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

Even without the vast red capote, the yellow turban, the buffalo robe, wool shawls and velvet, Kashpaw was impressive. He was a powerful, hunched, comic-looking man, rather ugly Father Damien supposed, looking at him closely, and yet attractive for his keen eye and a sense of barely withheld mirth. The priest and Nanapush entered the smaller bark lodge behind Kashpaw. He began singing a soft tune in a mournful and teasing tone. Inside the shadowy large birch-bark lodge, well behind him and seemingly unaffected by the cold, two women worked at some task with a concentrated air.

“Boozhoo!”

At his word, one of the wives poked her head at the men. She wore a red knitted hat that flopped over her brow like a crest, her nose was sharp, and Father Damien could not help thinking of her as an angry woodpecker. Of the two, she was much older, and she seemed to have been disturbed in the midst of a satisfying tirade, for she jumped up and laughed harshly at her sister wife, who suddenly rushed from the hut, stifling a racking sob.

Nanapush and Father Damien settled themselves on a pile of skins and blankets, and Kashpaw made all of the gestures of a generous host while Father Damien appreciated all he saw and ate like an affable guest. Nanapush sat back. He made an effort to stop his tongue, to contain himself. It was important to proceed with delicacy. Not to give away his plan, but to let it unfold as if it were natural, in the course of things. He told himself that all he had to do was put the priest into the situation, and wait. Priests and extra wives were mutually opposed, he had seen it before. This priest was of course much younger, oddly feminine, and a good deal subtler than Father Hugo, but that his intentions were fundamentally those of a priest, Nanapush had no doubt.

While he sat at Kashpaw’s fire and waited, Nanapush appreciated the wife of his friend, the hunter who’d just shot the deer, the one whom he intended to take for his own when the dust settled. Mashkiigikwe’s legs were oak fence posts and her neck, solid, was packed with a power that surged up through her body and flashed from her eyes. He drifted in admiration as she tore wolfishly at a piece of deer liver with strong little teeth, and chewed each piece with a thoughtful frown, as though she was masticating some inner meaning from her food. Yet, when well fed, she could be very jolly, too. Her singing voice was of a surprising lilt and softness, and her songs were often children’s games. It charmed Nanapush to watch her and spurred him to help matters along.

Children popped out, hair sticking straight up. They were deliciously round, seemingly healthy, and completely naked. Two ran out just as they were into the frigid air and, chased by the oldest wife, dove back into the lodge, bearing in their fists some tiny tidbit from the carcass. And then two men showed up, young men, older sons of the sharp-tongued Margaret. A boy named Nector glanced inside, took in the configuration, nodded, and left. A quiet woman emerged, fully pregnant, from a pile of robes and arranged the children carefully before her. She was softer, plainer than the others, and moved with extreme grace, even pregnant and huge. She rubbed the faces of the children, patted their hands, and when she was given a piece of the venison she spitted morsels of it on green sticks, elegantly roasted the meat, and cooled each bit with her breath before offering it to each child. They obeyed her with huge gravity. As they chewed, she ate, too, and told them a teasing story in her language.

Her name was Fishbone, and Father Damien later baptized her Marie. Margaret, of course, already had a chimookoman name and was a good Catholic, except in respect to her married life. The woman she had caused to cry, Quill, was later christened Marie as well. As for Mashkiigikwe, Father Damien never got a chance to name her, for she cleft to her own religion, and would have knocked the dipper of blessed water from his hand.

The priest sat silently and simply watched the goings-on around him, while the other men talked over old times. It certainly was not Father Damien’s intention to walk into the family and make a declaration of any sort, but Nanapush kept giving him encouraging sideways glances, then somewhat sterner nods, even little gestures. Finally, Nanapush purposely let a lull develop in the conversation, which he’d artfully maneuvered toward his topic of interest by inquiring about the health of each wife, and in that small silence he motioned toward the priest.

“Let the priest speak,” he encouraged.

“If you’d ever shut up,” said Margaret, “the priest would have spoken before.”

“My friend Nanapush has such a kind heart,” said Kashpaw, “that he had to ask after each one of the women.” Kashpaw glanced shrewdly at Margaret, and she gave a sour little suspicious frown.

“Funny that he is so interested in our health.” She turned away. She was unripe gooseberry, pure vinegar. Margaret’s presence puckered up the room like a basket of chokecherries. Her glance dried laughter, her hard snakelike impenetrable glare shook men to the core but also, in Kashpaw’s case anyway, caused a certain shiver of interest. There was something both frightful and seductive about her cold temperament. As for Kashpaw, he allowed as it was odd that Nanapush was suddenly so very solicitous, but he sat back with amusement and said nothing else, for he knew very well the reason for his old friend’s attentive inquiries. They were nearly brothers, after all, and had sat with their foreheads touching, smoked their pipes in grief over many deaths. Kashpaw knew the lay of his friend’s mind and understood that he was lonely, that his bed was cold, his arms empty, his wiinag bored, his days given to sad memory. Kashpaw knew his own wives were now more than a source of envy, they were a possible selection pool for Nanapush himself if this priest, who sat with them now trying not to look bewildered, prevailed upon him to give them up. Oh yes, Kashpaw had no illusions. Yet he didn’t hold these things against Nanapush but accepted the scheming as an inevitable part of his friend’s nature. The fact was, Kashpaw enjoyed anticipating Nanapush and thwarting his plans, so when the priest failed to respond to the pointed hints he dropped, Kashpaw was happy to further distract the priest. He asked questions, as if he was considering conversion. Can Jesus kill a windigo? Why did their god kill Father Hugo? He enjoyed the slow attention that Father Damien gave the questions, and even more, the steaming frustration of his friend beside him. He would have a good laugh later on with Margaret over the way Nanapush prodded and tried to steer the priest toward his purpose.

Father Damien, for his part, finally tired of receiving obscure signals from Nanapush. He made motions, as though to leave, which panicked Nanapush into blurting a reproach.

“You are the one who is supposed to hold forth!” Losing all sense of reserve, and infuriated by Father Damien’s blank stare, he cried out the louder. “It’s your job to set this married man right! You are the priest!”

Father Damien’s expression did not change. He merely regarded Nanapush with bemused speculation, seeing the shape of the subterfuge at last — and he was the last one to see it, he was sure. How naïve of him, how willingly he’d been put to the use of this rascal. Visit, indeed! The priest had merely been the tool of this old man’s lust.

“Nanapush,” said Father Damien, sternly, at last. “I see why you have taken me to visit Kashpaw. It is your hope that I will forbid him to have his wives!”

“Ii’iih,” said Nanapush, trying to slow himself down now that his game was discovered, “isn’t it the rule of the church? One husband? One wife?”

“Well, yes,” said Damien unwillingly.