Louise Erdrich - Four Souls

“Ahhh,” I sighed. Just a little sigh, like some wind caught in the branches. He stepped closer. His nose twitched back and forth.

“Piindegen! Come into my cabin and have a cup of tea with me,” he cried. “There’s a chill in the air today.”

“Mmmm,” I crooned. I had to agree with him. The tea sounded just the thing. So I entered his evil nest.

Inside, the place was chaos. Piles of junk everywhere. Bones in one corner, rags in another. No place to sit and barely room to stand up. Shesheeb hobbled to the stove and poked some embers, added a new bit of wood. There was a mashed old iron pot on top of the stove with some oily tea in it. This, he tried to heat up. Next to the pot was set a can with scum in the bottom — soup maybe. His supper, no doubt. I couldn’t help but gloat and in my gloating wonder at my luck in holding on to a woman who kept things comfortable for me, cooked my food, and never let my tea grow cold and unpleasant-tasting like the tea that Shesheeb gave me now. I took a drink. Though it was only half warmed up, still the tea seemed to fill my bones with a slow, hot, blooming sensation. I finished the stuff and then, in spite of myself, I wanted more. Which was when it hit me. He’d hit me. Shesheeb had medicined me and I’d fallen for it! He was smiling now, just a little smile, private and knowing. Here, I’d felt sorry for him. I had let him lure me into his cabin where he could play on his strengths, where he knew his way around. I was suddenly sure that he knew exactly who I was and had planned this moment. Perhaps he’d even drawn me to him through the woods!

Though blind and decrepit, he had power. I must watch myself.

“Ooooh,” I trailed the sound as I put down my snakish brew. Shesheeb actually shuddered a little, as if he found me irresistible. He reached around behind himself and picked up a hand drum and drumstick with knowing authority.

“May I play a little song for you?” he said, his voice a slippery whine. Without waiting for my answer, he struck the drum. “Niimin,” he ordered. Without wanting to at all, I stood. Completely against my will, I began to dance just as he directed. Quietly, with even movements, in exact time with the drum and the strange song he sang whose words I still cannot remember, I bobbed in the shadowy mess of Shesheeb’s cabin. I tried to stop myself, to still my legs, to make my feet heavy and quit. But I could not and the movement of my body soon filled me with horror as nothing else had ever done. I was quickly becoming exhausted, too, reeling from the wine I’d drunk and the long stumble back from town. Still my feet rose and stamped down. My legs trod. I jigged. If I danced much longer, I knew that my old heart would burst, but as long as Shesheeb sang his song and struck his drum I was caught, shuffling one foot to the next. I felt myself going, bright spots shifting across my vision, pains shooting through my lungs. I would have died right there, I know it, if my love medicine had not unexpectedly showed up and worked itself.

Shesheeb’s dog, most surely not allowed in the cabin, bounded suddenly in and greeted its master. With a cry, almost of fear, Shesheeb tried to shoo it out. It had been a good while since I’d treated that dog, by accident, but even though sweat dripped into my eyes and stung me I could see that dog clearly enough to recognize the poor runt, the sad little outcast fellow who’d been quick enough to lap up my love powder. Now, to my surprise, Shesheeb became flustered by its presence. Could it be that the dog, whom in fact I’d heard rumored was the slyest stud yet seen on the reservation, was somehow in the habit of intimidating Shesheeb? The old duck beat the drum a little faster. The dog groveled and licked his knee. He tried to kick the dog away and keep on singing at the same time, but suddenly it was obvious that my love powder was too strong. The dog fell into a sudden passion, hunkered over, and began to make love to Shesheeb’s old shin with a vicious ardor that cared not for sharp words or strikes of the drumsticks or wild blows. That dog humped away like the devil and broke Shesheeb’s rhythm with its thrusts. Released, I pushed past the dangerous old medicine man and staggered into the sunlight and freedom of the yard and then the woods, for I did not even pause, but plunged forward in a stupor of relief until I reached the main road.

There, I stopped. Which way to turn, home or town? Either way, I had nothing to lose. What was there for me now but more shame and misery? Why not go down, to the bottom of my life, all the way? It occurred to me that in the nuns’ cellar other casks of wine were stored — cool, dark, and safe. My steps went sideways, as though drawn in that direction by a call. Surely, I thought, finding myself back on the road to town, the chance to divert wine from the lips of the priest and parish to the gullet of Nana-push was far, far too good to pass up. So I continued down the long, dusty road.

I slept the afternoon away in the cemetery, and woke at dusk raging with a deep and unbearable thirst. I’d been thirsty before, but never like this. My thirst was a gripping force that both made my head swim and keenly focused my brain. It was a powerful longing that alerted my whole body to one intention.

I agonized for an hour at least in my mystic dryness before I thought it safe once again to approach the nuns’ residence. Again, as before, I listened to the nuns’ prayers beneath their window, and dispensed my fervent wish for their well-being through manaa. Again, I crept to the cellar’s entrance and opened it with great care, attempting not to let the boards creak. I slid into the gloom and felt my way with enormous care to the shelf that held the kegs of wine. And then, just as I embraced the round barrel, and just as I hoisted it in a strength born of momentary joy, a crash resounded behind me. The cellar door slammed shut. I froze. A woman’s voice rang out. Sister Hildegarde Anne!

“Wine thief!” she cried in triumph. “I’ve trapped you! There is no way out. When morning comes, we’ll see who you are! As if we don’t know,” she said sarcastically, “you old degenerate.”

I heard a heavy board slide into place outside, barring the door. Crowing, jangling her keys, telling me to rest well because the reservation drunk tank would surely be a noisier place than the cellar, she left. I was alone once more, but far less disturbed by my capture than you might think. The main question that immediately entered my mind was this: How much of the parish wine could I drink before morning? How many kegs could I enjoy?

I CAN ’T TELL YOU the number, to this day. I don’t remember that night after the first hour or so that I spent chugging my fill. I suppose I was happy, but I must content myself with other people’s memory. Father Damien says that he woke in the middle of the night convinced a powwow was taking place in the convent. I sang and danced, I know that. I was a one-man powwow, I think. The next morning, I was laid out cold when the Pukwans came and got me. When I woke in the stinking jailhouse, I was confused by my surroundings. Gradually, I was able to place myself. Our drunk tank at the time was no more than one side of a log cabin barricaded off from the other half, which the Pukwans proudly called their headquarters. Both sides were exactly the same except that theirs had a three-legged table, the legless side supported by a crate, and on the wall a rack of antlers that held an ancient shotgun. The floors of both sides were dirt and the walls were plain log, the bark scraped off in strips. My side smelled worse of piss, as well as the rank heaves of earlier drunks. The only light came through slots near the roof and the front door, which was habitually left open so that the flies could travel freely in and out. I was shocked by a dipper of cold water splashed hard in my face, and I clenched my eyes shut. Another dipper of water stung me.