Говард Уолдроп - Them Bones

Act. Asst AGC

Smith’s Diary

They brought Lewisohn and nine of the people who went out on the mission four months ago to the edge of the clearing this morning just after dawn. Their hands were bound behind them, and they were in bad shape.

The Indians killed them by cutting their throats from behind, using their bodies for shields as they got back to cover.

We couldn’t do anything. Someone ripped off a clip, but that only made one of the Indians drop a soldier’s body.

The rest they took to cover. We don’t know what they did to them. Some of them were still thrashing and bleeding to death as they dragged them back into the woods.

At first light this morning, the body they had dropped was gone.

Everyone is in a silent rage, which is just what the Indians want.

I don’t want to write any more for a while.

The messenger came into the village through the growing cornstalks, bringing the first written words I had seen in five months.

He carried a piece of papyrus in a split stick. Took had the messenger sit down, and Sunflower filled him up with fresh squirrel stew. He was from three villages upriver and was anxious to get back.

I opened the paper, but had to strain to figure out some of the writing. It was Greek but with flourishes; a few words I had to guess at.

Friend Yazoo, (it began)

We of the Trading Companions send you warm greetings. Business, the Prophet bless us, is better than ever.

We shall return downriver in less than a moon’s turning, and hope to see you then.

We ask you that you tell Sun Man and all your people to be on their guard. (Something) is unrest to the west of the River. The tiger-people (their name for the Huastecas, Took told me) have been seen more frequently than in the past, and are pursuing their (Flower Wars?) with much diligence.

Word has come that one of the villages to the east of the River at which we traded has much sickness there now, so we will not stop there on the way back.

Meanwhile, much care. Allah preserve us, and I hope I shall ride your fine horse again soon.

Yours in business,

el Hama

I thanked the runner. He wasn’t supposed to wait for an answer (the letter, he said, came from six days upriver from his village). I gave him one of my pipes, the best one I had made, with a catfish swallowing a frog. He thanked me and trotted away.

‘Let’s go talk to Sun Man,’ I said.

‘He’s getting ready for the Black Drink Ceremony,’ said Took. ‘He has to start fasting at sundown.’

We walked between the huts and mounds to the plaza.

‘By the way,’ said Took-His-Time. ‘Everybody’s been asking if you’re going to take part in the ceremony.’

I stopped and looked at him. ‘That would mean they consider me to be one of the warriors, wouldn’t it?’

‘Nobody else brought such fine heads back from the Flower War,’ said Took, shaking his head in sad recollection of my wasteful act at the creek.

‘What happens in the ceremony?’ I asked.

‘Well, the usual stuff first. Prayers to the harvest and the Woodpecker. Then all the warriors drink the Black Drink, and you shit and vomit for two or three days.’

‘Sounds wonderful.’

‘Cleans out impure thoughts. Makes for a great harvest. I was sick for a week last year, but we sure ate good the early part of last winter, didn’t we?’

‘Why me?’

‘Well, Hamboon Bokulla and his gang are all implying that you like to have all kinds of warrior fun without any of the responsibility.’

‘Barfing is a responsibility?’

‘In this case,’ said Took, ‘yes.’

‘Well, okay,’ I said.

‘Okay,’ said Took. ‘No breakfast tomorrow, and you’ll be sorry if you eat a big supper tonight.’

We walked a little farther.

‘Next thing you know,’ I said, ‘everybody’ll be wanting me to get my dong whacked.’

‘Well,’ said Took, ‘there’s been some talk….’

‘Count me out.’

We went to Sun Man and told him what the note from the traders said.

We were all sitting in a big circle saying prayers. My mind was in neutral. Somehow I’d gotten seated between Moe and Dreaming Killer. They were really into it, rocking, chanting. Sun Man, over at the top of the circle, was off in some other world, he was praying so hard and fast.

They were mostly thanking the Woodpecker and the harvest, and then two priests brought out this big boiling vat of something. It looked like crude oil and smelled like hot aniline dye. They dipped in three big bowls, holding two, and gave one to Sun Man. He stood up with the bowl.

‘Great Woodpecker,’ he said. ‘Great Harvest Woman. With this drink we cleanse ourselves of impurities, and our mind of bad thoughts. We will all think of a great harvest. Let no one here be unworthy. Let anyone with unclean thoughts about the crops be struck dead as he takes his drink. Great Harvest Woman, Great Woodpecker, hear us!’

Then he drank two great big swallows.

They passed the other two bowls around, each man taking a drink, their faces screwed up in disgust and agony as their throats worked.

Took had told me it was considered polite to sit in the circle at least until the bowls made it all the way around, no matter what your stomach and guts did. I was halfway around the ring, so wouldn’t have it as bad as those next to Sun Man. Took had already drunk his, and was stolidly saying something to his neighbors.

Hamboon Bokulla, the Dreaming Killer, swallowed his, some of the oil black drops, like thin tar, spilling onto the tattoos on his shoulders.

He put the bowl down and reached his hand toward his leather pouch.

Moe said something to me, joking about one of the priests, who was definitely in distress.

Dreaming Killer touched the bowl to my arm. I turned, took it from his hands. He watched me disinterestedly.

I held my breath, brought the bowl with its inklike brew to my lips, took a chug.

It was like ink and oil and lighter fluid. I wanted to gag but swallowed anyway. My throat and mouth, thank god, went numb like I’d swallowed novocaine. Anything was better than tasting it.

Then everybody was getting up from the circle and coming toward me. That wasn’t right.

I was standing up. The bowl turned over and over, then bounced high from the ground, a long slow black line behind it in the air. The world was turning sideways and so was I, slowly. The world was faces then chests then legs then the dirt. I felt my arms hit a long time after my head.

They turned me over. I saw the blue sky turning gray at the edges.

‘You see,’ said Dreaming Killer, slowly, each word forming in my brain, ‘he was evil. He would have killed the harvest.’ Dreaming Killer was above me, finger pointing down.

‘No,’ said Took. Dreaming Killer swam away, Took paddled into view, grayer and smaller, then my view swam away.

There was crying. There were hands touching me.

There were hands touching me. There was crying. I could say nothing. I could see nothing. I could not breathe.

I smelled cedar. I tried to move. There was wailing. I couldn’t move. The first basketfuls of dirt were poured.