Louise Erdrich - Four Souls

“I’m a medicine dancer, according to my dream,” said Margaret, standing proud and straight as her old bones would allow, “I won’t take the ishkode wabo, old man.” She paused, then bent close to me. “Just let me smell it.” She took a whiff. “Those were the days,” she said, a bit mournfully. Much of her anger toward me seemed to have dissolved at the sight of the lengths I was willing to go to win her favor. She knew how many times and for how many years I refused a drink, up until she drove me to the edge. And as well, perhaps the dress helped. She had been working on it when I arrived, and now she held it up against her — a soft, dun-colored, plum-beaded old-time dress. Finished.

“Put the dress on,” I urged, hoping to coax her into the spirit of authentic forgiveness. “Let me see you in it!”

I leaned back against a tree, poured the tin cup full again, and watched as she shook off her old cotton majigoode, stood a moment in only her shift. Carefully, she lowered the new medicine dress onto herself and then quickly stalked inside, fetched her eagle fan from its strap on the wall. While she was in there, she braided her hair and painted two black dots at the corners of her eyes. Then she emerged from the cabin and stood regal and queenly before me with a farseeing look of wisdom on her face. I had to stagger around and lower myself to sit against the tree, otherwise I would have fallen over from the simple beauty of the shock. Margaret. Rushes Bear. Great-granddaughter of old Medicine Dress. My love. She looked like a woman out of a dream, a spirit lady from the sky, an old-time ogichidaa-ikwe, a proud grandmother for the ages. Tears stung my eyes, and then I overflowed and wept out loud.

“My precious sweetheart, are you a vision?”

“Of sorts,” said Margaret, carried away just a little herself.

She turned around and around, wishing she could catch more of a reflection of herself than the picture in the tiny scrap of mirror we owned. I tried my best to reflect her, using words. How proudly your bosom thrusts out, I said. And your waist is slim as a girl’s. Your braids are coming along nicely, too, I observed. That was not exactly true. Hers had never grown back properly. They were stubby and gray. Mine were longer. It didn’t hurt to say a good word, however, and she appreciated it. If we had stopped right there, if she had taken off the dress, we would have ended up happily together for the day and on into the night, I am convinced. But my guardian spirits weren’t with me. My love luck failed. For once I fetched the drum and sang for her, and once she started to dance, Margaret ruined the effect. Though the dress was magnificent, my lady love was barely competent. Maybe less. Clumsy, I’d have to call her, out of step, out of balance.

“I guess I never saw you dance before,” I mumbled, shocked and dizzied by her bobbing missteps.

“Sure you have,” said Margaret, “many times. As you remember, I was head female dancer years ago.”

“Mii nange,” I mumbled, not sure of anything. “You’re tipping!”

“You’re tipping, old shkwebii,” she was irritated. “You can’t see straight.”

But she was wrong. There were two of her hopping in as miserable a crow step as a white woman. It hurt to watch.

“Dagasana, please,” I shielded my eyes and I asked her very gently, as careful with my words as could be, “let me put on the dress and show you how to do it!’

She stopped dancing with a jerk, drove her hands to her hips, and glared. She puffed out her cheeks and looked as though she might explode in a cloud of bird-bone beads and tattered bashkwegin. Then she flipped her fan and suddenly laughed, harsh and mean, “I’d love to see you in a dress, old crazy. The medicine is strong in this one. Maybe it will sober you up!”

“I don’t care about that, lady love,” I said to her in my most sincere voice. “I just want to make sure you don’t make a fool of yourself.”

At that, she stood still and almost ripped the dress off her body.

“Here”—she thrust it at me—“you be the fool!”

The wine was treating me well at that point. I felt my own dignity rise up in me. “Give me the fan, too, old lady, and get ready for some old-time traditional woman dancing. You take the drum! My feet move light as a doe’s!”

“Oh yai!” She was outraged, I knew it, but I thought to win her over with my patient instruction. I tried my best not to anger her, and started easily, keeping to the beat with what I thought was wondrous perfection. My steps were subtle. I moved like water. I could feel how well I floated around on the grass of the yard, and lost myself in the beat although the drum had stopped. I could feel her eyes upon me, full of unwilling admiration, at least I thought so. But when I chanced to look around, at last, expecting to collect praise and take in the pride on her face, I was surprised to find that I was quite alone. She was gone. I was miserably wounded, but only for a second, and in the next instant my suspicions grabbed me. Off to Shesheeb’s, no doubt! I put her eagle fan back in the house and started through the bush, intending to have it out with him at last.

The leaves grew thick. Roots tripped me. Raspberry pickers scratched my arms and grabbed my ankles, but I held to my path. I skirted the scene of recent disaster, the sprung snare, and eventually found the clearing around the little house that once had belonged to Iron Sky and now sheltered sly Shesheeb. It was a scene of calm. He hadn’t kept the place up though, at all. The roof was already sagging. The yard was a mess of garbage. A thread of smoke twisted in the still air. My heart squeezed — was he inside the house with Margaret? I was just about to rush the cabin when the door opened and the old man emerged, hunched over, groping his way into the sun. He turned his face up to the light, squinting. It relieved me to see that he was alone.

So this was Shesheeb. Well, he was not much! Where was his power? His medicine? I made a small movement and he turned his head. His hearing, at least, was very keen.

As long as I was discovered, I stepped forward and presented myself before him. I didn’t expect to react so strong and quick, but my blood rose, hot, and my heart beat murderously. I could hardly contain my hate. There were no words I needed to say. There was no message. I stood entirely still in the sun and allowed him to examine me with what eyesight he had, to recognize me and in so doing recognize his crime. I waited. He blinked his white eyes, opaque and cloudy with cataract. His face had collapsed around his nose. His nostrils quivered, his chin strained toward me, he tried to sense all he could, to hear the beating of my heart. His rag of white hair hung to his waist and he wore a strange purple vest made of some heavy flowered material. His pants were filthy and held up by rope. He was nothing to look at and didn’t even have shoes on so I could see that his feet were filthy clawed things, splayed and frightening. I could not imagine what Margaret saw in him — in fact, it was now clear that all along she’d just been trying to pique my jealousy. I edged backward. I now wished I’d never come to make any sort of challenge. Best to leave a sleeping duck lie in its dirty nest.

“Who are you?” Shesheeb asked, at last. “You beauty, have you come to tempt me?”

I stepped back, startled, as you can imagine. I had entirely forgotten, in my examination of the old man, that I was dressed as a quite attractive woman. I said nothing, though sudden laughter welled inside of me and I was hard put to contain it. That’s when I got an idea. I’d get the old fake to fall in love with me. I’d torture his heart! I’d make him beg for my attentions, then abandon him and have a good laugh with Margaret. Perhaps I’d kill him and eat him just like he devoured my sister. I didn’t dare use my voice.