“Visitations.”
“The difference being . . . ?”
“Ah, you have hit upon the very question. The difference being very difficult, almost impossible, to discern in a person unstable and gripped by false visions as she was. She had a remarkable degree of endurance, and tolerated or even welcomed great physical and emotional pain. What she saw, she saw, whether you view her visions as pathological symptoms or as divine gifts is for you to say.”
Jude spoke dryly. “I am sure that a number of mystics would have benefited from a regimen of antidepressants. However, we would all be the poorer.”
“That is why,” continued Damien, “in the end the discussion will be, should be, made on the basis of heroic virtue. Did she exhibit heroic virtue while nursing the ill, or in her teaching, or perhaps with her sisters? Did she suffer bravely or wisely when afflicted with her illnesses? Was she a good example to her sisters, an inspiration?”
Father Damien winced, then answered himself.
“Not unless her task was to be a holy aversion, a trial, a scourge. I used to call her my hair shirt. Her very existence was an itch. Many a time I pitied her, but Father Jude, I was hard pressed not to hate her as well.”
Jude nodded, made a few notes. “Can you think of instances in which she exhibited a sacramental kindness?”
“No.”
“Come now, even Satan gives alms on occasion.”
“When it is to his advantage. That was the nature of Leopolda’s kindness. I consider that a spurious kindness.”
“Please think,” Jude said in a penetrating tone, for he really had to know whether there was something, anything, she’d done. The light fell golden and raw now, through the moving screen of twigs.
Father Damien thought, and then an odd, sad smile crossed his face.
“Quill,” he said at last. “Quill. Yes. Leopolda was the one who cured Quill’s madness. Sadly, of course, Quill died of the cure.”
“Oh, of course,” Father Jude muttered, throwing down the pen. “Died of the cure!”
“But she was sane when she died, completely clear minded!”
Father Jude picked up his pen again, tapped it on his cheek. “I wish there were one, just one thing that Leopolda did that was not of an ambiguous nature!”
“But that is just exactly what the Puyats are,” said Damien, “not one thing or the other. Contradictory. I told you that you must look at the name and the clan to assess the person, even a mixed blood like Leopolda. For she was shaped by the double nature of her mother, and who knows what else!”
Damien sighed mightily and attempted to gather his energy, puffing slowly until he straightened his chair. “Now that was how Nanapush began their history,” he went on, “I should tell you he was not entirely to be trusted where the Puyats were concerned. He had his motive for spinning a tale to his own ends—he loved to torment Pauline. And whether or not you concede how twisted she became, it was clear to me, after hearing the story again and again from Nanapush in different versions, that the Puyats were subject, as any family on the reservation, to the same great press of forces, and that their clan managed to survive at all was certainly commendable and strange. Still, I’m going to acquaint you with the story, the characters, and then you will see the stuff of which our so-called saint is made!”
With that, Father Damien rummaged in a stack of papers beside him. Eventually, with a short crow of triumph, he thrust into his colleague’s hands a tattered and stained, unevenly typed article addressed to the North Dakota State Historical Society. He muttered as he tore off and crumpled one or two rejection letters, then fondly patted the main body of the text as he handed it over.
HISTORY OF THE PUYATS
BY FATHER DAMIEN MODESTE
* * *
The exploits of my legendary predecessor Father Hugo LaCombe, who passed his youthful nights in a coffin and was revered by his flock for attracting divine luck to the great and rowdy hunts undertaken for buffalo, are in the main well-known. Relying on some letters of his, which I have unearthed, as well as firsthand accounts by Mr. Nanapush, an elderly Ojibwe thoroughly knowledgeable regarding Anishinaabeg history, I would like to add to the collective picture of this region by examining the Puyat family trials. Although the history of the Puyats begins well before Father LaCombe’s time, the central astonishment of their story touches on one event to which he was a witness: a hunt.
From spring to midsummer, the Plains Ojibwe and Michif people killed the buffalo. Hard as was the killing, those deaths were easy compared with the sheer volume of labor it took to skin the beasts and butcher them, dress the meat, and preserve the extra in the form of pemmican. This long-lasting food was their primary winter and travel sustenance. The beast was deboned, cooked, pulverized, mixed with its own rendered tallow and returned to its hairless skin. The huge, fleet, brutal-willed animal was thus concentrated to a form that a woman could carry on her back. Mostly the transformed buffalo were loaded in stacked bales onto wooden Red River oxcarts that screamed and groaned as they moved across the violently flat plains.
Upon the topmost of these bales, in the partial history I now recount, there rode a young girl in whom the bitterness of seven generations of peasant French and an equal seven of enemy-harassed Ojibwe ancestors were concentrated. Her parents, the mother a crane clan girl of fretful, peaceless energy, and her father, small and arrogant with Montreal-based spleen, positively hated each other. At the same time, they could not abide the frustrations of separation. Their child, created of spilled-over complexity and given the French name Pauline according to the father’s wish, seethed in the high noon sun and considered the tedium of their slow and inevitable progress so impossible that she was almost glad, when spotting a party of Bwaanag, a source of mortal hatred, to call out her find from the top of the bale of skins.
The band of Ojibwe and French-Indian Michifs halted in alarm. All who could shoot well were armed and arranged behind cover. The Bwaanug did the same and for hours, without a shot being fired, the two enemy camps exchanged volleys of shouted insults increasing in amazed fury and filth, which of course neither side could understand as they had no language in common, but which did vastly increase the knowledge of the children and their accompanying priest. Good Father LaCombe, whose job it was to bless the hunt, found himself in the middle of an enmity so old that even his holy presence wasn’t sufficient to cause the women to contain their contempt. All he could do was to break up his candles and knead the beeswax into plugs, which he stuffed into the children’s ears and his own. Ever after, the first Pauline’s memory of what followed was mainly a soundless vision—although of course, soon as she could, she removed the beeswax plugs.
She saw at one point her enraged mother, pained to madness by the memory of her brothers’ loss to the Bwaanag, climb the bales and throw off her skirts. Pointing to her nakedness and flaunting it boldly, she screamed a challenge so foul and instantly understandable that a Bwaan rushed from cover and was nearly killed, one bullet clipping his ear half off and the other bullet shattering a wooden club that flew from his hand so that he sensibly retreated. The two sides again resorted to shouting, but it was clear, by then, that both parties were returning from successful hunting and were not only low on ammunition but more interested in supplying their home camps with meat than in taking revenge. Still, in retaliation for that bold Anishinaabekwe’s affront, a Bwaan woman of equal fury lifted her buckskins and cried a challenge in her own language and in so severe and scathing a manner that one of the men from Pauline’s camp leaped forward out of cover and was seriously wounded in the thigh. Pauline’s mother threw herself high up the bales and now other women did as well, so that the cacophony of insults exchanged became at once an earsplitting din and the men, seeing their half-naked wives frothing wild, began to think they were by contrast the more restrained and rational.
The first Pauline’s father in particular was disgusted by his wife’s display. In fact, he became at length so crazed with i
rritation that he raised a white flag, the symbolism of which long had been learned from the protocol of the U.S. Cavalry, and he walked unarmed to the center of the field. Being French, and of French traders, he knew enough of the Bwaan language to make himself understood. When he raised his hands, a curious silence fell. He spoke to both sides.
“We are not war parties! Hear me! We are laden with meat to survive. Both of our caravans would be wise to depart in peace. But since it is our hotheaded women who are looking to shed blood, and as we are French and Ojibwe men who always satisfy our women, let two of the women race to the death. The winner of the race, we all agree, shall have the other’s life. After this is accomplished, we will go our separate directions and meet to fight, as men and warriors, another day.”
The child heard this speech by her father with an inner sense of glee, as did the others in the camp, for all knew that Pauline’s mother was a superb and unbested runner. She had, in fact, challenged the young men who came to court her to footraces, claiming that she would not stoop to marry a man who could not beat her. She vowed she would marry the one who could. Her boast was the reason she eventually wed the unprepossessing, even ugly, deer-legged, voyageur who was her much despised husband. He had embarrassed her by winning, a bad way to start a marriage. Her swiftness had only increased since that day, as had his own. Although, at his speech, her pride rose up instantly, she experienced an inner pang that he, the father of her child, could so arrogantly put up her life. What if there were by chance a better runner among the Bwaan women? Anger beat its wing inside of her. As she walked to the race ground to take her place, she decided to lose the race. In pride before his compatriots, her man would have to offer up his life for her own. At last, and how well he deserved it, she would be rid of him!
The enemy camps, having laid down their weapons, ranged to either side of a finish mark. The Bwaan woman who was to race was short of leg but light boned. Both women wore dresses of light calico. At the starting point, they divested themselves of what might hamper them—the Bwaan woman wore a long bone breastplate, a clapperless cowbell, a cradle board into which a fat infant was bound. Both women put down their skinning knives; over the razor-edged slender blades of steel their eyes met briefly in opaque agreement. They turned away. Pauline’s mother carefully lifted strand after strand of trader’s beads over her head—those beads, from Africa and Venice, Bohemia and Quechee, Vermont, she put into her daughter’s hands. She unbuckled a wide belt of bull leather studded with brass, but did not remove from her ears the shining cones dripping small tinklers of German silver, so that, when the women began to run, her mother’s swift progress began with light music that silenced in the smooth wind of her movement.
Running, that first Pauline’s mother felt a tremendous ease and freedom. The earth purred underneath her makizinan that day. She reached the turn a bit before her desperate opponent, picked up the stick she was to take with one swift movement, and in returning found it very hard to force herself to lose.
When she did, Pauline, though treated by her mother with no kindness, heard as if from outside herself an animal howl that tore her chest. The incredible noise ripped her breath out by the roots. Her lungs shut. She fell upon her mother in a haze of yellow spots and clutched her dress so tightly that her fingers pressed through the soft weave and her knuckles ground against her mother’s thighs. It was, then, more the weight of his treasured daughter’s horror than love for his merciless wife or even male pride that caused Pauline’s father to step forward just as the Bwaan woman raised her skinning knife, and to offer, as his wife had known he would, to substitute his own life for hers.
The Bwaan woman drew back, her eyes roamed over the man with the pelt on his chin and the child, equally ugly, who so obviously belonged to him. She wanted very much to kill this woman of the Ojibwe because of her own losses in the immemorial blood feud between their tribes, and because she had sensed, in running beside her, that the woman held back her power and could easily have beaten her. Such an ignominy scorched her stone roaster’s heart. But then, as the child’s grief turned with even more violence upon her father, whom, to be quite frank about it, the girl preferred, the Bwaan woman, recalling the pain of losing her own father at the age of this child, in a nighttime raid by Ojibwe, decided instantly that if she could balance this girl’s grief with her own, like a stick on her finger, she would be solved of her need for revenge.
“Washtay,” she said in her language. She stood aside to let the other woman rise.
A gift for clever thought, a certain talent for talking, a swiftness with the language, became a Puyat trait inherited from this quick Frenchman who then spoke to save his life. He spoke clearly, as though suddenly struck with his idea.
“Of course, if any of you big-bellied Bwaan men can beat me in a running race, then each of you can murder half of me. The woman can have my left side to cut my heart out, and eat it, too, if there’s anything left—after all, my wife has sharpened her teeth on it for years. The man can have my right side because wiinag swings there, long and heavy. When I run, I’m forced to tie it up or it will strike my thigh and bruise me. But today, since this may be the last race I’ll run, I’ll let it gallop free!”
By the time he finished speaking the two sides were laughing and there was no question that the race would occur. The only problem the Bwaanug had was in choosing a runner. There were two, and equally matched. One was a powerful bull-chested hunter with legs that bulged with fabulous muscles, and the other was an ikwe-inini, a woman-man called a winkte by the Bwaanag, a graceful sly boy who sighed, poised with grave nuance, combed his hair, and peered into the tortoiseshell hand mirror that hung around his neck by a rawhide thong. The wife of the hunter refused to let her valued husband risk his life in such a ridiculous game, and she yelled, browbeat, pulled her knife on him herself, while the others were lost in a debate. Was the winkte a man or a woman for the purposes of this race?
Some of the Ojibwe, who judged his catlike stance too threatening, rejected him as a male runner on account of his female spirit. Others were wary of the scowling hunter and argued that as the winkte would run with legs that grew down along either side of a penis as unmistakable as his opponent’s, he was enough of a male to suit the terms. The hunter’s wife finally won, delivering to her husband such a blow with the butt of his own rifle that he fell senseless and gagging. The winkte narrowed eyes rimmed with smoky black, shrugged off a heavy dress of fine-tanned deerhide, and stood, astonishingly pure and lovely, in nothing but a white woman’s lace-trimmed pantalets. At the signal, then, both commenced to race.
They tested each other, pulling a step ahead and dropping a step behind, speeding and slowing to throw the other off pace, and found themselves equally matched. It would be a race of wit as well as strength, then. When to spend the ultimate energy and when to conserve? Draw ahead to the last reserve of strength, in order to discourage the other? Or save some for the final kick? The clever Montrealer decided by the time he grasped the stick at halfway that he’d tag a pace behind and wheeze to confuse his opponent and then in his last lengths, sign of the cross, kiss of God, he’d fly past, surprising the Bwaan, and show him the heels of his feet. This would have worked more easily had not his opponent, whose job it was as a woman to study men and whose immediacy of manhood gave him an uncanny understanding, read the mind of the Frenchman and slowed to conserve his own ability to finish. They both knew, then, that their strategies came down to a hot finale and they each determined to blister straight through their lungs and guts to cross the line ahead and live.
When it came right down to the end, though, the Frenchman had the stronger kick and the winkte, losing by a toe, swiped his dress neatly from the grass and simply kept running, across the broad plains, into the hills. Those who wished to start after him were detained now by Father LaCombe, who, though slow to understand the outcome of the wager and the sequence of events, launched forth a God-inspired tirade that cowed the Michifs and brought th
em to their Catholic senses. As a result, they did not chase the fleeing Bwaan but grudgingly agreed with the priest’s diplomatic statement that the race had been an exact tie. No blood should be spilled.
Yet the Bwaan woman would have satisfaction for her relatives. Lunging forward with one arrowing blur of movement, she slipped her skinning knife beneath the ribs of the Frenchman, Pauline’s father, and drew a sickening arc so that he found, quite suddenly, he was kneeling in prayer, his intestines slowly popping into his hands. And then his daughter was before him trying gently to stuff them back in their exact mysterious intricate folds, but failing even as he crumpled. Leaning sideways, he spilled about himself. Dying, he looked into his daughter’s face and said to her in the clarity of last vision that she must kill her mother.
It was imperishable, the command of the father imposed upon the daughter. And no less the will she had to carry it out. Her intention was forged in the heat of grief and tempered in its freezing aftermath. Though young, the girl now harbored a blade of certainty that waited calmly in her for its chance. Pauline’s mother knew. That is why, one day, with no warning and no word but a filthy cry, she dragged the girl to the shit pile and forced her snarling child face-down and said in a deadly voice, “This is where you’ll be if ever you go against me.”
A mistake, on the mother’s part, to challenge one so like herself.
Ever after, the stink of waste reminded the girl. Her mother pushed Pauline into the fire, next, and so that, too, became an unforgettable piece of the promise. The burns of hot coals on her skin were markers of her duty. As was the soup her mother would not feed her—a bitter absence in her stomach. And the sticks of wood that broke against her legs and over her back. The air that tore open her chest each time she breathed with the broken rib, and bloody snow. The only thing her mother let her eat one winter when the meat was scarce was the bloody snow beneath the death of the animal or its butchering.