Green Grass, Running Water Read online

  GREEN GRASS,

  RUNNING WATER

  By

  THOMAS

  KING

  JUST FOR HELEN

  who will not think less

  of me for having written it.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  My thanks to the Jerome Foundation for a summer travel grant that allowed me to roam around southern Alberta and points west to talk with people about oral literature, and to the Ucross Foundation, which provided me with a month-long residency where the first draft of this novel was written.

  Thanks to Buzz and Judy Webb for the generous use of their oceanfront studio, where parts of the novel rolled in and rolled out.

  Special thanks to Martin Heavyhead, Leroy Littlebear, and Narcisse Blood for their friendship over the years and for the hospitality they have always afforded me.

  And to Alan Kilpatrick and Ada:lagh(a)dhi´:ya, wado.

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Green Grass, Running Water

  Part One

  Part Two

  Part Three

  Part Four

  About the Author

  Praise for Green Grass, Running Water

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  So.

  In the beginning, there was nothing. Just the water.

  Coyote was there, but Coyote was asleep. That Coyote was asleep and that Coyote was dreaming. When that Coyote dreams, anything can happen.

  I can tell you that.

  So, that Coyote is dreaming and pretty soon, one of those dreams gets loose and runs around. Makes a lot of noise.

  Hooray, says that silly Dream, Coyote dream. I’m in charge of the world. And then that Dream sees all that water.

  Oh, oh, says that noisy Dream. This is all wrong. Is that water we see? that silly Dream says to those dream eyes.

  It’s water, all right, says those Dream Eyes.

  That Coyote Dream makes many sad noises, and those noises are loud and those noises wake up Coyote.

  “Who is making all that noise and waking me up?” says Coyote.

  “It’s that noisy dream of yours,” I says. “It thinks it is in charge of the world.”

  * * *

  I am in charge of the world, says that silly Dream.

  “Perhaps you could be a little quieter,” says Coyote. “I am trying to sleep.”

  Who are you? says that Dream. Are you someone important?

  “I’m Coyote,” says Coyote. “And I am very smart.”

  I am very smart, too, says that Dream. I must be Coyote.

  “No,” says Coyote. “You can’t be Coyote. But you can be a dog.”

  Are dogs smart? says that Dream.

  “You bet,” says Coyote. “Dogs are good. They are almost as good as Coyote.”

  Okay, says that Dream. I can do that.

  But when that Coyote Dream thinks about being a dog, it gets everything mixed up. It gets everything backward.

  “That looks like trouble to me,” I says.

  “Hmmm,” says Coyote. “You could be right.”

  “That doesn’t look like a dog at all,” I tell Coyote.

  “Hmmm,” says Coyote. “You could be right.”

  I am god, says that Dog Dream.

  “Isn’t that cute,” says Coyote. “That Dog Dream is a contrary. That Dog Dream has everything backward.”

  But why am I a little god? shouts that god.

  “Not so loud,” says Coyote. “You’re hurting my ears.”

  I don’t want to be a little god, says that god. I want to be a big god!

  “What a noise,” says Coyote. “This dog has no manners.”

  Big one!

  “Okay, okay,” says Coyote. “Just stop shouting.”

  There, says that GOD. That’s better.

  “Now you’ve done it,” I says.

  “Everything’s under control,” says Coyote. “Don’t panic.”

  * * *

  Where did all that water come from? shouts that GOD.

  “Take it easy,” says Coyote. “Sit down. Relax. Watch some television.”

  But there is water everywhere, says that GOD.

  “Hmmm,” says Coyote. “So there is.”

  “That’s true,” I says. “And here’s how it happened.”

  “What do you think, Lionel? Maybe something in blue?” Norma began pulling pieces of carpet out of her purse and placing them on her lap. She stuck the larger pieces on the dashboard. “I like the green, too.”

  Lionel could feel his eyes start to settle. The radio would have helped him stay awake, but it had stopped working months before.

  “What color do you think your mother will choose?”

  “Wouldn’t hold my breath.”

  “Band council’s already voted the money.”

  “They’ve done that before,” said Lionel, and he reached up and pinched his cheek.

  “Well, I’m going to order the blue. It reminds me of the sky. Going to get money to paint the house, too.”

  “Wouldn’t hold my breath.”

  “Council is even talking about paving the lease road. Asphalt, all the way. I was at the meeting.”

  “What happened? Council run out of dirt and gravel?”

  Norma shook her head. “Lionel, if you weren’t my sister’s boy, and if I didn’t see you born with my own eyes, I would sometimes think you were white. You sound just like those politicians in Edmonton. Always telling us what we can’t do.”

  Lionel lowered the visor. It didn’t help. “Blue is probably the best, auntie.”

  “I don’t know,” said Norma. “The green’s nice too. Don’t want to make a mistake, you know.” She ran her hand over the carpet. “You make a mistake with carpet, and you got to live with it for a long time.”

  “Everybody makes mistakes, auntie.”

  “Best not to make one with carpet.”

  This according to the Lone Ranger:

  “Okay,” said the Lone Ranger, “is everybody ready?”

  “Hawkeye doesn’t have a nice shirt,” said Ishmael.

  “He can have one of mine,” said Robinson Crusoe.

  “The red one?”

  “Yes.”

  “The red one with the palm trees?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t forget the jacket,” said Ishmael.

  “I won’t.”

  “You forgot it last time.”

  “Did I?”

  “What about the light?” said Robinson Crusoe.

  “We’ll turn it on later,” said Ishmael.

  “And the apology?” said Hawkeye.

  “Coyote can do that,” said the Lone Ranger. “Okay, are we ready now?”

  “Whose turn is it?” said Ishmael.

  “Mine,” said the Lone Ranger.

  “Are you sure?” said Robinson Crusoe. “Maybe it’s Hawkeye’s turn.”

  “No,” said the Lone Ranger. “Hawkeye has already had a turn.”

  “Maybe it’s Ishmael’s turn.”

  “Ready,” said the Lone Ranger. “Here we go.”

  “Once upon a time . . .”

  “What are you doing?” said Hawkeye.

  “Okay, I’ll begin again,” said the Lone Ranger.

  “Okay,” said Ishmael.

  “Okay,” said Robinson Crusoe.

  “Okay,” said Hawkeye.

  “A long time ago in a faraway land . . .”

  “Not this again,” said Ishmael.

  “Okay, I’ll begin again,” said the Lone Ranger.
“Are we ready?”

  “Yes. We are all ready.”

  “Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Many moons come chucka . . . hahahahahahahahahahaha.”

  “Perhaps Hawkeye should tell the story.”

  “Perhaps Ishmael should tell the story.”

  “Perhaps Robinson Crusoe should tell the story.”

  “I’m okay now,” said the Lone Ranger.

  “Do you remember how to start?”

  “Yes, I remember.”

  “Can we begin?”

  “Yes. We should begin.”

  “In the beginning, God created the heaven and the earth. And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep—”

  “Wait a minute,” said Robinson Crusoe.

  “Yes?”

  “That’s the wrong story,” said Ishmael. “That story comes later.”

  “But it’s my turn,” said the Lone Ranger.

  “But you have to get it right,” said Hawkeye.

  “And,” said Robinson Crusoe, “you can’t tell it all by yourself.”

  “Yes,” said Ishmael. “Remember what happened last time?”

  “Everybody makes mistakes,” said the Lone Ranger.

  “Best not to make them with stories.”

  “Oh, okay,” said the Lone Ranger.

  “Gha!” said the Lone Ranger. “Higayv:ligé:i.”

  “That’s better,” said Hawkeye. “Tsane:hlanv:hi.”

  “Listen,” said Robinson Crusoe. “Hade:lohó:sgi.”

  “It is beginning,” said Ishmael. “Dagvyá:dhv:dv:hní.”

  “It is begun well,” said the Lone Ranger. “Tsada:hnó:nedí: niga:v duyughodv: o:sdv.”

  “Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Dr. Joseph Hovaugh sat at his desk and rolled his toes in the soft, deep-pile carpet. The desk was large, one of his wife’s auction discoveries, a rare example of colonial woodcraft. She had had it stripped, repaired, stained blond, and moved into his office as a surprise. He was delighted, he said, and he praised her eye for having found so massive a piece of wood. It reminded him of a tree cut down to the stump.

  He had of late cultivated the habit of sitting behind his desk and staring out the window onto the grounds of the hospital. It was a way to collect his thoughts, a way to get ready for the week. Every day, he sat a little longer. There was no harm in it. He was tired, getting older, becoming reflective.

  The front of the hospital was a long expanse of white stucco, brilliant and warm. Behind the wall, the willows were beginning to get their leaves, the cherry trees were heavy with pink and white blossoms, the evergreens stood dark and velvet against the stone. Yellow daffodils lined the front of the flower beds, and the wisteria and the lilacs around the arbors were greening up nicely. Dr. Hovaugh sat in his chair behind his desk and looked out at the wall and the trees and the flowers and the swans on the blue-green pond in the garden, and he was pleased.

  The knock, a sharp rap, barely gave Dr. Hovaugh time to swivel back toward the door and bring Mary into focus.

  “Good morning, Mary. What do we have for today?”

  “The police are downstairs.”

  “The police?”

  “Yes, sir . . . the Indians.”

  “The Indians?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Again?”

  Dr. Hovaugh turned back to the window. He stretched both his hands out on the desk and pushed down as if he expected to move it.

  “Look at that, Mary. It’s spring again. Garden looks good, eh? Everything’s green. Everything’s alive. You know, I thought I might get a pair of peacocks. What do you think?”

  Mary stood in the middle of the room unsure of what to do. Dr. Hovaugh seemed to shrink behind the desk as though it were growing, slowly and imperceptibly enveloping the man.

  “The Indians,” he said.

  “They’re just gone,” said Mary. “Like before. They’ll be back.”

  Dr. Hovaugh turned away from the window. Perhaps he should move the desk out and get another that didn’t seem so rooted and permanent.

  “I shall probably need John, Mary.” Dr. Hovaugh leaned on the desk and spoke each word slowly, as if he were trying to remember exactly what he wanted to say. “Find me John.”

  Alberta Frank leaned on the podium and watched Henry Dawes fall asleep.

  “In 1874, the U. S. Army began a campaign of destruction aimed at forcing the southern Plains tribes onto reservations. The army systematically went from village to village burning houses, killing horses, and destroying food supplies. They pursued the Cheyenne, Kiowa, Comanche, and the Arapaho relentlessly into one of the worst winters of the decade. Starvation and freezing conditions finally forced the tribes to surrender.”

  “Professor Frank, what was that date?”

  “Eighteen seventy-four.”

  “Who were the tribes again?”

  “The Cheyenne, Kiowa, Comanche, and Arapaho.”

  “How do you spell Arapaho?”

  “Look it up in your book. Now, as the tribes came in, the army separated out certain individuals who were considered to be dangerous. Some were troublemakers in the eyes of the army. Some were thought to have been involved in raids. Others were simply leaders opposed to the reservation system.

  “The army identified seventy-two such individuals, and when the rest of the people were sent to reservations, these Indians were chained to wagons and taken to Fort Sill in what is now Oklahoma. There they were put on a train and sent to Florida.”

  “Florida?” said John Collier. “That doesn’t sound too bad.”

  “They were imprisoned at Fort Marion, an old Spanish fort in Saint Augustine.”

  “Oh, bummer.”

  “The man responsible for the Indians at Fort Marion was an army lieutenant, a Richard Pratt. As a way to help to reduce the boredom of confinement, Pratt provided the men with drawing materials, ledger books, and colored pencils. Some of the prisoners began producing drawings that depicted the battles that they had fought with the army and with other tribes. They also drew pictures about their life on the plains, and some even drew pictures of their life in prison. Collectively, these drawings are known as Plains Indian Ledger Art.”

  Alberta pressed the button and the first slide flashed on the screen. “This is a drawing by Little Chief, a Cheyenne. It’s titled ‘Chasing Two Osage.’

  “This is one by Squint Eyes, another Cheyenne. It depicts a battle between the Cheyenne and the army.

  “Here’s a drawing by a Kiowa artist, a man named Etahleuh. This drawing shouldn’t need an explanation.”

  Alberta worked her way through the slides. Henry Dawes was sound asleep at the back of the room, his head wrapped up in his arms. Mary Rowlandson and Elaine Goodale were bent over, their heads locked together. Hannah Duston and John Collier had moved their desks together again, and were virtually in each other’s laps. Helen Mooney was sitting in the front row, writing down every word Alberta uttered.

  “This drawing is called ‘On the Warpath.’ It was done by a Cheyenne called Making Medicine.” Alberta raised her voice sharply. “Some of these will probably be on the test.”

  Henry Dawes’s head rolled out of his arms. Mary and Elaine glanced up from their conversation.

  “Mr. Dawes, do you see anything unusual in these drawings?”

  Henry blinked his eyes like an owl caught out in the light.“Well . . . I don’t know exactly what you want . . . Those slides, huh? Well, they’re not very well done.”

  “How so, Mr. Dawes?”

  “Well, I mean, they’re kind of like stick figures. You know, like kids draw.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Dawes.”

  “Sure. And the colors are kinda unusual too.”

  “The colors?”

  “The browns, I mean. Seems like everyone liked to use browns and reds a lot. Together, I mean. All the
time. Maybe it was traditional or something like that.”

  Alberta sighed. Friday afternoon. She showed the last two slides, one by White Horse and another depicting the meeting of Indian and white culture by a Kiowa named Wohaw.

  “What might we deduce from these drawings? Do they tell us anything about the people who did them or the world in which they lived?”

  There was a wonderful, rich silence. Alberta looked at her watch. “Well then, do you have any questions?”

  “These Indians. Did any of them escape?”

  “From Fort Marion?”

  “Yeah. Did any of them get away?”

  “No.”

  “They just sat around and drew pictures?”

  “Not all of them drew. So far as we know, none of the Comanche produced any drawings. Of the seventy-one prisoners, only twenty-six are known to have drawn.”

  Helen Mooney raised her hand, her head glued to her notepad. “I believe you said there were seventy-two prisoners?”

  “That’s right,” said Alberta. “There were seventy-two to begin with. However, on the trip to Fort Marion, a Cheyenne named Gray Beard was shot and killed.”

  Henry Dawes was still awake. “Did he try to kill a guard or something?”

  “No, he jumped out of the window of the train.”

  “So, one of them did try to escape.”

  “Not exactly.”

  “But he jumped out the window.”

  “He had chains on his hands and legs.”

  “And they shot him?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Oh, bummer.”

  “I should mention, too,” said Alberta, “that one of the prisoners was a woman. But she didn’t do any drawings.”

  “What did she do?” said Elaine Goodale. “I mean, why did they throw her in prison?”

  “She was the wife of one of the prisoners. Any other questions?”

  Mary Rowlandson rolled her lips together and slid a pencil under her nose. “Do we have to know all these guys’ names? I mean, will they all be on the test?”

  “There’s always that chance, Ms. Rowlandson.”

  “But what if we know who they are but can’t spell their names exactly right?”

  “You probably won’t get exactly all the points.”

  Alberta closed the folder and turned on the lights. “We’ll finish this on Wednesday. Don’t forget, next week we’re back in Canada with the Métis in Manitoba and Saskatchewan. I’m sure I don’t have to remind you that Monday is a holiday. Have a good weekend.”