So I squeezed and I squeezed and I killed the creature. In doing so I killed myself, my lungs filling up with the sea.
It was such a pleasant feeling, to drown, to die. . . .
Then I’d awake from my dream, drenched in sweat, hacking, coughing. My mother would be there, hovering above me, and she would begin my treatment over again. . . .
Life went on much like this for a long, long time after my father died. Until the day when the ‘replacement men’ entered the village.
As I said before, I only see the outside world in fragments. That’s why my understanding of what happened next is confused and full of gaps.
One morning, I heard the men readying themselves for the hunt, but this time the sounds they made were different. Instead of being joyous or boastful, they seemed serious, perhaps even worried. They were hunting less and less often, because the wapiti was scarcer than it once was, because the men with the shiny, hard skin were killing them, more than they could eat. So our men had to go beyond our boundaries into the land of the Navajo.
My mother was the same as usual. She massaged me and induced the choking feeling. She rid my body of its fluids. The village was almost completely silent. No children played. The women whispered more quietly than usual.
Then night came, and the men returned.
But they were not our men.
I heard the whoops and cries the women usually made when the men came back from the hunt, the scurry of children to meet their fathers and the women busying themselves to attend to them. But their cries turned into screams. I heard the children scattering, as if they were a flock of birds trying to escape a net.
There were sounds of struggle and cries of pain, and the noises outside mingled with my gasps for air. I tried to drag myself along the floor towards the entrance so I could see what was going on, but I only succeeded in breaking some fingernails. I sucked my bleeding fingertips, trying to lessen the pain.
My mother ran into the hut. Right on her heels I saw the muscular calves of a man who was not my father. I saw fragments of their bodies as they fought. Then my mother cried out, as if the man had twisted her arm, but all I could do was lie on the floor and watch these wisps of action—unmoving, wheezing.
She cried out in the language of the Navajo, ‘All right, all right, but let me move my son. He’s sick, and I don’t want him to see this.’
‘If this is a trick. . . .’ the man growled in the same language, but the words sounded funny coming from his mouth.
‘No trick, no trick,’ my mother said softly, and I could hear she was trying to control her breathing. ‘I’m just going to move him now . . . see?’
With this, she grabbed me by the ankles and spun me around so I was facing the wall. Then she whispered quickly to me, ‘Plug your ears, my little river!’
She went back to the man and I heard them grunting and groaning, but it didn’t sound like fighting any more. I thought back to when I was very young. I remembered those sounds from when my father was still alive. After a while, I heard the groaning and slobbering of the man as he fell asleep. My mother came to me and prepared the salve and spread it over my body as she always did. She massaged me and dried the sweat from my face, and I felt refreshed. But as she leaned in close after I had vomited on the floor, it no longer felt like we were one person. Overpowering the smell of mullein, she stank of him.
That night I dreamed I was sinking into the sea again. But this time it was not the great sea serpent I choked to death, but the replacement man. . . .
Things went on like this for many days—the fighting, the groaning. From what I could hear, it was the same in the nearby huts. The whispers of the women in the village were replaced by lamentations. Soon, though, things began to go back to normal, and the ‘replacement men’ got up early to hunt, just like the original men. The women cooked for them and stitched their clothes. Children even came out of the huts and began to play again.
It was strange no one talked about the men who’d gone away hunting and had never come back, and no one asked where these new men had come from. There were so many things I didn’t understand in the world beyond my hut—this was just one more.
Perhaps my life would have continued like this if it weren’t for one night when my replacement father stumbled into the hut. Beyond his regular stink, he smelt of something else, some pungent water. I knew from experience it would be a bad night. He yelled at my mother, ‘Take this thing out of here. I want to be alone with you tonight, woman.’
‘That thing is my son. He’s sick. I must take care of him.’
‘I say take it out to the woods and let it die. I can’t stand its wheezing and coughing. In my tribe, we would have killed a thing like that right out of the womb.’
‘I’ll do whatever you want,’ she pleaded, ‘but leave my son alone.’
‘I’ll leave him alone all right—alone with the gods,’ and with that the man gave me a swift kick right to my ribs, breaking many of them, winding me, sending me into a paroxysm of pain. I had less space to breathe than ever before. Trying to cry but unable to make a sound, I struggled for air.
‘No!’ my mother screamed, and she threw herself between me and the man, taking the kicks for me. ‘Worthless dog, worthless woman!’ he bellowed. When he had tired of kicking her he stumbled out the door, shouting, ‘I’ll be back, and I’ll kill that thing yet!’
My mother straightened up, breathed a few deep breaths and carefully felt my side where I’d been kicked. ‘Don’t worry. Don’t worry. I promise you,’ she said, in a very calm voice I had never heard from her before. As she bound my side with a bunch of old rags, she continued ‘That man is dead. They are all dead. They will never hurt my precious Tooh again.’
After she rubbed me down and emptied out my lungs, for the first time since I was a small boy, she left me all alone in the hut. I was worried for her, straining my ears, hoping to hear her voice talking to the women. I also worried the drunken man would return and hurt me again, because I could not move and defend myself. But nothing happened all night long.
Just before dawn, I stirred at the sound of someone entering the hut, and I was afraid it was my replacement father. Then I saw it was my mother. I could just see her beautiful feet, but they were torn and bloody now, just like my father’s after he had run down the mountain in search of his bear spirit.
I looked up at her, straining my neck to see her face, my breath excited at her arrival. She said, ‘There, there, my little babbling brook. Do not worry. I went to the shaman, and he has shown me the way. He told me the hairy men in the pastures below have a curse, and it will kill the replacement men.
‘Last night, I went down the mountain and stole a part of this curse from their village, and I will make things right now.’
‘What . . . ’ I wheezed, ‘was the strange men’s village like?’
‘It was much like ours,’ she said, as she stroked my back, ‘with huts, but made out of cloth and sticks. But they are lazy and barely stir. I think that is part of their curse. And the women they have taken to serve them are lazy, too. They barely get up to search for water. But in the middle of their village I could see they had planted a tree, a beautiful tall tree that shone in the sun. There was one piece that went straight up and down, and another across it like the arms of a thin man. The men lay about in groups in front of it with blankets on their heads, making strange signs with their hands, holding cords with small beads and whispering and kissing them. One man especially, who had no hair on the very top of his head, and who wore a heavy brown cloak, whispered the most.
‘I knew he was the one to give me the curse, just like the holy man said. So I went with him and took a piece.’
‘What did you do, mother?’ I asked, because I didn’t understand.
‘Shhh, shhh,’ she said. ‘You will see. It will save us from these men and no one will ever hurt you ever again. It will bring peace to the village again and honour to our name.’
Some time lat
er I smelled the replacement man approaching. Mother met him at the doorway.
‘So,’ he said, ‘are you going to drown this ugly pup, or shall I do it?’
My mother said soothingly in reply, ‘I should not have angered you. You are strong and powerful and that is why you cannot understand my weakness for my son. I am sorry I have offended you. I have brought you this gift, a blanket to keep you warm. Please let me put it around your strong shoulders.’
‘There, there, that is the respect a warrior deserves,’ my replacement father said. ‘Now, come lie with me,’ he commanded, and the groaning began. Even though I was pointed in their direction, I could not see what was going on, because they were covered by the blanket.
Days passed and nothing happened. I thought this was slow magic indeed.
On the third day, when my mother rubbed me down, I noticed spots on her face and arms. ‘What’s that?’ I asked my mother, and she replied, ‘Nothing. It is a sign the curse is working, but the shaman said it will not kill us, because we are good, and the men are bad.’
Indeed, the magic had begun.
That same day, the man stumbled into our hut, but he did not stink of drink. He fell down on his knees and lay down with a thud. The small patch of skin I could see along his leg had the same spots as my mother, but many more, like bites from many red ants.
‘Do you want me to lie with you, man?’ my mother asked pleasantly.
‘No, woman,’ he growled. ‘It does not please me. Go and fetch me some water.’
‘Yes, my master,’ my mother said, and even though I could not see her face, I knew she was smiling.
He drank water, and he drank more, but it did not help. ‘I’m burning,’ he screamed. ‘You have put fire in this bottle and not water.’ After that, he said many things, lying on the floor, but I could not understand them. By afternoon he still had not moved, and from the beads of sweat on his skin, I could tell the fever had set in. Then he began to wheeze and gasp, and there I was once more, lying next to a dying father. But this time I imagined we were two long-distance runners, competitors, running to glory, running down the mountain. Like my father, like my mother.
As he wheezed, I wheezed. As he coughed, I coughed. We were neck and neck, running through the woods, our cheeks grazed by the low-lying branches, the backs of our thighs stinging from the long grass. Soon he wheezed more than I. Soon he shuddered more than I’d ever done. I imagined myself outpacing him, lengthening my strides, feeling my spirit rise before me as I sped along the dirt path.
By nightfall, the man gasped his last breath and his chest stopped heaving. I lay there agitated, my lungs full, suddenly aware I was back in the hut. I wondered why my mother, who was lying close by, did not help me. After a long time she moved towards me slowly. She crushed the leaves of the mullein plant, added the oils and herbs. But all of this was so slow, like things in a dream, and she moved like her limbs were not her own.
She began to massage me, but with difficulty. She tried to rub my tensest muscles, but her fingers failed her. She stopped and sat next to me, breathing heavily, like my replacement father. Then she rolled me over, and roughly, awkwardly, she pounded my back until I vomited. As she pressed her body next to me, I felt the edges of her sores against my cheek.
Then, holding me tightly, the last thing she said was, ‘You see, my little Tooh? We have had our revenge. Tomorrow, when I am rested, I shall take you out into the light. I will put you on my shoulders and carry you in victory through the village. The holy man was right.’
She rubbed my face dry as tenderly as she could with her beautiful hair, and fell asleep. Late at night, when the air grew cold, I felt when she died. She was still holding me, her hair still smelt of mullein, and I fell asleep dreaming of her.
The morning began with a chorus of coughing and hacking, a village full of sickness. The sounds of running, jumping and playing games died away. From the feeble voices that reached my hut, it seemed the ones who had been the strongest died the fastest. I smiled—they, who knew the wapiti’s tricks and where he would double-back along the trail—they, who knew which roots caused pleasure and pain—they were all smart and strong, but, in the world of the sick, they were novices, and I was master.
I know when the fever rises and rises and reaches its peak, and, just before you pass out, it will lower. I can tell when the liquid fills my chest, and there are several seconds more before I begin to gag and thrash. They knew none of this. They died quickly and fearfully and without a fight.
Today when I awoke, I heard no more sounds of the replacement men, or the villagers, or the children. No groans, no hacking coughs, no lamentations, prayers or curses. Today when I awoke, I heard only the rustling of the trees. By mid-day the animals lost their apprehensiveness. They began their scratching and calling and entered the village common area. They became bolder still, and I could hear them licking the pots for leftover food. Soon, over the sound of buzzing flies, I heard their growling and yelping as they began to fight over the corpses.
If I could only lift my body up and crawl to the entrance of the hut—something I’ve never been able to do—I’m sure I would see the grass growing tall in the common area, the corpses strewn here and there, skeletons gnawed clean, still dressed in rags. The shiny stones and dolls, the ball made of leather scraps, the wooden pestle for pounding roots, all of them are still and untouched, showing the first signs of rot.
My mother’s love for me had been so strong, so consuming, she had succeeded in killing each and every living person in the village, original or replacement. As I turned to her corpse I kissed her sweet-smelling hair and said, ‘Thank-you’.
***
The voice turned into a gurgle and then transformed itself into a death rattle. Each word was half-submerged in a sea of phlegm, clinging to the end of each rounded syllable for life, as it said, ‘I . . . had . . . finally . . . beaten . . . all . . . of . . . them . . . I . . . had . . . proved . . . I was . . . the . . . strongest boy in the world.’
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The Indian boy’s voice changed from a gurgling to a gagging. I heard the dull sound of his skull thrashing against a straw mat, then choking, then silence.
I’d fallen so completely under the spell of the Muladona’s story that I’d forgotten I was in bed. I felt as if I were lying on the floor of the hut while the dying child whispered in my ear. As I slowly returned to my surroundings, I realised I’d wet myself from fright. My first instinct was to throw back my sheets in disgust.
Just as I was about to fling them off, I saw through the semi-transparent sheets the looming shadow of the Muladona on the wall. The shadow grinned at me with such malevolence that I wrapped myself up even tighter in the wet sheets. Shaking and shuddering, I felt I was on the verge of death, just like that boy in the story.
The awful, rasping voice (no longer dying and weak) spoke again. ‘So-oo, my bo-oy, I hope you liked my little story. Are you ready now to guess-sss my idennn-tity? If you say my name now, you’ll ne-ever, ee-ver se-ee me again.’
The creature came closer and began nibbling the edge of my sheet. Reason deserted me. Just like in the story, everyone around me—my mother, my brother, Lupita—had disappeared. I couldn’t believe it, but I even longed for Father to return. He’d know the words to exorcise the foul thing. He would save me!
Just as the Muladona had foretold, the story began to rot inside of me. I could feel it growing and twisting like a malicious worm, consuming all my hope, all my happy thoughts. I pressed my stomach desperately to find the evil parasite inside.
Who could the Muladona be? I racked my brain, but I couldn’t think. I hadn’t learned anything about its identity from the story. Why would anyone want to hurt me? I didn’t know what to do. But I couldn’t stand the thought of even one more night listening to the beast’s awful stories, let alone six! I didn’t know any women who wanted me dead. I didn’t really know that many women at all . . . except for Mrs Bellows, the crazy fruit vendor,
and she had me exactly where she wanted me, locked up in the house. She didn’t need to take on a demonic shape to murder me. There was Lupita . . . but no, that was impossible! Why would Lupita want to harm me? She loved me. She was like a second mother to me.
As these feverish thoughts flew through my head, I felt the muzzle of the Muladona snuffling over my sheets, over my hands. It was trying to find a gap large enough to grab hold of a finger and rip me out of my bed.
‘Te-ell me. Te-ell me,’ the awful creature whispered. ‘Who-oo a-aam I?’
I realised then that I was defeated. I wasn’t smart enough. I wasn’t strong enough. What did it matter if I just guessed anyone—right or wrong—and be done with it? Wasn’t I already dead, in a way, unable to run or jump or play or even have friends come over to visit? I’d had enough, not just of the creature tormenting me, but of my whole, pathetic life. I clenched my teeth together and decided to accuse Mrs Bellows of being the Muladona and be done with it!
As I struggled to throw off the sheets that wound around me like a damp burial shroud, I realised I was clutching something in my hands. It was my old, stuffed toy dog. A half-submerged memory rose up in front of me. . . .
I’m crying in bed late at night. My mother comes into my room and rubs my tummy above the sheets. I’m embarrassed to be caught crying, so I say it wasn’t me, but my stuffed animal, Pablito. He’s crying because Sebas had been mean to him. She reaches under the sheets and gently withdraws the dog from my hand. She cradles it in her arms like a little baby and kisses it on the nose, again and again. Then she says, ‘Verge, you know the Indians believe their souls are linked to a particular animal? Like a cougar or a bear or a dog, like Pablito here. These spirit-animals guide them through the darkness and keep them safe. In return, they speak beautiful words to their totems and offer them gifts.’
Muladona Page 7
