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

“What could you possibly want with her?” she accused. “She is the only child of a family who has lost everything!”

“All the more valuable to me!” said the dog.

“You cannot have her.” Agnes’s voice was firm as she could muster, given the fainting languor of her illness. She groped for the crucifix chained around her neck, but her fingers seemed thick as wooden pegs, clumsy, and the dog noticed with a sly glance.

“I hear you’re a gambler. I’ll strike a bargain with you,” he insinuated.

“A bargain…” Agnes fell back into her chair, and though sweating and breathless she couldn’t help marvel. The joke was clever. Or was this what the mad saw, the fevered? The dog was here and he seemed perfectly real, not only that, but he knew of Agnes’s passion. Although she came onto this reservation never having placed a bet, thrown the dice or the bones, she had since found gambling was a compelling way to raise money, for she was unusually lucky, and also she took great pleasure in her small winnings. She knew that she was being tempted by the gambit, tempted to wager even as her lips formed the words.

“Name your offer…”

“My offer is this,” the dog said. “I will spare Lulu if you come with me instead.”

A frozen wind blew through the room and Agnes shivered, couldn’t speak. Soon there would be a punch line. Someone would pop around the corner, laughing at the hoax played on the good priest. For the benefit of whomever was listening to the ridiculous transaction, Agnes thought aloud.

“A priest puts the welfare of his flock above all else, for they are entrusted to him by the author of the world, and so even in this lonely and unspeakable moment, my duty is clear!”

Agnes waited for a hoot of laughter, none came.

“I will trade places with the child, with Lulu Nanapush,” she declared, “but you must not take me until I am good and ready!”

Now it was time for the applause. Silence. Agnes calmly lifted the dog’s paw from the soup bowl. It seemed real enough. She glanced away from the flames of the dog’s eyes. Frowning, she regarded the grained wood of the poor log table. When would the instigator of this farce show? And who would play so perverse a joke? Not even Nanapush.

“It is done,” the dog conceded just before he loped off, “your lifetime is doubled. But there is more. Your insolence moves me. I have decided to send you a temptation.”

It would come by mail, but not until the autumn rains soaked the walls of the cabin and drained the sky of heat.

Agnes put her hands to her cheeks. She was still dangerously fevered. Perhaps, after all, the dog was no prank but a vision produced by the illness. The resinous scent of burnt pitch lingered in the room, and she could not help remember the figure she’d seen on the horizon at the time of Kashpaw’s death — the gaunt spirit with the flapping coat, the dog trotting beside, its breath rising, foul steam.

At the thought, Agnes regretted her stubbornness, for what if the creature was real? She got the worst of the bargain. How could she know that she wasn’t meant to die that very night? She was young, and in a few more years eternity in hell could well stretch before her. On the other hand, she thought, once she’d calmed her breathing and lay down again, perhaps her natural life span was more like eighty years, in which case there was what seemed a huge amount of time in which to think of a way to win herself back from the black dog’s company.

Dwelling on that more cheerful idea, Agnes staggered around the room for exercise, then returned to bed, leaving the full bowl of soup, into which the devil’s foot had plunged.

That night, careful as always not to waste a drop or a morsel, Mary Kashpaw dumped the contents of Father Damien’s devil’s-paw bowl back into the soup pot and brought it over to the convent, where it was reboiled and served up to the nuns. The soup deranged their sleep. What terrible torments the sisters suffered! What a night of temptations! What lurid and arresting dreams! Poor Father Damien, who dragged himself to the church to hear confessions the next morning, was assaulted by a swimming sea of details. The sisters recounted their actions explicitly, and he became such a seething repository of voluptuous nightmares that he found it impossible to accomplish his duties. Weaker than ever, disturbed in mind, he was forced to cancel Holy Mass. As he was hurrying toward the solace of his tiny cabin behind the church, Sister Dympna came toward him from the opposite direction.

“Father,” she gasped in a voice of shamed panic, “I have been visited in the flesh!”

“You are absolved!” Damien cried out, and he practically blessed her on the run. Then he shut his door. Alone, he ran to the corner of his room and wrote feverishly, madly, until he had relieved his mind of the burden of an entire convent full of dreams.

Eternal Father,

The people to whom I have carried the faith believe there is a spirit behind or informing all that exists on earth. In dreams, they tell me, these spirits communicate with them. I thought it a harmless and empty fancy until I myself was visited.

Gracious Father, head of the church, the spiritual descendant of the one who has walked on water, what should I do?

I fear I may be losing my mind.

Modeste

As soon as she was well, Agnes went to the postal window at the trader’s store and bought the stamps necessary to ship her letter across the sea. As she slowly licked the stamps and pressed them onto the envelope, idly tasting the faintly medicinal glue, the loneliness that so often visited her since the bewildering deaths by influenza sank through her bones. It was a black marrow. Ice. Since those days, prayer had not helped. The intimacy and the special favor shown her in the very beginning, at the river, at the first communion she’d performed, was withdrawn. She endured, instead of that warm broth of rescuing love, a skeletal deadness that surely the dog had sensed. Perhaps, she thought now, smoothing the envelope, Christ was still busy helping admit or reject the dead millions, that harvest fattened by the Great War and by disease. There was probably a lot of paperwork to the admission process. Imagining Christ an overworked bureaucrat amused her. But she wondered whether such thoughts were a marker of her cynicism, and an invitation to the test of her commitment, which was presented in the next moment in the form of a different letter.

“There is something here for you,” said the wife of the trader, who handled the mail. She gave Father Damien a letter from the bishop, return address the cathedral in Fargo. Light-headed from the walk, Agnes put the letter in her pocket and forgot about it until, that night, the envelope crinkled in the folds of her cassock.

Dear Father Damien,

I am sending an assistant to work with you, not because you will need his help, though I am certain you will benefit from his presence, but because I would like you to train him.

He will stay with you and learn all that you can teach him.

Yours in Christ,

Bishop DuPre

Agnes dropped the piece of paper and stood mute and numb, staring straight before her at the dark, wet, log walls. For a week, nearly, the skies had opened every day. There was no let-up. Between drenching bursts a slow, cold drizzle descended. And now this letter from the bishop, a stunning threat.

Live with her? Quite impossible.

She wrote back.

I am in no need of assistance, and furthermore, there is no place for a young priest to live. As it is, my quarters are inadequate, not that I mean to complain. But to add another is impossible!

Impossible! Her brain locked on the word and was comforted by the lilt of it. Impossible. She refused in fact to consider or even remember the letter from the bishop, until one day the assistant simply, with no warning and no one to accompany him, arrived.