The Great Plains (13 page)

‘But you had a choice when I brought you to Dallas.'

Philomena selected a plant from the basket and sniffed at it appreciatively in the same way that his Annie would sample perfume on the soft underside of her wrist. ‘There was no choice in the beginning. My children were Indian – they would never belong in your world.'

‘Your children?'

‘I have a son, George. He is the only one left. There were others. Some died at birthing, others in childhood. Some more recently. My eldest girl, Ginny, died last year.'

‘You named one of these children after Ginny?' Aloysius was shocked. Beloved Ginny, her name used to christen a half-breed.

‘She was my mother,' she answered haughtily. ‘I had the right.'

‘Who is the father?'

‘That is none of your concern.' She tucked the plant back in the basket. ‘But by your response you can see why my children would not survive in your world. They were unwanted by your people and they remain unwanted. Back then, of course, in the asylum, I didn't realise how strong your hate was until I heard you and the doctor talking about half-breeds and savages. You talked about them in the room at the asylum one day and he reminded me constantly that my daughter was not wanted, and then he killed her.'

Her words struck as if a knife. ‘It was a breech birth.'

‘I could have turned the child. I have the knowledge.'

It felt as if the sky was bearing down upon Aloysius. He raised a hand in protest. ‘So you kept quiet? You chose your children over the chance of being reunited with your one true family. But surely you could have told the truth, you could have stayed in Dallas with me? You could have visited your children on the reservation.'

‘Even now, after all the moons that have passed overhead, you remain unchanged.' She plucked at the grass. ‘Your friend the doctor, he was like the crafty coyote. The next day, after you took the baby …' Her voice faded, there were tears, but they did not fall. ‘I was given bromide. They held me tight and forced it down my throat. If I sicked it up, they only gave me more, my mind at times was not as it should have been. I asked to see you, pleaded to see you, in English, but you never came back.' Her words hung. ‘I was going to ask you if I could have a little house on the outskirts of Dallas. I dreamt of living there with my surviving children, but I came to understand that such an arrangement would never have worked.'

‘I never knew.' He thought of the wasted years, of the hopes held and obliterated.

‘Dr Fitzgerald told me that you considered me a savage and had taken the baby because she was white. He said that if I wanted the girl to have a normal life, I had no choice but to let her go. So I did. At the time I thought it was for the best. It soothed me to know that she would have what had once belonged to me.'

‘My God, Harry did this?'

‘He had a theory, your friend Harry, that I'd been ruined by my captors. He was the type of man who could not say that he was wrong. It was only after I returned to the reservation that I began to doubt my granddaughter's future.' Flecks of gold erupted from within the recesses of her eyes. ‘My granddaughter has a full-blood Indian for a grandfather and a father and a half-breed for a mother. She will never fit into your world. She is Apache.' Her hand slapped the springy vegetation covering the earth they shared.

‘If I'd known …'

‘You knew, otherwise you would not have come to see me. There is much sadness inside me,' Philomena said simply. ‘It has replaced the hurt of abandonment. I could never turn family away.'

The land was cast in a pale glow that softened Philomena's features. Her silver-blonde tresses were threaded with grey. Aloysius looked unsuccessfully for the slightest sign of the child he once knew. ‘I'm sorry you think so ill of me, but I fear there is fault on both our sides.'

‘They didn't take me, you know, they found me.'

Her voice was like the wind rippling prairie grass. ‘What did you say?'

‘Geronimo's band found me after the battle. We were caught in a fight between the Confederates and a troop of Union soldiers. That's all I remember.'

‘That's not right, Philomena. There were newspaper accounts that stated otherwise.'

‘Were you there?' the woman questioned. ‘Oh, I can imagine the version you were told. The bloodthirsty Geronimo and his band kills white family and abducts child.' Her arm dropped to her lap. ‘Why not twist the facts if you are unsure of the truth? Why not feed the fires of hate in order to win?'

‘Win what?' Aloysius queried. ‘I don't understand.'

‘The land,' she replied tightly, as if she were speaking to an imbecile. ‘Mother Earth with all its hidden pleasures and sudden tempests, the mountains and the valleys, the great grasslands and the weaving waters, the white man wants it all, wants to own it all.' She scratched at the ground, prising a small mound of soil free. ‘This,' she said, scooping it up and letting it run through her fingers, ‘can never be wholly owned. One day you will see what comes of your civilisation. Yes, we have waged war, but not to the extent that you have waged war on us. You are the invaders.'

‘But Indian children are being educated, cared for. You have land and farms.'

‘They try to teach farming to people who don't want to farm, on poor land that is too small to make a living and where there is not always rain. They try to teach our children the white man's ways and yet such education means little on a reservation. They send the older children away to school but when they return here they fit into neither your world nor mine.'

Aloysius pushed a thumb into an aching thigh muscle. ‘There is the promise of a good future.'

‘The only promise the government made to the Indians was the promise to take all our traditional lands. This promise they kept.'

Aloysius couldn't allow such adamancy to go unchecked. ‘The government's expansionist policies were necessary, Philomena. Our people –'

‘And what of
mine
? We were here first. We are a nomadic people now forced to subsist on handouts, forced to forget our old beliefs for a Christian god who doesn't care. The fabric of our life is gone, we are gone …'

‘They are not your people, you're a white woman brainwashed by savages.' Aloysius got to his feet like the old man that he was. Knees and palms on the ground, he levered himself upwards like an ancient creature from another time. When he had risen he saw that Philomena had been joined by a much older woman, a crone with straggly hair and coarse skin, but this was not the worst of her appearance. Her nose was missing. There was only a hole and the sense of what used to be there. The two women exchanged words. The crone picked up the basket and walked back towards one of the huts.

‘She was unfaithful,' Philomena explained, as if barbarity were acceptable. ‘And my grandchild? That is one of the reasons why you are here, isn't it?'

Aloysius watched the old woman. She began to tear up the plants in Philomena's basket and drop them into the boiling water. By the fire was a pile of corn on the cob, pale and steaming. It was not like him to become so exasperated but then he was used to dealing with more compliant women and dutiful staff. Here Aloysius was all at sea. His gender meant nothing, his name meant nothing, his business meant nothing. The woman with the unblinking stare of an elder had judged him by his actions, or lack of. She would never forgive. ‘Her name is Serena and, yes, that is why I came.' He knew he must tell his niece everything from the very beginning, the hopes they held for little Serena, the delight of her childhood years and the unpredictability of her nature, which had led to deaths.

Philomena looked above and beyond him. ‘So the trouble has already begun. You want my advice and I give it to you freely. I doubt she will ever belong in either of our worlds, but if you send her to me I will do my best.'

It was mid-afternoon, the camp was quiet. From the fort above came the faint sound of men drilling. ‘We thought about a school.'

Philomena gave a croaky laugh. ‘I think it is better for her to learn about the Indian way and then she can decide for herself where she belongs. Instead of someone else deciding it for her,' she added pointedly.

Aloysius didn't want to defer to Philomena's judgment and yet Serena was no longer tolerated in his home, and at least if the child came here she would be with family. ‘We will call it a visit to meet her grandmother.'

‘As it suits you.'

‘Then we have an agreement.'

Philomena took Aloysius's hand in hers. ‘Yes, Uncle, we do.'

April, 1902 – Oklahoma City, Oklahoma Territory

Four days later, Aloysius poured tea for Annie. They were sitting in round-backed chairs staring out at the grounds surrounding the Delmar Gardens outdoor dining area. Although exhausted from his recent trip and the revelations that came from it, he shared none of this with Annie. His wife was very pleased that Serena was leaving for the fort, and today's outing was at her behest. Her afternoon dress was a frothy concoction of grey and pale pink and her broad-brimmed hat was adorned with a stuffed hummingbird, which had made her quite the centre of attention and the recipient of a great many compliments. Aloysius was glad for her gaiety. Annie's mind was elsewhere, whereas his centred on the savage performing in the theatre as they spoke.

‘I know why you agreed to this outing.'

Aloysius took a bite of the butter biscuit. ‘I'm sorry, my dear?'

‘I know he's here. He is the reason you agreed to come.'

Aloysius swiped at a mosquito. The newly constructed recreation spot with its dance pavilion, beer garden, amusement rides and horse-racing track was built on the banks of the North Canadian River, with no thought given to the spring flooding that affected the low-lying plains in the area. The humidity and mosquitoes combined with the hordes that bustled in and out from the electric streetcar stop only added to his dislike of the place. Aloysius had never been fond of crowds.

Annie reached out a gloved hand and lightly touched his fingers. ‘You don't have to do this, Aloysius, not after everything else you have endured.'

‘We,' Aloysius corrected, ‘what
we
have endured. And I must if only to finally confront the root of our problems.'

‘I was reading about a recent Anthropology study. Apparently native skulls are being measured and compared against our own cranium dimensions.'

‘Not exactly suitable female content I would have thought, my dear.'

Annie waggled a gloved finger. ‘The world is much advanced on these issues. You must move with the times. Anyway, the tests are being done to establish American superiority.' She leant forward. ‘I only ask that you remain cognisant of such facts. This man, this Geronimo, he cannot be assessed by our standards.'

‘Rubbish. He is a man and he should be judged accordingly.'

Annie placed a lump of sugar in her tea. The cube made a conspicuous plop.

He did not want to argue with her. ‘I do listen to what you say,' he took her hand, and gave it a little squeeze, ‘but I have to do this.'

Annie's eyes moistened and he saw a little of the girl he first grew to care for. It was a strange moment, for both of them. They had never been romantic of inclination, at least he hadn't.

‘She is gone, isn't she?'

‘Who, my dear?' Aloysius wondered.

‘The ghost between us these many years. Ginny.'

Aloysius didn't know what to say.

Annie stirred the tea, her hand trembled. ‘At least in the end I won.'

To say anything would be to admit guilt. ‘Wait for me, I'll return in twenty minutes.' He rested a hand on her shoulder.

‘I have always waited,' Annie replied, ‘and I always will.'

Outside the theatre, a crowd of people were walking towards the beer garden. Posters announced that Geronimo would be selling native curios after the show and it was in the advertised direction that Aloysius headed, his mind awash with anger and curiosity. Very soon he would stand opposite the man who murdered his brother and nephew, confront the heathen who stole his niece, regardless of the story Philomena believed. Aloysius pushed through the crowd, his heart beginning to race. He intended to demand answers of this supposed chieftain, to tell him of what he had done to Philomena and Serena. Geronimo was a murderer, an abductor of women, a killer of children, a thief. Aloysius clenched his fists. He was about to send Serena back to his people and he wanted the savage to regret, to hate, to suffer; he wanted Geronimo to feel his pain.

The air grew thick with the scent of food, children ran through the crowd licking ices, rubbish blew untidily along the road. Outside the theatre was a teepee. A sign announced Geronimo's presence. Aloysius walked forward, hardly breathing, elbowing through the press of people in front of him. As he arrived at the front of the crowd he watched as an old Indian man pulled a button from his coat and sold it to a young boy for a nickel. Aloysius glimpsed the child's face. It was as if he had been given the moon.

The Indian looked at him from behind a narrow trestle table laden with artifacts. His face was wrinkled and scarred in places, coarse and leathery, his right eye was turned slightly inwards. Shoulder-length hair was parted in the middle and he wore a bandana tied around his forehead. This then was Geronimo, the legendary warrior, the destroyer of lives.

‘Yes?' Geronimo said, pointing to a pile of black and white photographs of his image.

Aloysius shook his head impatiently. All around customers queued for service.

The Indian gestured to the bows and arrows lying on the table before him.

‘Did you really kill people, Geronimo?' The question came from a boy barely ten years of age.

Aloysius's gaze slipped from the innocent to the executioner.

Geronimo did not look happy. The boy took this as a sign and his eyes widened to the size of dinner plates.

There were two soldiers flanking the trestle table.

‘I'm Aloysius Wade. You abducted my niece Philomena. You killed her family and ruined her life.'

The woman pressing against his shoulder moved away.

Geronimo's gaze was steady. He muttered a word that resembled Philomena's Apache name. ‘No kill.' He pointed a finger at Aloysius. ‘My land, Indian land. You lose her, I find.'

Aloysius feared his heart would burst out of his throat. ‘You killed my brother.'

‘Leave him alone,' the red-haired soldier shouted, ‘he's doing his time. Geronimo has been a prisoner of war for nearly twenty years.'

The crowd around the teepee was fifteen deep. People were staring at Aloysius and some began to shout accusations. He was momentarily buoyed by this show of solidarity until people began to poke him in the back. The truth, when it hit him, was more than shocking. The raised voices were in support of the
Indian
. Aloysius was the villain.

Geronimo held up a bow, as if a memento would appease Aloysius's anger. He knocked it from the Indian's hand and called him a murderer. The old man calmly picked up his wares and shook his head.

The crowd abused Aloysius anew.

‘You better leave, old man,' the soldier challenged Aloysius.

The Apache chief called over his shoulder. Seconds later a young Indian male, aged in his early twenties, appeared from the depths of the teepee. Although dressed in a suit, the youth wore his black hair in two long plaits that fell across his shoulders. He was fit and young and had something of a noble air. Aloysius experienced a surge of pain. It struck the length of his left arm. He looked at the boy, at the ancient warrior chief, at the bows and arrows handmade by a killer. The youth had hazel eyes.

Geronimo was talking rapidly. Aloysius heard snatches of Spanish and Apache, a mismatch of words. The crowds were pushing at him, pushing him away from the old Indian who continued to smile. Aloysius fell to the ground clutching his chest. He knew his heart had finally broken and there was nothing more he could do.