Louise Erdrich - Four Souls

“Enough!” I put my hand up and struggled to sit. I was hampered, it seemed, by a sheet wound around my legs.

“Come look at the mindimooyenh,” yelled one Pukwan to the other.

I staggered to my feet, tried to walk, tripped and rolled out the door into dazzling light.

“How did this woman’s dress get on me, my brothers?” I asked the Pukwans, sincerely puzzled.

“You pulled it over your fat head,” said Edgar. Then, with relish, he added, “Do you know what today is?”

“Today,” I said, thinking as quickly as my throbbing old brain would allow, “is the day we dress as women.”

Both Pukwans burst into howls and sneers of derision.

“His brain has for sure flipped over in his skull,” they agreed. “He has forgotten this is the day of the council meeting.”

They were right, I had forgotten. This was the morning I was to present the plan I had worked so hard on to everyone who cared to attend the big meeting. As the tribal chairman, I was supposed to preside, and then call a vote on whether to accept the large settlement of money that was offered should we only leave our scrap of land.

“Lend me clothes,” I begged the Pukwans, instantly doubling the volume of their hilarity. When they refused, I drew myself up straight and tried to reclaim my dignity.

“Well, if you won’t give me clothes,” I said, brushing at the skirt of the dress, “at least let me fix myself up. Give me a comb, a mirror, and a basin of water. A little rouge wouldn’t do me any harm, either.”

“Holy Jesus!” Their mirth increased and became almost unbearable. They found the items I’d requested. As they watched me braid my hair in perfect plaits, pull out my straggling beard hairs, smooth my eyebrows, and put some color into my cheeks, they were so wretchedly overcome with the humor of it all that they didn’t bother to charge me with disorderly conduct, but merely waved me out the door while they convulsed like children in each other’s arms.

If only I had not been so thorough in my demonstration for Margaret’s benefit! If only I had worn my other clothing underneath! Unfortunately, I investigated and found I’d brazenly stripped right down to my skin. Although I was horrified at my situation, I had to admit that I felt pretty good in Margaret’s dress — it was soft, and the air was cool, flowing up against me from underneath. Also, from what I saw in the mirror, it was becoming to me. I didn’t look half bad. Still, I had no idea what I could possibly do to maintain my position of respect once I appeared before everyone assembled at the meeting. I thought of two people on the way, whose clothes I might beg, but they weren’t home. Doubtless, they were waiting for me with the others at the powwow arbor, ready to decide the entire future of our tribe.

The day was splendid, a day of blue sky and puffy little clouds, the kind of day which on any other occasion I would spend catching fish, picking berries, setting snares, or just poking around in the bush. It was so beautiful, in fact, that in spite of my dismal prospects, I just had to stop and say a special prayer of thanks to the creator of us all, who had taken such pains in providing just the right amount of breeze, and tinted the sunlight an inspiring transparent golden color. Lost in praise, I hardly noticed that I was near the trading store, where at that hour people sat outside gossiping about whomever might happen by. A family of tourists who had come to the reservation to find some photo-worthy Indians spotted me, standing stock-still in the road.

“There’s one!” I turned to see a man dragging his wife and children from their automobile. I started walking away at a quick, yet dignified pace, but they hurried after me. I tried to run, but the dress bound my legs and the family quickly surrounded me, asking to take a photograph.

“You’re the first one we’ve met wearing a colorful costume!” cried the woman. “Would you mind standing still?” I had no choice, as two large children suddenly gripped me by the shoulder and arms, pinning me upright. I felt the young boy startle as he saw me close up.

“She’s an ugly old woman though, isn’t she, Mama!”

“Hush,” the mother said.

“Ugly?” I am embarrassed to say this, but the boy’s remark hurt my vanity.

“Get your hands off me,” I cried, but the children’s hands pinched harder. They were strong as little cows, and although I attempted to struggle, they held me fast with big grins pasted to their faces. I changed my tactics.

“Truly, I must be going now,” I humbly begged the parents. “I must take my leave. So let us all stand together for our picture.” I gestured to Zozed Bizhieu, who stood amazed with speculation on the steps of the trader’s store.

“Ombe omaa, Zozed,” I called, “take a photo of us together! Tell me exactly when you’re going to push the button!”

Zozed put down her bundle, and I arranged myself in the middle of the family.

“On the count of three,” Zozed called out, “bezhig, niizh, niswi…”

With an agile move, just as she clutched the camera, I turned around, bent over, and lifted the dress over my buttocks. While the parents were still in shock, I righted myself swiftly and did a rousing and educational French cancan dance, an anatomy lesson that enlightened the amazed children until the mother recovered her wits, put her hands across the children’s eyes, and screamed. Before the father could gather himself and punish me, I fled. Cross-country through the bush, uphill, toward the arbor, I sprinted, not chancing the road. All the way there I prayed and I sang for those children, hoping I had not confused them too thoroughly by revealing a man’s equipment underneath a woman’s skirts.

THERE WAS nothing for it, I counseled myself, but to go forward boldly and rely on inspiration. When I reached the arbor, I strode to the center of the dance ground, and instead of skulking and cringing in shame, I threw open my arms. I turned in a circle and let people gawk and chatter and react with owlish surprise while my brain worked in a fever. When their speculation died away and they fell silent in anticipation, I opened my mouth. I didn’t know what I’d say. I was surprised to hear my words flow into the air, but even more, I was surprised to see that people slowly lost their expressions of amusement and mirth, and regarded me with an increasingly serious composure. As close as I can remember, here are the words that emerged.

“Friends, relatives, nindinawemaganidok, I am Nanapush, witness of disasters, friend of folly, a man of the turtle clan, a son of old Mirage whose great deeds brought our people back to life. I am one hundred percent pure Anishinaabeg and I speak my language and the English both. But today, that English language tastes foul, tastes rancid in my mouth, for it is the language in which we are, as always, deceived. Lies are manufactured in that English language. All the treaties are written in English, are they not? In its wording our land is stolen. All the labels on the whiskey bottles are in English, do you agree? When we drink from the English bottles we piss away our minds. How can we speak English when the truth lies heavy on our Ojibwe tongues?

“You have made free with your laughter. You have subjected this dress, which my wife has made, to derision and to ridicule. You have satisfied yourselves at the expense of this piece of clothing I am wearing. Now let us speak of where it came from — the spirits. Let us speak of the decision before us — which also involves the spirits. Let us speak of my wife, Margaret, who is also called Rushes Bear. For the spirits, again, have called on her. Let us speak of her vision.

“This vision occurred to Margaret in the bush where the trees grow thick, near our cabin. That is when she saw the making of this dress, which some of you know was made with nothing ever touched by the chimookomaanag. This dress is sacred. This dress was made with healing in mind. So how, you wonder, did old Nanapush come to wear it?