The Last Report on the Miracles at Little No Horse (40 page)

Your Holiness, etc.

According to your faithless servant Voltaire, Louis XIV and de Brinvilliers went to confession as soon as they had committed a great crime. They confessed frequently, he said, “as a gourmand takes medicine to increase his appetite.” I ask you, in light of such cynicism, would it be improper to suggest that a murderer’s confession sometimes serves as a salt to the food of evil? And I have also read that Pope Gregory XV, in his papal bull of 30 August 1622, ordered confessions to be revealed in certain cases. Would the situation I have described in my most recent reports qualify as a “certain” case? I await, as always in the darkness, your answer.

Modeste

17

M
IST AND
M
ARY
K
ASHPAW

1940

No one stays long on the reservation without somehow coming by a name. Since Fleur would not say it and nobody dared ask the boy with the dead eyes himself, he was named by invisible consensus. Awun, he was called, the Mist, for he was silent as mist and set apart from others, always, by his impenetrable Pillager ways. He hired out on farms surrounding the reservation. When he bulked out and thickened, Awun lost his nimble touch, but retained a fixity of unknown purpose. Awun was either very simple or so deep and devious that his mask could not be penetrated. What was he? From a childhood in a stone-floored mansion to a youth in a poor, pole cabin by a lake, and his mother would tell him nothing. Did she love him? Was he more than the child of Fleur’s revenge and restoration? He was a Pillager, he was Awun, so of course he became something other than a function of her will. He became will itself, unpurposed, set loose on the world, and looking as all great weak things do for a stronger counterpart.

Brooding on the trick of his identity, Awun worked his way through farm after farm, splitting wood, cords and cords of it, toward the first woman who could match him stroke for stroke. Still, Mary Kashpaw might never have come within his range, his span, but for the sisters. And so perhaps blame for all that happened should be placed where proper: at the nuns’ square toes. For it was Sister Dympna who raised the request for Awun to haul wood from the Kashpaw family’s lot for Mary Kashpaw to cut. In her restlessness the woman had already chopped too many birch trees near the convent and the sisters now feared for their apple orchard.

One morning in slow July, the son of the wealthiest man in Minneapolis threw on his shirt of a worn blue so vaporous it embodied his name, ate his kettle of oatmeal, and hauled a wagon load of wood into the churchyard. When he had finished unloading the wood, he then stood behind the church in lilac shadow. The thin shade reached only to his waist. No trees near the wood lot were tall enough to conceal him. His hair was the brown of winter grass, turned back in wind, his shirt’s whitened threads were the blue of his washed-pale eyes. His face bore the complex gloom of his German father leaded over with the Pillagers’ old, frightful calm. He stared at Father Damien, his hands buckled around the chains, and one after another he began to drag the logs across the road into the bare yard just planted with young trifling oaks. Across that piece of ungrassed dirt, Mary Kashpaw waited, eager to reduce them to stove lengths.

Awun did not notice her at first, busy as he was with the hauling. He fitted the great leather glove of his hand around the chains and pulled as Father Damien supervised and joked and speculated about why the nuns wanted all the wood so deep into summer. Even as he set the logs to ground, Mary Kashpaw took up her eager ax. Once she began to work, the regular strokes fell with such a precise rhythm that the sounds did not at first intrude upon the men’s conversation. Only when she stopped to sharpen the edge of her blade with slow strokes of a file did Awun notice the ring of silence. His glance searched, and stuck.

Mary Kashpaw wore a man’s shirt with the sleeves ripped out. Her arms were bare—hard and roped as the turned legs on a table. Her long skirt hung crooked and her great, solid feet were planted with monumental firmness below the hem. She had used a grapevine to tie her heavy black hair away from her face. From beneath a notched leaf, she regarded the two men with the indifference of all powerful creatures. Then, the blade honed to her satisfaction, she turned with a light motion, rose on the balls of her feet, brought down the ax, and split the length with a natural blow.

Agnes noticed, with some suspicion, that the great draft-horse Pillager, this Awun, took a jagged breath when the blow landed. Next, his eyes lost focus and drifted like the mist of his name. But the young man was no more than a giant boy and Mary Kashpaw, though innocent, a fully grown and mature woman. It took more—a strangled cry from Awun, a hot breath, obvious panic—to inform Agnes. She turned a close eye on the situation, now suspicious. Awun’s eyes followed the inflection of muscles in Mary Kashpaw’s arms and shoulders as she continued her work, and now, to Agnes there was no doubt. She sighed, knocked her chin lightly with a fist, and tried to divert Awun in conversation. But the young man’s verbs exploded like the caps off bottles. Go! Stay! His voice was hoarse with bewildered agitation. He wouldn’t leave and would not be argued by the priest into a cup of coffee, or shamed into leaving. Awun preferred to stand in the fragrance of wood chips, waiting for Mary Kashpaw to finish her work.

When at last she paused to lean for a moment on her ax, Awun walked over to her, mumbling, stood before her with his great hands revolving a crumpled hat against his chest. Although she gave no sign of awareness, she did not drive him off. Perhaps, as he was so much younger, he seemed harmless, beneath her notice. Awun was all the more taken with her unconcern. Being so large and grim, he had never found a woman at ease with him before. The fact that Mary Kashpaw did not notice him with surprise or suspicion charmed his heart. When she left him there, alone, he still did not move and stood waiting as the light went out of the day.

She walked straight past Awun on her way to the convent kitchen, but paused at the door and shrugged hugely, in distress. Some sense of his interest at last pierced the armor of her self-concentration. As though she’d passed a source of intense heat, the marks where the wagon nails were drawn from her flesh burned.

She entered the dim cooking space. Carefully, she washed her great face in water already darkened from the cleaning of potatoes. The silky brown water gave back a face so calm it seemed at once dead and ecstatic. She kneaded bread with rounded thumps, her arms dusted with flour, and then she set out plates for the nun’s table. At her own place, in the kitchen, Mary Kashpaw ate quickly, surreptitiously, as much as she could manage, and then she poured boiling water over the big kettles and began to scrub. It was dark by the time she left the pots drying on six meat hooks, and darker in the shack where she slept, sitting up in the sleigh. Most nights, she would have paced in the mosquito-haunted yard before settling, breathing cooler, fresher air and whittling twigs to whistles. Tonight she laid her ax beneath the seat and barred the double doors.

THE MIST

Mary Kashpaw did not pray aloud, but every night gazed upward into the dark of the lathe-and-tar-paper roof with a fixity that slowly became sleep. As always, once she dropped off she slept heavily, profoundly, and very loudly. Sinking immediately into her dreams, she groaned and spoke aloud as if, drugged unconscious, all the unspoken words of the day suddenly flew from her relaxed mind. Awun’s name was not among them, not that he could distinguish anyway, though he listened hard from his place, in the corner of the shack, where he’d crawled, crouched, and covered himself with bales of scorched ironing.

THE RIVER OF GRASS

The grass was long that year and slippery from rain. That is why it was possible for the Pillager boy, once he’d carefully unbarred the double door from inside, to harness himself to the sleigh that carried the sleeping Mary Kashpaw, and to tow it across the yard and along the margin of the road. This was before reservation lands were entirely fenced. He found it a simple matter to continue along the grass paths that led through the woods from slough to slough.

In a clearing where he paused, sword grass tall and iron black, Mary Kashpaw finally woke.

Awun jolted forward down an incline and his bounds gathered. Mary Kashpaw found herself traveling over grass, as in a dream, in a sleigh pulled along by a man with hair white in the moonlight. She looked to either side at the ghost arch of pale birch and the press of adamantine oak beyond. She breathed the slough’s low reek, the sweet grass, gulped again the summer rose air, and saw the laboring back of the man who pulled her, powerful as a draft horse, over ground, through the bending reeds, deeper into the tangle of the world.

And all of a sudden her amazed cry, her thoughts, the cast of her mind, her heart, as she lifted the ax.

AWUN AND MARY

When she carelessly regarded him from under the picture-puzzle leaf of a bloodroot plant, then turned, lifted on the balled muscles of her monumental feet, and split a stove length down the center with one dropping swift blow, Awun was lost to Mary Kashpaw. She seemed, to him, to connect the heaven of her leafy-haloed head to the earth in which her blade buried to the top of the shank. He didn’t know, of course, her history or how she had been stolen many years before, as a girl with a basket of roses, by horses muscled like himself. So when he took her from the shed in the sleigh, it was with an oaken innocence in which he could not hear the screams of panic or the branch surging through Kashpaw’s breast. Mary Kashpaw, of course, felt the thunder of fear and heard the shouting from all sides, just as she had as a child, only this time, unlike her father, she managed to cut the lines.

So it happened, many years later in the green of summer once more, Mary Kashpaw managed to sever the lines that her father’s hatchet had only scraped across. And once she did and Awun kept moving, walking, out into the sloughs and woods and farms that would gather to towns and disperse, like a spill of child’s marbles here and there across the plains, she too was set free.

An hour passed, during which she brooded on the sleigh bench. A world of consideration passed through her mind. She pictured Father Damien, though she had no words for an attachment so complete it was like breathing in and breathing out. Her heart stabbed and her brain hurt at the prospect of leaving the priest. She felt a great dullness, an iron heaviness settle into her limbs, and she decided she would remain still forever. So she sat in the sigh of slough grass, the resonance of searching owls. And then there was a curious pull. Was it the moon, or were the lines not really cut, but invisible? Was she still attached? Tugged behind as the Pillager walked? A thrill of anxiety gripped her, an anger to be with him, suddenly, coupled with despair at leaving the priest. Fear leaped in her and then a sensation of painful joy.

Mary Kashpaw jumped out of her cradling sleigh, took her bearings, and loped after Awun. She chased him down, came at him from behind in the dim moon’s surcease. He turned around in a weak wonder and she pushed at him like a boy in play. He pushed her back. She pushed him again, but this time the push was in quality slightly different, a leading give to her arms, perhaps on the far edge of barely coy. Awun took her broad shoulders under his broad hands, and then the two peered into each other’s steady eyes. Found there a mutual wariness, a nervous calm.

The ease of two equally matched beings came over them and they walked together into the night groaning, frog-quick dark. There, they began work on a tiny baby boy who would one day in their future drop from Mary’s body like a plum, and she hold him, hardly knowing what he was, so infinitesimal and severe and demanding. She would care for him until he was taken from her and she went mad, or perhaps she went mad and he was taken from her because of it. Who knows, who can set this straight? The weaving of this great woman was so crooked to begin with that no one would wonder when, ten years later, brain shocked and bearing the nerve deadness of confinement, she came walking back from the disastrous marriage with empty arms to care, as she always had, for Father Damien.

18

L
E
M
OOZ
or
T
HE
L
AST
Y
EAR OF
N
ANAPUSH

1941–1942

By the time Nanapush and Margaret shacked up for good in the deep bush, they had lived so hard and long it seemed they must be ready for quiet. Over the years, they’d starved and grieved, seen prodigious loss, endured theft by the agents of the government and chimookomanag farmers as well as betrayal by their own people. They were tired for sure. At last, they should have courted simple comfort. A harmless mate. Companionship and sleep. But times did not go smoothly. Peace eluded them. For Nanapush and Margaret found a surprising heat in their hearts. Fierce and sudden, it sometimes eclipsed both age and anger with tenderness. Then, they made love with an amazed greed and purity that astounded them. At the same time, it was apt to burn out of control.

When this happened, they fought. Stinging flames of words blistered their tongues. Silence was worse. Beneath its slow-burning weight, their black looks singed. After a few days their minds shriveled into dead coals. Some speechless nights, they lay together like logs turned completely to ash. They were almost afraid to move, lest they sift into flakes and disintegrate. It was a young love set blazing in bodies aged and overused, and sometimes it cracked them like too much fire in an old tin stove.