Dan Simmons - Black Hills

You, my love, had gone to the 1893 World’s Fair in Chicago, only seventeen years after your husband had been turned into worm meat, and there had been introduced to Chief Rains-in-the-Face, who, it was bragged by the Indians even there in Buffalo Bill’s troupe, was the man who had killed me. You, my Sunshine, were all too well aware that the reason for that fat old smallpox-scarred Indian’s ascendancy in the Sioux and Cheyenne hierarchy there in Buffalo Bill’s Show—they had given Rains-in-the-Face Sitting Bull’s old cabin to live in at the Fair, the cabin transplanted right there on the Midway Plaisance, where poor Paha Sapa first met his wife, for God’s sake—was precisely the smiling, smirking Rains-in-the-Face’s claim of having personally killed me in the high grass of the Little Big Horn. And when Cody introduced the smiling, pock-faced old Indian fool, you had nodded curtly, feeling the pain slashing your insides as if someone were in your belly swinging a straight razor.

No wonder you were worn out but rigidly on guard and scowling this day, this day that only Paha Sapa and I knew was our reunion, yours and mine, my darling, when Mrs. May Custer Elmer began explaining how Paha Sapa had been there on the battlefield the very day and hour and moment that I—your husband—had died.

There was a real silence when May quit talking. Paha Sapa did not break that lengthening and audibly thickening silence, nor did you, my once and former and now lost lovely girl. The heavy clock on the bureau clunked away the passing seconds. Somewhere on the East River to the south, in the direction of the Brooklyn Bridge, a large ship’s horn bleated woefully.

Finally, after a full ninety seconds of our remaining six minutes had been fed to silence, you spoke even more softly than before, but with an inescapable edge in your tone that could have shaved me as cleanly as the straight razor even then slashing at your insides.

“You were there when my husband died, Mr. William Slow Horse?”

“Yes, ma’am. I was.”

“How old are you now, Mr. Slow Horse?”

“Sixty-eight this coming August, Mrs. Custer.”

“And how old were you then… that day… Mr. Slow Horse?”

“Eleven summers that August, ma’am. Not quite eleven that day in June.”

“What do your people call the month of June, Mr. Slow Horse?”

“Different things, ma’am. My band called June the Moon of the June Berries.”

You smiled then, Libbie, and the new, wrong teeth looked more aggressive than ever. An old predator’s overbite, not a rabbit’s.

“That name is a bit tautological, isn’t it, Mr. William Slow Horse?”

Paha Sapa did not smile or blink or look away from the cold, once-blue stare aimed at him.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Custer. I don’t know that word… tautological.”

“No, of course you don’t, Mr. Slow Horse.”

“But my guess is that it means ‘redundant’—or, as my mentor, Mr. Doane Robinson, used to joke, ‘repetitiously redundant’—which I guess our word for June is. The Lakota word for June is wipazunkawaštewi, and it means more or less ‘the moon in which the cherries of that moon become ripe,’ and the dates for the lunar month, a moon, aren’t exactly the same as those for the modern calendar month of June.”

You squinted at him through this recital, my darling, perhaps the longest speech I’d ever heard Paha Sapa give, and everything in your squint, the set of your mouth and chin, and your posture showed that you were not listening, refused to hear, and did not care.

Finally you said flatly, “You claim to have seen my husband there on the battlefield, Mr. Slow Horse?”

“Yes.”

“Did you kill him?”

Paha Sapa blinked at that. “No, Mrs. Custer. I didn’t hurt him in any way. I didn’t have a weapon with me. I just touched him.”

“Touched him? Why would you do that if you weren’t attacking him, Mr. Slow Horse?”

“I was ten summers old and was counting coup. Do you know the term, Mrs. Custer?”

“Yes, I believe I do, Mr. Slow Horse. It’s what Indian warriors do to show their courage, isn’t it? Just touching an enemy?”

“Yes, ma’am. I wasn’t a warrior, but I was trying to show my courage.”

“Did you have with you a… what do you call it? A coup stick? I saw those when I traveled with my husband to Indian villages in Kansas, Nebraska, and elsewhere.”

“No, I only had my bare hand.”

You took a breath, Libbie, and while still sitting stiffly, leaned forward slightly, as if you were on a rusty hinge.

“Did my husband say something to you, Mr. William Slow Horse? Are you going to tell me that my husband said something to you?”

Paha Sapa and I had discussed what to say next many times. When he first suggested coming to see you, for me, several years ago, I had certain fantasies of having Paha Sapa share various secret things with you that only you and I would know, so you would understand that he was truly speaking for me. Some of the secrets seem absurd now—“Mrs. Custer, he said to remember how we went into the willows alone on the day the regiment left from Fort Abe Lincoln and what we did there… ”—and unless Paha Sapa explained that my ghost was inside him, it would make no sense anyway.

We actually discussed telling you that my ghost—what Paha Sapa thought of as my ghost—was inside him. Then I could tell you, my dearest, everything that I longed to tell you. After all, we had both lived through that strange era of spirit rappings and seances before and during the War, and more than once you had wondered aloud if there was anything to these mediums and these visits from the dead.

Now Paha Sapa could have proved that there was.

Only we decided against that. It was all too… vulgar. We had finally decided (I had finally decided) that Paha Sapa would explain to you only that I, your husband, had, with my dying breath, whispered to him, a mere boy, “Tell my Libbie that I love her and always will love her.” And we fully expected you to say, “Oh, and did you speak and understand English when you were ten years old, Mr. Slow Horse?” and he would reply, “No, Mrs. Custer, but I remembered the simple sound of the words and understood them years later when I did learn English.”

To that end, we’d shortened the message a bit to “Tell Libbie I love her.” Six simple syllables. It might seem possible, especially to a woman of ninety who had loved me all these intervening years, that I might have said that and that an Indian boy might have remembered six such syllables and finally carried them to her like six roses.

Then I heard Paha Sapa reply to you in that little room… “No, Mrs. Custer, your husband did not speak to me. I believe he was dead when I touched him.”

You stared at him a long, long moment then—another minute of our short time together gone forever—and said coldly, “Then why did you come to see me, Mr. William Slow Horse? To tell me what my husband looked like in those last seconds? To tell me that he did not suffer… or that he did? Or perhaps to apologize?”

“No, Mrs. Custer. I was just curious to meet you. And I appreciate you giving me this time.”

Paha Sapa stood up. I felt myself fluttering in gales of inexplicable emotions—I did not even know what they were—but you still sat there and looked calmly up at this aging Indian visitor, my love, your gaze still cold but no longer suspicious or hostile. Perhaps a little puzzled.