turning pink and yellow.

  Isaac digs in his pocket and takes out a tiny gray stone no bigger than his thumb. It once belonged to his great-grandmother Nowatima. After he returned home from boarding school, he’d sit with her for hours in front of their fireplace. Night after night she would draw stories in his mind. He saw a hurricane so powerful that it made the Mississippi run backwards. At the river Ahepatanichi, he saw kettling birds of an unknown species dropping excrement on the heads of Spanish invaders. “What the Hispano didn’t realize,” smiled Nowatima, “was that magical excrement containing the seeds of potatoes had been dropped on them. So the invaders would unknowingly spread potatoes to starving people everywhere. A gift from our Seven Grandmothers.” Isaac witnessed a war between the Natchez and the French that began over the slaughter of trumpeter swans. Nowatima said the French didn’t know that they built their fort over a bird refuge, a place protected by the Natchez. When the Natchez leader, Stung Serpent, and his son brought a pair of mated swans to Chépart, the fort’s commander, he threw them out of his house and shot the birds just to show how little he regarded their gift. This so enraged the Natchez that they killed Chépart and two hundred and fifty other Frenchmen. Then they planted the French heads on pine posts in the center of the fort. Food for the birds. Eventually the Choctaw helped the Natchez move in with the Ouachitas, who were living along the Red River. “You see,” said Nowatima, “that is how the Choctaws saved the French, our allies. Otherwise the Natchez would surely have wiped them out. Now you know how a people in the swamp can slip into another name as easily as food slips inside your mouth. But the real truth of my stories is that nothing ever dies.”