He felt like stifling. Every so
often he glanced somehow disgusted at the stubby fingers of the man beside him.
He pictured them soaked in sauce and oil at some gluttonous meal. All this time
he was fretting more than ever, straining his mind in the hope of a late
redemption. The man with the grey moustache wearing a blue uniform would be
eating and laughing with his wife, while he–
”Move, you sonofabitch!” a voice came from behind.
It was a lanky guy with glasses and a wooden forehead
crossed by a shadow darkening his whole face. They called him Pudding because
he was the most frightened of them all, though he didn’t like to show it. He
couldn’t stare into the eyes of the doomed. He would swirl his gaze up to the
ceiling where it would get stuck in the cobwebs. When it was over, his gaze
would come back down in his purple orbits honoring them with a bit of humanity.
The other guy’s name was Stubs, well-known for his volcanic temper and racial
prejudices. He has been employed there only two years ago, but you’d say he was
born there from the dust on the floor, each box bestowed with a piece of his
darken soul. They called them ‘boxes’ to alleviate the circumstances.
Every step hurt, stinging him. He knew he was coming to an
end, to a „last journey”, as his grandfather – the great sage of the community
– used to say. He loved his grandfather more than anything, an old man clad in
buffalo skins who would ponder in the evenings on the riverbank and beckon the
birds. He remembered a story he told before the ceremony of his elder brother.
One day a child was born bearing a birthmark, not a good omen because it
foresaw a tumultuous life, full of mishaps. Still, his destiny wasn’t to be
deprived of majestic joys. He would help many people and get precious rewards.
The moment he was born, an owl perched on a branch above his mother, in broad
daylight, and uttered a strange sound, like a wail, then spread its wings and
scattered a silvery dust on the baby’s cheek. They called him Owl Wings ever
since. The great learners of the tribe read in the tree bark that the owl was
his lucky charm animal that would protect him every step of the way. So
it was when your mother was due. Remember, my boy, you’re not just anyone. You
are meant to be a warrior like your father, The Great Raven. Now, his
grandfather’s words echoed feebly in his mind, like a breeze over an empty
nest.
“Can’t you see, he looks as if already toasted”, Stubs
jeered and broke off sullenly seeing his partner’s unruffled soberness.
Pudding tensed his shoulders and sighed.
“You have absolutely no sense of humor”, the moustache man
muttered, then started to hum: Today it smells like fry, today’s your lucky
day…
Only the metal sound of the shoes click-clacking on the
floor and the rattle of the chains cut through the stillness of the hallway.
Owl Wings closed his eyes. He pictured a sweltering summer day. A humming
caressed his ears. Walking towards a nearby creek, he felt the grass under his
feet, but some burden thwarted him, so he just smelled the perfume of the
flowers and marveled at the clouds scattered in the sky. Somebody called him
from behind a cluster of trees. He could only discern a woman’s shape who
beckoned him with her finger. Hadn’t he been pinned to that field, he’d have
gone to her. Eventually, he knew who she was. She was Wild Rain, the only one
who knew how to shoot an arrow better than every young her age. He was
mesmerized by her finely-shaped thin lips and her tawny long hair that
half-covered her cheeks like a shield so that her fearsome beauty shouldn’t
chase away all her suitors. She was alive and young, waiting for him. Only him,
in the secret place. He’d never known someone like her.
“Yo! What’re you chewing? Give me some.”
“It’s a mint. You don’t want it, it’s bad for your diet.”
“Don’t get cheeky, Pudding.”
“And you said I had no sense of humor. Hey, you redskin,
move! Why’d you stop?”
Owl Wings jumped, then started to trudge wearily along the
endless hallway.
*
It was mid-August when he met the American. His grandfather
had just finished his prayer to the heavens. He spotted him while he was
staring idly into the distance. First he was a dot, then a stain that sliced
the horizon. He grew curious and headed that way with a spear in his hand. Then
he saw him: a young man in his twenties, a paleface with tattered clothes. He’s
been badly wounded in some ambush and barely managed to crawl up to their
village. The man raised his head and, despite his fear, cried in his language:
“Help!” He couldn’t understand a word in English, but this one he understood: a
word wrenched off of an endless despair. He helped him get up and offered him
his shoulder. In his family, there was always this silent war with “the white
skins” which had troubled them for so long in the past, burned their villages,
raped their women, and stole their dignity. While he was helping one of them,
he thought with horror what would Chieftain Eagle Eye say, finding that the
grandson of the much revered Black Wolf had saved the life of an enemy.
He had to lie. But what could he tell them? The American was
shaking and every so often muttered something in a low voice. His walk grew
harder and harder. “He limps like an sick dog”, Owl Wings thought. “I should
let him die for all the evil his ancestors did to us”. But he couldn’t. Ever
since childhood he’d been scolded for being gentle like a woman. He would look
after the sick animals. He had this dream of acquiring their language.
His elder brothers came up to them, armed with bows and
stones. He waved them to stop and lay the American in the grass that swayed
gently into the evening breeze. He knew by heart the words they exchanged
into that sunset when his life was about to change forever:
”What have you done? Why did you bring the white devil on
our land?”
“He’s just a man who needs help as I see it.”
“Let him die like the worm that he is!”
“Brother, I love you and honor you, but I’m the eldest and
you’ll listen to me.”
“You may be the eldest, still our father has the final say.
Beware, Owl Wings, this will be the beginning of your end.”
During the meeting of the Elders Council he sat beside the
young American who was unconscious. When he touched his forehead, he felt it
hot. That heat filled his bones, tying him mysteriously to that stranger. A
trickle of blood fell from the lips of the dying man and dripped on his
fingers. He was never aware of the sacred pact he signed in that blood ever
since.
No one was on his side. He pleaded with Dark Wolf to treat
him and promised that he will work harder instead of roaming the fields. He
sobbed until the old man agreed to bring to life that man who slept between the
worlds. In that crucial moments, the soul was traveling between life and death.
And because they were sworn brothers, Eagle Eye gave him the blessing. The
wounds were cleaned and rinsed with the water in which healing herbs had
boiled. The bullet had missed his heart. Sharp objects had scratched his face
and arms. After hours of struggle and prayers, the American opened his eyes. He
put his hands together and, with shadowed eyes, thanked the women gathered
around him.
He thanked him differently, though. He hugged him. Fell to
his knees and kissed his feet. And that kiss sealed the bond between their
souls. The gratitude he felt towards those who saved his life appeased the
sages of the tribe. Richard began helping them, sharing with them the
advantages of one who belonged to the civilized world. He learned them survival
tricks and built them a stable for horses and cows. He fed the birds, cleaned
the houses and joined the women’s chores, weaving baskets and taking care of
the new-born babies, much to the amusement of the young girls who secretly
mocked him. He never spoke of what had brought him on their lands and who had
made him suffer so much. He only told them that some unrighteous men shot at
him, then assailed him as punishment for something he hadn’t done. Nor did they
ever ask or try to rummage through his past. Once accepted, you leave
everything behind, just like a snake which sheds an old skin. No one needed
drab clothes.
“Well, all white people are the same,” his brother muttered
sometimes, “they even kill each other.” Tiger Lip always thought the American a
potential threat, ready to go off just out of the blue.
Their friendship grew stronger with every word they learned
from each other’s language. Richard first learned the names of the family
members. He articulated them very carefully as if his lips were holding some
frail fortune. To Owl Wings, English seemed like his second language that he
learned with unusual ease.
“You were a white devil in some other life”, his mother –
the most gentle woman in the tribe – teased him. She was fond of the American,
too, even secretly in love with him. He took him in by their laws, arousing the
jealousy of her sons and the displeasure of the chieftains. Sometimes, years
later, he would take Richard’s side in arguments, praising him for his
dissenting nature.
In spite of his humbleness towards the elders, Richard
always felt a second heart beating inside him. Together they pilfered
fruits from the nearby tribes and ventured in mysterious places; they defied
the ancestral laws and tamed the wild animals. It was no wonder they saw
Richard in front of Panther Voice, the chieftain’s daughter, juggling with four
oranges. They fell in love with each other before Eagle Eye could knit his
eyebrows in anger. Twenty lashes that gouged his back couldn’t abate her love
for him, either. Finally, the father agreed. But he fell sick after the wedding
and requested to be replaced. Slanderous tongues said it was the curse of the
white man brought upon by Richard’s blood. When Panther Voice gave birth to a
dead child, black rumors fell over the community like a plague. One day, with a
voice sprung from some other body that was forgotten in a far-away land, he
said to him in sadness:
“Forgive me, but I can’t stay here any longer. I belong to
some other place, I miss my own. I want to take you with me. Come, little
brother, come with me in Boston.”
He tried to change his mind, but all his efforts were in
vain. His sworn brother was ready to leave the land that sheltered him for
seven years and the people to whose goodwill his life had gone depended on. The
woman who became his wife begged him in tears to stay with the tribe for her
sake. She scraped her knees in the soil of the hoof-trodden roads hoping that
Richard would look back, impressed by her wounds. But the American kept his
gaze ahead… And he followed him like a faithful horse, burying his origins in
the mists of time.
The city shriveled his courage and his inocence. The sky-scrapers,
the high heels, the purses, the noisy cars, the fast-foods… all these opened a
huge void inside, draining him of his happiness. The first time he laid eyes on
a skyscraper he thought it was a monster and threw himself over Richard to
protect him from the ominous intents of the beast. But the American laughed at
his naivety. A hearty laugh after many months of mourning. They both jot jobs
at a bakery where Richard knew a plump man with a moustache. If Richard hadn’t
convinced his father to take them in with him, they wouldn’t have been able to
lead a decent life off their meager wages. They hadn’t spoken for seven years,
but the old man needed the hands of another man to take care of his household.
Rancor was a luxury he couldn’t afford.
There were nights he’d have given everything to turn back to
his people, but knew the town ensnared him and wouldn’t let him go too soon. He
steadily gave up his feathered hat and braids to the displeasure of the other
employees at the bakery who were now left without their main source of
laughter. He bought a pair of jeans and a jacket like the ones cowboys wore in
the western movies. He took up smoking to impress the dyed-hair girls and he
was baptized a new name: Phil. Wild Rain, the only woman he ever loved, was to
become a ghostly presence like some blurred shadow behind a curtain.
His existence as a modern man grew over the next three
years. Richard had changed. Their past frolics were over, so was the joyfulness
of youth. Only a dying echo remained – a bee buzzing past the ear of a sleeping
man. His brother kept searching for something, a part of him lost in the place
he left a decade ago. He asked him many times who had hurt him, why he ended up
in a tribe of native Amerindians, but his answer was always blunt:
“I told you I don’t want to talk about it, Phil. The story
is too painful.”
*
One night, Richard received a strange phone call. He heard
him from the living room:
“Who are you? How do you know? I’ll… no! It was ten years
ago… You bastard, you won’t do it! Why… yes. There…I should have known it was
you… Ok, I’ll meet you in front of the depot.”
Richard’s face had gone white. Hadn’t he known about the law
of nature, Owl Wings would have thought his friend long dead.
“Who was that? What did he want?”
Richard searched for something in a drawer and got out
without a word. Next day he was woken up by a rapping at his door. He swung the
latch. Three policemen barged in, throwing him on the floor and searching
him. The questions started:
“Where were you last night between eight and ten o’clock?”
It was a nightmare, a misunderstanding.
“I was here with Richard Holmes’s father. He can back it
up.”
“Oh, he speaks English!” jeered the policeman who pinned
him.
“So you know nothing of your friend’s death. He was found
shot in the head near the depot on Grey Street.”
It felt surreal. His gaze blurred, making the whole scene in
front of him look like a bad dream. He fainted.
Later, he opened his eyes to a cold room where he was lying
on a dirty bed, dressed in some kind of pijamas. There they came and took him
for questioning. The torture in those moments brought up memories he
wasn’t even aware of. He was beaten, spit upon and humiliated. Suddenly, the
fact that he didn’t belong there cast him to the side of humanity. But he
didn’t judge them, didn’t even hate them. He couldn’t help thinking of the
unrighteous fate that parted him from his sworn brother. That night when
Richard had answered the phone had been the last time he’d seen him alive. They
wouldn’t let him sing Haoa Thatthaa, nor wipe his blood as he once did. The
American ran like a coward and died amongst his own, the “white skins”. This
time the bullet ripped his flesh and nobody stitched it. All secrets were
buried with him. He never understood why he didn’t share them, why their souls
failed to coalesce and why Richard had chosen to die alone…
***
“They call it ‘the death row, you knew that?”
The Indian stopped. He was staring idly, unheeding.
“Do you think he’s afraid?”, Stubs asked, smirking.
“Who wouldn’t be, in his place?”
“Me. If I was him, I’d have gone through fire and hell, like
a real man.”
Pudding smiled peacefully and put his hand on the back of
the man with long black hair.
“Come on, let’s go.”
Owl Wings started to walk slowly, trudging his bare feet on
the cold floor, cold like an arctic sea of death. Had I wore any shoes, I’d
have been sorry to part with them.
All pain left him. He felt a numbing on top of his head.
How would it be like beyond? My grandpa told me it’s like
when you wake up in the morning and you’re still clinging to the realm of
dreams. You don’t know which reality you belong to. A silver cloud ensconces
you and you’re a child again, not crawling, but floating. You’re again happy
and carefree until a man in fox or wolf skin comes along and tells you what you
did wrong in your past life. At the end of the lecture you’re brought in a
waiting room that has a buffalo head painted over the entrance. You wait until
a new life is given to you, as man or animal.
What if grandpa was wrong? What if it all ends here… here,
at the end of the hallway?
*
They came in front of a bleak door, guarded by two limp
goons. As if on cue, they spread apart, letting all three of them to enter into
the dark insides of the room. They unchained him, then pushed him into the
black chair. They tied his hands and covered his head with something like an
octopus meant to suck up his pain. In front of him, a bunch of people separated
by a brackish sheet threw him hateful arrows from bloody eyes. Among them he
saw the old man Holmes. He shouted out some curse. Why were all against
him? What harm has he done to them?
He sighed, blowing out the last candle placed at the head of
his soul, lit by the shadow of his ancestors. He remembered the hot kiss of his
mother caressing his forehead, and his fingers scrabbling through the sand. It
was the day when he was promised the key to the kingdom of butterflies if he’d
behave. He missed the plains reddened by the sunset, he missed his sorrel. He
wanted to run, to lose his trace in a thick forest. He was thirsty… he wished
he had drunk water from a pond. But there were no ponds there, only locked-up
boxes.
All of a sudden, a breeze from nowhere tickled his nostrils.
He felt the weight that pinned him down turning into a strange feeling as if a
tree would sprout up from inside, stretching its branches through his arms. An
astonishing pain shriveled his shoulders. He looked around, thinking that
someone had pushed his fists down on him, but everyone sat now at a safe
distance. A figure was getting ready to pull the switch. The weight
intensified. He started shaking and his body fell on the floor. It was impossible,
he knew it. Still, he wasn’t in the chair anymore. Something grew out of him,
rising.
***
“Yo, are you nuts? Who am I working with? I’ll sack you, you
jacklegs!”
Pudding kneaded his hands. His face was white and he looked
visibly thinner.
“I knew you wouldn’t believe us, mister Warden.”
“You’re pulling my leg, lads. You let a prisoner escape
right before his execution.”
“A-a-ask Stubs, sir, he was there too.”
The man in the uniform coughed nervously, then faltered:
“Yea, I was there… they was about to pull the lever, to
start the machine. Then it happened. A blinding light flooded the room. When we
came to, he was gone. We held the witnesses responsible, one of them might be
hiding him. We even shoved some of them. You know me, I’m straight as an arrow.
We searched until we got to his box. We opened it and… an owl flew off. It just
stood there in the dark. It took off, just like that. Tony swore the bird
whispered a name before getting out through the window: Robert or Richard…
fancy that, the bird spoke!
Stubs burst into laughter. His baleful guffaws echoed along
the hallway sounding like a dying man’s ballad.
– Translated from the Romanian by Dan BUTUZA
