Blue Ravens: Historical Novel (30 page)

Lawrence could not separate the actual action of combat with words or even remember the descriptive details. He told me later there were no reliable words to represent his own experiences in the rush of war. He was in combat, not a natural motion, and was not the observer. There was no natural story or course of irony. So, he calmly recited the basic facts that had been provided by commanders to describe his courage and the award of the Distinguished Service Cross.

My cousin stood at attention at the end of the table and stared above the listeners. His response was rather concise and military. Messy turned and swayed closer, concerned that he had gone rigid with fear. Then he lowered
his gaze and seemed to be more at ease. He described the pitch and crash of artillery, and the aftermath of the attack on the enemy machine gunners as blood, blood, blood, bloody hands, bloody fingernails, cheeks, nose, boots, and a blood-soaked thick shirt. There were no mirrors or time to consider his appearance, but other soldiers stared at his bloody face and clothes. A few days later the regiment was relieved, and the bloody scenes returned in memories, and as brown swirls in the field shower. He shouted that no one could ever know by sight if the bloody stains were traces of a private, an officer, or the enemy.

Lawrence paused, smiled at each person around the table, and then closed the description of his decoration with an ironic story about the only clean new uniform available from the quartermaster. The replacement was much too large, long sleeves, bulky shirt, and huge baggy trousers. He was promoted to corporal in an oversize uniform and teased by other soldiers that he would never be big enough to fill his own trousers.

John Leecy and the others stood to salute the decorated veteran and honorable storier. Naturally, there were many ironic toasts that night to the courses of the banquet, the fur trade, the
niinag
of the federal agent, crazy hair, and oversized trousers to be sure the white lightning was consumed properly and fully.

Shona was roused by the moonshine and declared that the banquet table was a great birch bark canoe and the diners were the
voyageurs
, the sailors of the fur trade, and the federal agent was a
coureur de bois
, an outlaw trader on the reservation. She paddled around the table and chanted an obscure song in the woodsy patois of French Canadians.

Mon canot est fait d'écorces fines
Qu'on pleume sur les bouleaux blancs
My canoe is made of fine bark

That is stripped from white birch

Messy served two desserts for the last course of the banquet. The
Oeufs à la Neige
, or snow eggs, a fluffy meringue, custard, and caramel, the same dessert she served at a memorable dinner four years earlier. The second dessert was
Clafoutis Limousin
, a delicious pudding with black cherries. The pits were cooked with the
clafoutis
for a slightly bitter taste.

Odysseus imitated the sound of a bugle as he presented two bottles of
Anis de Mono
, a special anise liqueur imported from a distillery in Catalonia, Spain. The green label was dry and the red label was sweet. The trader prepared heavy glasses and poured the liqueur over spears of clear ice.

Messy moved a chair next to Misaabe at the end of the table and was ready to toast the desserts, the soldiers, the summer, and the last stories of the banquet. The scent of anise was natural, and the taste aroused the murmur of secrets, resistance, and serenity.

I read three short sections of
The Odyssey
and told the last banquet story that night at the Hotel Leecy. My story was a strategic tease of our friend the generous trader Odysseus. I stood behind the trader and declared that Homer, the author of
The Odyssey
, was a woman, as many scenes were a womanly sway of obvious virtues and dominance. Circe, the lovely enchanter, and other female deities in the adventure were created by a woman storier, and not by a man with the mere nostalgia of sexual fantasies. Circe could turn her enemies into animals. The literary style was spirited and womanly, and the mythic sentiments of transformation were curvy, or at least not patently manly.

Samuel Butler, one of the many literary translators, surmised that a woman wrote
The Odyssey
. The character virtues and style indicated the distinction, and demonstrated the controversial theory. The ancient adventure stories were actually more ironic than womanly.

Odysseus had given me the precious leather-bound edition of
The Odyssey
that was translated by the poet William Cullen Bryant. I bought a war travel edition from a bookstore in Spartanburg, South Carolina, near Camp Wadsworth. I presented, in the best tradition of the trader, a creative version that night at the banquet of sections from book ten of the translation by Samuel Butler.

Circe, how can you expect me to be friendly with you when you have just been turning all my men into pigs, mongrels and federal agents? And now that you have got me here myself, you mean me mischief when you ask me to go to bed with you, and will unman me and make me fit for nothing. I shall certainly not consent to go to bed with you unless you will first take your solemn oath to plot no further harm against me.

When Circe saw me sitting there without eating, and in great grief, she came to me and said, Ulysses, why do you sit like that as though you were dumb, gnawing at your own heart, and refusing both meat and drink? Is it
that you are still suspicious? You ought not to be, for I have already sworn solemnly that I will not hurt you.

Circe, no man with any sense of what is right can think of either eating or drinking in your house until you have set his friends free…. If you want me to eat and drink, you must free my men and bring them to me that I may see them with my own eyes.

Odysseus raised his empty glass and shouted out his praise of the storier Lady Homer. Catherine was astounded that the banquet had ended with a critical reference to learned literature. Naturally she claimed me as her best student, and continued to wobble around the banquet table. Doctor Mendor reminded the federal teacher that native stories were natural literary irony and the stories never end on a reservation.

Messy had not read
The Odyssey
, but she could not conceive of a good story that was not inspired by a woman. Misaabe whispered the names of the mighty healers, Mona Lisa, Ghost Moth, Nosey, and Shimmer. The mongrels rushed into the dining room and nosed the banquet storiers.

› 19 ‹

W
AR
M
AGGOTS

— — — — — — —
1919
— — — — — — —

Bad Boy Lake reflected the bright colors of maple, birch, and sumac that autumn. The crowns of red sumac and golden birch shimmered on the water, and the hue and sway of leaves became abstract scenes with the slightest breeze. The course of bright waves and the natural motion of color were beached at night with a tease, wince, titter, and pout.

Aloysius was moved by the wild colors, the aesthetic waver of the leaves. He painted the blue wings of ravens on the surge, and the abstract watery curves were brightened with traces of rouge. My brother painted in silence that morning, and raised a brush only after hours of meditation on the shoreline. The natural motion and sleeves of color touched his native memories.

Misaabe watched at a distance, and later the healer invited us to supper at his cabin. The last rays of light shimmered in the reach of red pine and glorious maple leaves, a magical radiance that could have been either a native creation story or the sardonic end of the world.

Animosh caught seven sunfish in the shallows earlier in the day, and then roasted the whole fish with potatoes and onions on an oak stake near an open fire. The mosquitos were defeated by the first waves of cold weather and the turn of the leaves, so we ate out under a natural stand of red pine. The healer had built a high plank table connected to the trees.

The mongrels held the black bears at bay.

Misaabe was silent as he ate, and then at the end of the meal when the mongrels circled the healer, he told a story about the fur trade, and the war against animals. So, he wanted to know how the birds and animals had survived the war in France.

Naturally, the healer was very perceptive to mention the war by way of nature and the fur trade, because he must have known that we had avoided any thoughts about the war that autumn. I tried to lose the memories of the war, but could barely restrain the memory of the scent and sounds of
the war. The just visions of an autumn day near the lake turned to dreadful scenes of the war at night.

Misaabe wanted to hear more irony in the native stories that had turned bloody with the war, and he wanted to see the portrayal and great reach of blue ravens. The healer coaxed me to create new stories, to tease the burden of my memories.

I was miserable almost every night, and could not escape the conjured stench of bodies and the ruins of war. Every sound in the dark cabin, the crack of beams, tease of lonesome insects at the lantern, and the shadows, the menace of shadows, became the cues and traces of my war memories.

I heard artillery explosions every night, and the memory of the sounds of war was louder than the beat of my heart. The explosions were concocted with fear and frightful thoughts, and sleep was scary in the shadows. I never told my brother about the nightly sounds or my fears, and he never revealed his obsessions of the war. Only the early morning light and the gentle pitch and whisper of the leaves created a sense of certainty and liberty.

Natives have forever danced with shadows and created stories in the early morning light. I was enlightened by the tease of shadows and the visionary stories of creation, but memories of the sounds and shadows of war generated fear and weakened my stories.

Misaabe sat on a bench near the kerosene lantern, and the flutter of light created veins of shadows on his face. The light could have turned a frown to a smile that night. The healer had invited me to create new stories about my miseries, and then he leaned back with the mongrels at his side and waited to hear the stories of the fight over my memories of the war.

Horses were wounded, abandoned, and the dead were stacked at the side of the roads. The horses strained to haul the artillery wagons and supplies over the rutted and muddy roads. The trucks were mired, and only tanks and great farm horses moved around the obstructions. The horses were starved, abused, and had no place to rest. The supply trucks were loaded for the soldiers not the horses.

I told the healer about two horses that exploded and scraps of flesh, slivers of broken bones, and bloody coarse hair were scattered everywhere, in the trees, over the tents, and on the nearby soldiers. Later hordes of flies swarmed the chunks of bloody flesh. The gory remains of the horses and the ruins of war attracted an immediate swarm of flies, first the scouts and
then the entire corps of flies and rats. The war maggots thrived on putrid flesh, the brain and bone of horses and soldiers, but not only the bodies of the dead.

Some soldiers actually survived because of the swarms of flies and nasty maggots. The dead flesh of war wounds was a banquet for the maggots, and the natural treatment of the maggots healed the wounds better than surgery and caustic treatments. I understood the ironies, the writhe of curious healers, but the maggots were never a source of visions, and instead the bloody wriggle of the maggots devoured my memories.

Mona Lisa was my mongrel healer. She moved closer, leaned against my thigh, and sighed with her wet chin on my knee. Nosey pushed against my back and nosed my nervous, noisy belly. Ghost Moth licked my hand and sat at my side. Meals were never a good time to recount stories of the war, but my heart beat faster that night, and caused me to shiver with the stories. My words were descriptive scenes of the war, and directly connected to my visual memories, and in that way my stories became more intense and anxious.

I was forever tormented by the visual scenes of those gruesome swarms of maggots, and by the beastly sound and chase of the flies. Maggots were never an inspiration of native songs, totems, or visionary stories. Maybe maggots were native shamans in disguise, the incredible goad of healers, and a sense of an ironic nasty presence at the very heart of every native story.

I revealed to the healer that the visual memories of natural motion and nasty maggots waited for me alone in the dark. The maggots slithered with the shadows in my head at night, and then vanished with the early morning light.

Misaabe told a short story about a blue fly that lived through the winter in his cabin. Carmen the fat fly would rest near the warm lantern, and she survived by not landing on food or tormenting the mongrels. She learned to land on a shoulder not a nose, on a box but not a face. Carmen, one of the oldest flies of the season, cleaned her wings near the lantern, and survived the severe cold. She flew away on the first warm day of spring.

So, the healer listened at a distance, and as the mongrel healers gathered around the faint light of the lantern he told me to picture and then name a stout fly as a friend for the winter. Yes, by name, the name and presence of a fly. The healer smiled and encouraged me to imagine saving that fly from a
spider web. That was the heart of the story, nothing more than simply a hint and promise to imagine the ordinary gestures of a fly in the war sounds and shadows of the cabin at night.

José flew that very night with Carmen. I created an opera of two friendly flies that landed near the lantern in the cabin, walked together on the table, circled a box of crackers, and danced down an ax handle. José was an acrobatic flyer, and later that night he got caught in an intricate spider web. The huge spider, a fierce warrior, bounced on the threads and was ready to devour the fly. José was a healer and yet he could not buzz his way out of the web. I created a perfect lure of war, a writhing juicy maggot that distracted the spider, and my friend the fly broke free from the web.

Three nights later the hideous scenes of maggots in my mind never returned or tormented me again. José and Carmen were my opera stories of liberty. Misaabe was a great healer by stories. Yet, he insisted that the only serious healers were listeners. The stories that heal were the creation of listeners. The stories that heal must have an origin, a mark or notice, and a native sense of natural motion and presence. A story must create a new sense of presence with every new version of the story.