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

“See there!”

“You are putting words into my mouth,” said Father Damien, angry at the entire situation, exasperated with Nanapush. “Of course it is Church doctrine, but Kashpaw does not belong to the Church.”

Nanapush was suddenly crushed. He had not foreseen this.

“Do you mean to say it is a question of belonging to the church?” he shrieked. “Then if Kashpaw stays a pagan he can keep his wives?”

“I have no say in it.” Father Damien was now at the exploding point. He could feel Nanapush trying to herd him through a small gate and stubbornly decided to dump doctrine, sound principle, everything that he should rightly have defended as a priest, in order not to let this man’s woman-hunger steer him too.

“But he will go to hell!” Nanapush was desperate. “I only fear for my friend, as the hell of the chimookomanag sounds extremely painful.” He then proceeded to paint a picture of the flames and pincers that made Kashpaw and Margaret, and then the entire lodge, roll with laughter.

“To be quite specific about it, no,” said Father Damien when the hilarity was spent. Even he had been tempted to laugh at the old man’s transparent pretense at saving his friend. “Kashpaw will go to a place called Purgatory where there isn’t much to do, and where he won’t ever see God.”

“I’ve seen enough chimookomanag anyway,” said Kashpaw, “without having to meet the one responsible for creating the white race.”

“I’d like to see him,” said Mashkiigikwe. “I’d tell him what I thought of his work.” She spat. Father Damien ignored her, focused on the seething Nanapush, and couldn’t help an unpriestlike thought from coming to him. Earlier, the old man had told him something of his life, and now he decided to use his revelation against him.

“Nanapush,” said Father Damien, in a voice that got everyone’s attention, “you have told me that you, like Kashpaw, were at one time the husband of several wives. What was your reason?”

Nanapush reluctantly told his story.

PATAKIZOOG!

Nanapush

Father Damien, said Nanapush, struggling with resentment but soon, as always, caught up in the pleasure of talking, if you must know these things, only listen to my story, for it is the way things happened until only just these last few seasons. Here’s how it goes:

Our band of people in the north were struck at one time with the spirit of disease. The spirit killed so many of us that when the dead were counted it was found that we survivors numbered less than a quarter of our camp. At the time, I wasn’t born, yet I am told how the mourners sat grieving together, willing themselves to be struck down, too. But the destroying spirit had passed. It was then suggested that they kill themselves, all together for courage, and journey as a band to meet their beloved dead in the land of the aadizokaanag. But then one older, wiser woman, a large woman, strong and powerful, stood upright and spoke.

“Mii’e etaa i’iwe gay onji shabwii’ing,” she said, “gakina awiyaa ninaandawenimaa chi mazhiweyt. Neshke idash tahnee pahtahneynahwug gey ani bimautiziwaad.”

There were some who looked shocked, who protested, who were surprised that she would exhort the women to make babies in their sorrow, to order the men to stand up their wiinagag, to endeavor valiantly to procreate until they dropped! But, as she had always been a faithful and virtuous woman, they listened to her. She calmed them down and explained her idea. She pointed out how the Bwaanag, or Dakota, to the south had fought against the whites to try conquering them, but that hadn’t worked out as well as the Ojibwe method of making Michifs and wiisaakodewininiwag. She said what everyone knew, that the Creator gave his people the Ojibwe a special love skill that they could always use in times of crisis.

“Gakinago giigaa kitchi manitiminin. Ininiwag, dagasaa patakizoog! Ikweywug, pagetinamahgehg! Ahau, anishinabedok, patakizoog! Ahua! Manitadaa!”

With that, she left them to think. As the evening went on, they all came to see it her way. They saw that if they followed her advice there would be new Anishinaabeg by the turn of three seasons. She had even closed by saying that although her hair was gray, she intended to have more children.

In fact, that very night, she picked the strongest and handsomest young man left among the people. That young man, Mirage was his name, did a lot of work all that night, and the next and next — but the women kept him fed and warm and they all got pregnant. The old woman was my mother, and the young man, who still lives, was made chief for the great duties he continued to perform with his uncounted wives. He re-created our tribe. So you see, that which you Catholics abhor — our gift, which is to mazhiwe at any time of the day or night — is why we do remain strong and why we have not died out.

And as you see, Father Damien, your friend Nanapush has only followed his mother’s orders. I am an obedient son.

That is it! Mi’sago’i!

* * *

Kashpaw’s powerful shoulders hunched around his ears as he listened to Nanapush, and his tiny eyes, dark with shrewd hilarity, took in the configuration before him.

“My reasons are no better or worse than those of Nanapush,” he said. “I, too, am the son of that generous young stud who saved us all, and one of the woman who gladly slept with him. We survived. I am proud of it. Why should I change?”

Nanapush looked resentfully at Kashpaw, who simply shrugged, and let his eye wander appreciatively over the tight barrel of Mashkiigikwe’s rear.

“What would the white god want with you, anyway?” he said to Kashpaw. “You’re ugly and full of mischief!”

Kashpaw made a mocking face.

“Maybe Jesus wants to know my love medicine.”

“Howah! More likely you can sell your knowledge to Matchimanito, the bad spirit. Eyah.” Nanapush stroked his chin. “I always wondered how it was you got these women to live with you. Now my question is answered. You worked your love snares.”

“This is the only love snare I need.” Kashpaw gestured down at his sex. Father Damien kept his gaze steady, though his breathing faltered. Nanapush was not in the least embarrassed, but craned to look critically into Kashpaw’s lap. “Yes, it is shaped like a snare, all right, limp and skinny!”

“Saaa!” Mashkiigikwe walked up behind Nanapush and swiped at his head with her brush, an ingenious thing, not store-bought but created of clipped porcupine quills fastened into a strip of rawhide.

“I don’t hunt with snares, sweetheart,” Nanapush crooned to Mashkiigikwe. “I use a nice, long, heavy stick.”

Mashkiigikwe sneered down on him with amused contempt, stuck her little finger out, and wiggled it at him.

“All you’re good for is bait,” she declared.

“Let’s go fish together, then,” said Nanapush.

“I only fish with my old man.”

“What do you do,” Nanapush inquired, “those lonely nights when he satisfies your sisters?”

Mashkiigikwe’s mouth opened. She glared at him with false outrage.

“Me,” said Nanapush confidingly, “when I had six wives—”

“Six!” Mashkiigikwe interrupted, laughing sarcastically. “He was drunk and seeing double!”

Nanapush ignored her. “I was able to put them all to sleep!”

“By talking!” said Kashpaw, not in the least embarrassed or offended at Nanapush’s suggestive behavior with his wife. He only snickered to himself and looked significantly at Father Damien, who felt that it was his responsibility to take charge and return the conversation to some semblance of a priestly visit; therefore, he accidentally asked a question that would have repercussions, “Mr. Kashpaw, have you solemnized your vows with any one of your wives?”