Louise Erdrich - The Last Report on the Miracles at Little No Horse

There was something, something… it was huge and it belonged to her, and it was vast…. When she tried to grasp at it the form faded like a dream. A grand dream, prophetic and important. Lines, black dots. She shook her head. Whatever it was, gleaming for a moment, shiny black, had it to do with her hands? She flexed her fingers doubtfully. Sound? She hummed a few bars of Die Lorelei, German Lied . Was she a singer? She cleared her throat, tried her voice. No, that definitely wasn’t it. Well, whatever it was, it was gone. She had no way of knowing that she had lost the vast gift of her music, but she did have the sense that the stark, searching motions of her hands were part of some larger complex of actions. Well, she shrugged, let them tingle away on the ends of her arms. Let them drum, and step-march and ripple. There was nothing to hold her back, now, from living the way she had dreamed of in the hot dark of her loss.

When Father Damien’s grave was tamped over, she stood hungrily in the wreckage as the dusk winds blew the clouds aside. The clear sky revealed its map, star after star, until the world was again marked out for her. In the priest’s hidden pouch there was money, some papers, a crust of cheese. A biscuit spongy with river water. She squeezed out the biscuit and ate the handful of crushed wet crumbs. The priest’s clothes were wool. Though damp, she was warm enough. In time, the moon bobbed up in a cool blur to show her way, and then, under its light, Agnes began to walk north, into the land of the Ojibwe, to the place on the reservation where he had told her he was bound.

1996

A gentle morning. Lucid, calm, the sky a sweet wash of virgin’s cloak blue and a sparkling freshness of temperature. A visitor knocked loud and hard on Father Damien’s door, but there was no answer because wild floods raged in Father Damien’s sleeping head. Trees cracked over in his dreams. Walls crumbled into the river. Stones. The visitor, a priest, grew discouraged and left, but returned in the early afternoon to find Damien sitting just outside the door on his tiny patio, snoring mildly in the unusually warm slant rays of sun. Although the visiting priest drew a chair up noisily and sat, creaking and shifting his weight, although he coughed and even muttered aloud, Father Damien did not stir. The visitor was forced either to disturb the ancient one or to wait with uncharacteristic patience for the old priest to awaken naturally.

The man’s vibrant red-gray hair was plastered down in stubborn tufts. Though polite, he looked from his sharp eye to have a temper and a fluent tongue. He was Jude Miller, a thickly built, shrewd and impatient priest. An athletic concentration in his stance suggested a man anticipating a tennis serve… that never came. At last, he folded his arms, the forearms lightly downed in coppery hair, and put one hand to his squared-off jaw. His fingers were blunt and he looked to have a powerful grip. He wore a clerical collar, a casual short-sleeved shirt, blue jeans, and soft-soled court shoes. After sitting in obvious frustration, he came to a decision to use his time, somehow, if only to observe. He leaned forward in scrutiny of the old priest, who still slept in warm sunlight next to the remains of a late breakfast.

In his age, Father Damien had developed the odd and almost alien appearance of a wrinkled but innocent child. His head still grew bits of fluff and it was large in proportion to the rest of him. His body was hunched and leathery, his lean arms and legs bent wood. Because of his tender feet, he wore soft moccasins at all times. On his off days, he shuffled to keep his balance and used two canes, one in each hand, like ski poles to anchor and guide him. Other days, he was fervently young and walked in surprisingly limber strides. When asked, he said the source of his longevity was not God but the devil, who constantly tempted him with healthy idleness. He took long walks around and around the yard, the grounds of the church, the cemetery where he greeted and sometimes reminisced with the dead — for Father Damien was more connected with them than with the living, and even sensed their changing moods.

Father Jude Miller took in the venerable, elfin appearance of the man who slept, head thrown back in the chair, sensitive mouth slightly gaping in a frown. Other than his mouth, the old priest rested neatly, feet close together, hands clasped, head cradled by the fold of the battered easy chair.

A great leaf-shaped pattern of clouds passed over the sun, and a breeze lifted, but the day was still unseasonably warm. Now, as though summoned from within, the still sleeping Damien leaned forward and propped his hands on his knees. His eyes drifted calmly open. They were vast and staring, and had returned to the murky blue of newborn’s eyes, so his look had a fixed, blind, amphibious clarity. He gazed straight at Father Jude. “Are you there, my Lord?” said Father Damien. “Where is the soup?” Father Jude Miller had heard of the old man’s waking confusion. Instead of pursuing any possible answer he sat in polite suspense until Father Damien’s thoughts focused. It took some time. At first, Father Damien called the younger priest closer and whispered in some anxiety that there were no stamps. He needed stamps. Foreign postage. Airmail.

“Commemoratives, please,” said Father Damien, looking significantly at the visitor. He fumbled two letter-folded pages from his gown and thrust them at Father Miller, who read in some bewilderment.

Most Estimable Pontiff,

Having revealed to you the specifics of my story, it is my profound hope that you will take into consideration my motives in assuming the identity of your drowned and wretched servant Modeste. I can only think how heavily my unusual act must weigh upon your sense of the right and proper order of your servants’ vocations. However, should you be indisposed to mercy, may I request that you take into consideration the seven principal goods I have accomplished on this most lonely of God’s outposts?

Number one: I have vanquished the devil, who has come to me in the form of a black dog.

I have also contained, discharged, influenced, and negated the dangerous pieties of a nun of questionable allegiance (this requires a separate letter).

Two: I have caused there to be cleanly disposal of wastes that threatened the health of our parish. I have made improvements in the style, location, and comfort of the venerable institution known as the outhouse.

Three: I have introduced the wholesome peanut to the diet of the indigenes.

Four: I have willingly exchanged my prospects for eternal joy in return for the salvation of the soul of one of the more troublesome of my charges (who loves me but who doesn’t in the least appreciate my sacrifice).

Five: In resolving a specific injustice levied by the ignorance of government officials, I have assisted in attempting to add twelve townships to the tribal land base.

Six: Although my mind is a tissue of holes, I have learned something of the formidable language of my people, and translated catechism as well as specific teachings. I have also rendered into English certain points of their own philosophy that illuminate the precious being of the Holy Ghost.

Seven: I have discovered an unlikely truth that may interest Your Holiness. The ordinary as well as esoteric forms of worship engaged in by the Ojibwe are sound, even compatible with the teachings of Christ.

Lastly, this. May I ask if you would be so specifically kind as to answer this letter!

I remain, a hopeful penitent,

Yours in the Lamb.

Father Damien Modeste