La Vengeance des mères

by Jim Fergus

  We doubt after all Martha has been through, and given her deranged mental state, that she will be able to find the place again. But as we climb into the rocky hills, she seems so certain and determined in her direction.

  “May has been shot,” she keeps sayin’, “she is very cold, she needs our help. Follow me, the cave is right this way.”

  We follow, climbin’ a faint game trail that winds its way up the bluff. We squeeze between large boulders and pick our way careful across narrow ledges that fall away to the rocks below. And damned if after twenty minutes or so, Martha doesn’t lead us right to the entrance of the cave. It woulda been easy to miss, too, just a shallow depression under a rock shelf, into which we have to crawl on our bellies.

  “We’re here, May,” Martha calls out, “hang on, my dear friend, we’re coming for you.” It chills me and Susie to hear Martha speak this way, to realize that this is probably exactly what she said when she first led Brother Anthony to this place those months ago. It is like she is relivin’ it all over again … and so maybe are we.

  Once we crawl through the entrance, we find that it opens up into a shallow cave. A gap in the rocks above allows a faint light to enter, just enough for us to see as our eyes adjust. In the center of the cave is a fire pit; the gap in the ceiling musta worked like a natural chimney. In the pit are the remains of ash and blackened animal bones from travelers who have probably been takin’ shelter here since the first people walked this land.

  “Where are they?” cries Martha when she sees that the cave is empty. “Where is May? Where is Little Bird?” Suddenly, she holds her arms out and turns her empty palms up again. “But where is my baby boy? Oh, good God, I’ve lost my baby!” And she begins to sob.

  “Try to remember, Martha,” says Susie. “You came back to this cave with Brother Anthony. You found May here, but she was already dead, remember? Quiet One, Feather on Head, and Pretty Walker took Little Bird with them. They joined Little Wolf and the rest of the band on the trek across the mountains to Crazy Horse’s village. Meggie and me were with ’em, see? Our little girls died, you understand?… We couldn’t keep ’em warm enough … they froze to death. But May’s daughter, Little Bird, survived, because she had three mothers to keep her warm. We think she must still be with Little Wolf. We’re going to find them soon. You’ll see.”

  Molly has taken Martha in her arms and is tryin’ to calm her. “But where is my baby?” Martha asks through her tears. “I’ve lost my little boy.”

  “We don’t know, Martha,” says I. “We don’t know what happened to your boy. We been hopin’ you might be able to tell us about that.”

  But now we watch as Martha in Molly’s arms fades away from us again, we see the light go out of her eyes as they lose focus. It seems that the shock of this terrible day and her own confusion and dark imaginings are just too much for her to bear. “Martha?” says Susie. “Stay with us now, lass.” But it is too late, she has gone again, seekin’ escape in the place where nothin’ can harm her.

  Maybe just out of respect to May, we sit in silence for a while in the cold, dim cave. Molly still holds Martha in her arms … all of us imaginin’ what those last hours here musta been like for May—wounded and freezing, knowing she was dying but fearing far more for her daughter’s life than for her own. We know from Quiet One, Feather on Head, and Pretty Walker—Little Wolf’s two other wives and his daughter—who were all here with her, that May insisted they leave to join Little Wolf and the others, and to take her baby, Little Bird, with them. She feared she would die here before Martha came back with Brother Anthony or Captain Bourke, or that Martha wouldn’t make it back at all. She couldn’t ask them to risk their own lives by waiting with her, nor could she risk dying with her baby in her arms after the others had left. So they did as she told them. How hard it must have been to give up her daughter and die here alone … Aye, she was a fine brave woman, our May … God rest her soul.

  As we are leaving the cave, Molly spots a piece of paper in the shadows of the corner. She picks it up, looks at it, and hands it to me. Straightaway I recognize it as a page torn out of May’s notebook, written in her hand. But it is too dark to read here, and so I fold it and put it inside the small beaded leather pouch I carry at my waist.

  By the time we crawl out from under the ledge of the opening, the sun has set, and dusk is coming on. We make our way real careful back down outta the rocks, this time leadin’ Martha, who follows passive with not another word spoken. By the time we reach the river bottom, the Cheyenne have set up their camp a bit away from the village and the burial scaffolds, for there’d be no rest for anyone from the unsettled spirits swirlin’ in the air like dust devils, their silent keening bubblin’ up from the troubled earth.

  Our girls have set up their own night camp beside them, closer than usual for they, too, feel the presence of the spirits. They have picketed our horses and Martha’s donkey with the other mounts. As we approach on foot, Dapple, apparently recognizin’ Martha, raises his muzzle in the air, peels his lips back, and gives off one of his brays of welcome. She goes to him and throws her arms around his neck. We’re glad to see that she’s got somethin’ to hold on to. Me and Susie and Molly lead Martha down to the river, where we wash up and remove her greasepaint like we do every evening. She’s runnin’ low on the bear fat and we’re hopin’ she’ll run out soon. Maybe once she can’t hide herself anymore, she’ll have to face the truth … whatever that is … plus she’ll smell a whole lot sweeter.

  By the time we return from the river, the Cheyenne have a large fire burning, and Pretty Nose comes over to our camp to invite us to share a dinner of two antelope they killed this afternoon. Our own Lady Hall participated in the hunt, and she tells us how it went. The hunters, including m’lady, went out on foot each wearin’ a cape made of a full antelope hide with the hair still on. Spottin’ a herd in the distance, the hunters pulled the capes over their heads so that they were completely concealed and they got down on their hands and knees, and began crawlin’ around like that. The antelope, being curious creatures, drew closer little by little, thinkin’ maybe these figures were members of their own kind. When the herd had finally come into range, the hunters stood up and drew their bows. Lady Hall, a wiry lass, all muscle and sinew, has gotten right proficient herself with the bow and arrow, and she let one fly that hit the animal broadside right behind the foreleg, a perfect shot in what she calls the “sweet spot,” the place where the heart and lung are located. The animal ran for twenty yards or so before droppin’ stone dead.

  When we arrive at the dinner, two antelope are roastin’ above the fire and the Cheyenne are seated around it. Now is the time for the two men whose arrows together killed the other antelope to dance the hunt, accompanied by drumbeats. They begin hunched low, holding their capes pulled over their heads with both hands, dancin’ like antelope themselves move, we got to admit. Suddenly together, they stand up straight, letting the hides slip away to the ground, and gesturing as if they are drawing their bowstrings and releasing the arrows, all the while still dancin’. When they have finished their pantomime, they dance over in front of Lady Hall, who is seated cross-legged with the rest of us. With hand gestures, they beckon her to stand.

  “Oh, no, but I couldn’t possibly,” she protests. “You see, I have two left feet, I am not at all gifted in the art of dancing.”

  Course the hunters don’t understand her words, but they sense her shyness. So they each just take hold of one of her arms and lift her to her feet. “Oh, dear!” Lady Hall cries. “Oh, my goodness!” One of them has picked up his antelope hide and now drapes it over m’lady’s shoulders, prancing before her. “Well, alright then,” she says, takin’ hold of the hide and pullin’ it over her head “if you insist. As my dear companion Helen Flight always said: ‘When in Rome…’” And she begins to dance, tentative and clumsy at first. Aye, it is true what m’lady says, she has two left feet alright, and she doesn’t dance at all like an antelope moves. The rest
of us can’t help but giggle at her efforts. She relaxes after a bit, prancing with … well, we ain’t goin’ to call it exactly grace … let’s just say, she dances with plenty of energy, which makes us giggle all the more. Especially when she begins actin’ out her hunt, hunched over, shrouded by the cape, then straightenin’ and lettin’ it drop dramatically behind her, drawin’ her imaginary bow, and releasin’ the arrow, pointin’ straight with the index finger of her right hand as if showin’ its path, and then raisin’ her open left palm and striking it with the tip of her finger, to suggest the arrow makin’ contact with her target. We are all in a fine state of hilarity now, we cannot stop giggling, even Lady Hall’s maidservant, Hannah, who is watching her lady in wide-eyed amazement, gigglin’ her little head off. The Cheyenne, too, are laughin’ with us … not makin’ fun of her, see, just enjoyin’ the show.

  Exhausted finally by her performance, Lady Hall collapses back into her seated position among us. “Oh, dear!” she says, breathing heavy. “I must say, the recounting of the hunt is more tiring than the hunt itself! But I did rather well, don’t you think, ladies? That is … for one with two left feet. My Helen always said I was too straightlaced. I believe she would be proud of me.”

  “’Deed she would!” says Susie, wipin’ the tears of laughter from her face. “You did splendid, m’lady!”

  “Mais oui, you must appear in my revue cancan!” says Lulu.

  And later we find out that the Cheyenne have given Lady Hall the honorary name Vó’aa’e’hané’, which means Kills Antelope Woman.

  We have a fine dinner of the roasted animals, a grand end to what has been a hard day of heartbreak, tears, and bitter memories … but maybe a necessary return, after all, to this place to say a proper good-bye to our lost friends and loved ones, to lay their ghosts to rest, though we know they will never lie quiet, nor will we ever forget them … Still, we laughed again … here, of all places … they would be happy to know it, maybe they do know, maybe their spirits are even laughin’ with us. Aye, that’s what we like to think anyhow. For better or worse, for all its pain and trials, life goes on for the living …

  8 May 1876

  Hawk has kept us camped here by the winter village for four days now. It has been a welcome rest for both us and our weary horses. The scouts have been goin’ out every day so he must know no one is followin’ us, and that the Army would never bother comin’ back to a place they already destroyed. There is good game in the valley and the men have had time to hunt and restock our dwindled supplies.

  To be sure, those of us who were here during the attack can’t help but remember this village as it was then, so rich and well-provisioned for the winter, our new babies warm and happy, swaddled in their buffalo furs, we just tryin’ to live our lives in peace and calm … all this … all this laid to waste by the Army. Aye, what comin’ back to this place has done for me and Susie is only to further harden our stony hearts … if that is possible.

  For three days and nights, Hawk himself has sat cross-legged atop the burial scaffold of his wife, Amé’ha’e, Flying Woman in our language, and their five-year-old son Mónevàta, Youngbird, gone to Seano that cold morning in his mother’s arms. Next to their scaffold is that of Hawk’s mother, the white woman, Yellow Hair Woman, who joined her daughter-in-law and grandson on the journey up the hanging road.

  Me and Susie and the other girls in our group knew Hawk’s family real well. Yellow Hair Woman may have been as white in features as can be, but she was as Cheyenne as they come, and gray of hair by the time we came among ’em. We were real surprised to see a white woman there, and we hoped maybe she might help us to get settled. But she never spoke a word of English to any of us, nor did she ever act like we and her were even of the same race. She treated us just like any of the other Cheyenne women did, that is to say, like outsiders, which of course we were.

  But the longer we were with ’em, the more the lasses softened toward us, especially when we had the babies in our bellies and after their birth, because that is something that just naturally brings women together, no matter their race, the color of their skin, or the language they speak …

  We believe Hawk has been makin’ a vision quest these past three days and nights, sittin’ upon the scaffold, and though his eyes are closed, we don’t believe he has slept in all that time, for sleepin’ people do not sit up straight like that. Somethin’ else we can’t help but remark upon is that circlin’ high in the sky above him and the scaffolds are three hawks.

  Now Lady Hall, who wrote the letterpress for Helen’s bird drawings, is well versed in matters ornithological—and the only reason me and Susie even know that word is because Helen taught it to us. Lady Hall says that the largest of the three is actually the baby bird, the fledging they are called, while the other two are the mother and father teachin’ it to fly. She says the reason the fledging is bigger than its parents is because it’s been well fed by them without benefit yet of exercise, which burns off the baby fat once it gets flyin’ with the grown-ups.

  That is something we never would have thought about … and what exactly those hawks mean, we ain’t sure, either. Much could be made of it, but the Cheyenne don’t do that. They just accept things that can’t be explained in earthly terms as part of the real world behind this one, and all are quite accustomed to the way Hawk, and others like him, have of movin’ between the two. It makes life a whole lot easier not to question such mysteries, and me and Susie have begun to think that way, too. Even so, we can’t help but wonder if Hawk is up there circlin’ with his wife and son …

  Hawk finishes his vision quest, and on the following morning we break camp and begin movin’ out. Everyone is feelin’ a little better for havin’ had this rest, but at the same time we’re happy to be travelin’ again, leavin’ this haunted place and hopin’ that at last Hawk will find Little Wolf’s new village.

  All this while, Martha has not yet come back to us. She’s not speakin’ again, nor does she seem to be hearin’ us, just as when she first arrived. Aye, and though she goes through the motions of livin’—eatin’, sleepin’, shittin’, and puttin’ on her greasepaint in the morning, she does so like a sleepwalker.

  After we been ridin’ an hour or so this morning, Molly suddenly takes it upon herself, like she does everything, to break away from us and canter up to the head of the column, pullin’ her horse up alongside Hawk’s. Really the lass has no sense of etiquette, for women do not ride with the men. We can see that she’s talkin’ to him, course we have no idea what she’s sayin’.

  Every now and again, Hawk turns his head and looks at her as she chatters on, but we can’t tell if he’s answerin’ her or not. Their conversation, if such it be, only lasts for about ten minutes, but she stays ridin’ beside him for a good half hour or so, during which time the wee lass Hóhkééhe, who has taken a shine to Molly, climbs down off old woman Good Feathers’s horse and runs up and leaps on Molly’s.

  Finally, Molly turns her horse away from Hawk, drops Mouse back with Good Feathers, with whom she speaks a word, and canters back to us.

  “So what was that all about?” Susie asks her.

  “None of your concern,” she answers.

  “As long as you lassies are in our care,” says I, “everything is our concern.”

  “I’m not in your care,” says she. “I told you, I take care of myself.”

  “Aye, we’ve noticed, Molly,” says Susie. “Or at least, you try to. We just don’t want you makin’ trouble for us with Hawk or any of the other Cheyenne. You know … talkin’ outta turn and such.”

  “I’m not making trouble for anyone, it is a personal matter between us.”

  “Ah, a personal matter, Susie,” says I. “Ain’t that sweet? The lovebirds were just havin’ a little … a little…” I turn in the saddle and call back to Lulu LaRue, “Lulu, what’s that French word you taught us that means when lovers are havin’ a private conversation between themselves?”

  “Tête-à-tête!” she
calls back.

  “Aye, that’s it! You and Hawk were havin’ a wee tête-à-tête together, weren’t you, girl?”

  “I suppose you could say that,” says she. “If you must know, I asked him to marry me.”

  With that Molly smiles, reins her horse around, and rides back to rejoin her friends.

  “She’s pullin’ our leg, right, Meggie?” says Susie uncertainly.

  “I don’t know, sister … hard to say with that lass, ain’t it?”

  11 May 1876

  Three more days on the trail, and we’re movin’ mostly north, tight against the foothills of the Bighorn mountains, which are still well covered in snow up high. It is rich country, of broad grass meadows, beginnin’ to green up already, crisscrossed by creeks, streams, and rivers, their water rising with spring runoff, but still clear, and not yet cresting the banks. Our chaplain, about whom me and Susie have not much written in these pages, is a canny angler and keeps both us and the Cheyenne well supplied with fresh trout. The Norwegian girl, Astrid, has taken to going out with him on these excursions, for she herself comes from a long line of fishermen. In addition, there is a fantastic richness of game in this country—between the foothills, meadows, and prairies that surround us there are mountain sheep, deer, elk, antelope, moose, bear, buffalo, grouse, turkeys, ducks, geese, just about every damn kinda wild animal you can imagine.

  As to the good Chaplain Goodman, let us just say that he is a right cheerful, optimistic, and competent fella, and he has settled real comfortable into this nomadic life, seems even to delight in it. Me and Susie were raised in the Roman faith, that is to say, in and out of Chicago’s St. Mary’s orphanage, which was run by mostly stern, humorless, sometimes outright cruel nuns, they themselves overseen by an even harder and more dour priest … Father Halloran was his name … speakin’ of a fella with no sense of humor. Aye, it was a place where religion was not so much taught as enforced. We inmates, many of us bastards born out of wedlock, and all treated as such even if we wasn’t, were made devout not because we so loved God, but rather because we so feared him. We were indoctrinated into the faith through beatings and dark threats of burning for eternity in hell … the kinda things that get a child’s attention.