Dog Winds

Dog Winds

--- Indian Summer, turned Dog Days ---

Wishwater flinched, a stammered rumbling chill awoke her, in a clinch. She pressed her lips tight at the realization she confronted: It's here! but is somehow a lie! suddenly, all those conspicuous things in her life, now seemed like some wasted arrows gone whooshing by, and all the other people, just insignificant lines of dying cowards:



They're just, so quickly forgotten, like last night's dreams. Then, consideration of the day ahead brings an even more egregious knot in her stomach than does her hunger.

It was the season when Autumn called to Winter: and Winter answered with an early chill at dawn; but right now, immediacy turns as nighttime to another day's light.

Still, and largely unlit, was the westward face of the hill she'd since crossed, and peered back as the sunlight mounted, to present an eastern threshold, illuminating the layers of mists that sift through the valley tree tops, only to vanish when devoured by the approaching day.



Her tenant trepidations, like the morning mists, seemed to stir up the frequent angst, come of anticipating those inevitable intrusive agents, now, that seemed more an injustice; and here again was that strange non-sequitur: remembering, those two absurd men, in the long black coats, and why, or if, they were even real.

These new sucking sensations came unmistakably from her impending death; but death's intrusion was also the removal of her fear of it. She felt downward, for her finger tips somewhere more in their blackening tinge and numbness, as now crept an aching stiffness. Lumps had swollen under both her arms, and still there was the itching, somewhere, and like a dog, she'd picked up fleas.



And yet, was that lingering question of -- The Brave-men warriors: Where were they? Surely, she thought, On horseback, they could have overtaken me by now. And all those other squaws, especially the young ones, would certainly like to see her eliminated: perhaps, they'd pronounced a

'dog' curse, against her!

But, two days and three nights out, and still, no Brave-men had come upon her, to kill her.

Wishwater, glanced back at the new blanket, in which she'd slept so warm, and comfortable; then, at the beautiful War-Vest, it was hers now, hers; although, she'd crafted it to brandish such pride upon the chest of a handsome young Brave-man, called Wolf's Jaw. He could have worn such strength, of courage and victory into any battle, or, to the bedazzlement, of those younger maidens; but, three days ago, Wishwater killed him, and in a most grizzly manner.

---Wishwater considers herself in retrospect : "Made for trouble, no?"

Although she was now somewhat 'older,' Wishwater, was still attractive enough to take the eye of most any man, and, could acquire what ever, things, she'd happen to want. It was not uncommon for Wishwater to parade herself in front of the other tribal women, adorning jewelry, various vanities and other personal frivol or trinkets that used to be theirs, and as if to say to them in a smirk: "Guess, how I got these!"

But, now a pungency issued and brought nausea in the odors, creeping upwards, that Wishwater smelled, herself; and even beyond the tastes of blood, as she gnashed again, her remaining teeth against her bare gums, spat out blood, and cackled as it stirred up the powdery dust in her foot prints:

"I was also, born in the dust! Hah!, The Half-Breed, is still much trouble!"

And because she was physically attractive Wishwater, was shunned by the tribal females and considered to be a curse of sorts, like a prayer, answered in some derision, from

the "spirit-gods": good, but, more so, bad!

"Half-Breed!" : Something Wishwater was accustomed to, and often heard from both, Whites' and her own Tribe's people. (She was result, of an unfortunate rape, involving a three White soldiers and a young Indian girl, caught, while going far, to fetch water.) But, it was in the middle of a prolonged drouth, that her birth fell. And at her customary naming presentation and life blessing, that seemed to consist, somewhere in the slights, of a disinterested drunken Tribal Elder: "We wish for water: but instead, we only get more trouble!" Now, it seemed that her life would also end badly.

But upon recalling this particular vent, in light of her recent actions: she's concluded that, she was somehow destined: that they resulted in these very happenings , and that it must have been the Great Spirits, with some kind of provincial measurement of Justice, come down upon her.

A shadow crosses, as a buzzard glides low and silent, over her head.

And at it's sight, she's wound up once more, a sucking chill stroked down her spine, she feels a feverishness now, and begins to falter and fade somewhat. Wishwater, bows her head, and with both fists clinched and shaking them there in front of herself, she lows her anguish in something of a defiant prayer: "No, no not yet!"

Again and with her remaining teeth she gnashes, to test, but the gnawing pain, this time is more soothing and it reassures her, that, she's yet still alive. Wishwater grabbed the War-Vest and put it on : "Now, I, wear this!"

She looks defiantly, upwards, at the sky, and growls: "I'm still here!", "See! I'm still here!"

The few things that she'd brought to eat, she hurried to gather and rolled up in her new blanket to continue her trek following the sun toward the west, where she'd heard that "The Government, White men," made some sort of a boundary line, and that, if, she could only cross it, there might be protection on the other side. Wishwater hadn't felt much in the way of guilt; but she knew that somehow she would have to answer for what she'd done, or maybe not! Maybe she would even slight death it's self, if she could.

Maybe, the Spirits were on her side this time! but, how could that be so?

She'd killed her young "Brave-man," and companion of only two weeks, with a pair of

sheep-shears...

--- Five days earlier ---

Tribal Capitulation, was after much fighting, lastly by agreement. It was now the official work of deceitful legalistic wranglers, sent by the US. Government, lines of strange men, who carried books, papers and guns, many, many guns. They came marching, on horses and in wagons, but always with lots of soldiers; and the men wearing long coats, they were not like the other men who fight.



Their coats were both black, but they were not the same as each other. One's outfit was new, perfectly creased, his face shaven and his hair, short and neatly combed. He talked only with the chiefs and elders. They made agreements, promises, and rules: they made strange words and boundary lines on their papers.



They'd also issue money: $15.00; and a new blanket to every man and woman living, within the designated reservation area. This annual date, was to become a kind of, supervised "New Day," festivity as a reward, for the tribe's final cooperation with the US. Government.



The Government, sent sullen-faced soldiers to distribute the little papers called "Money," and the new woolen blankets. Having been impressed there by, this Government gesture, and trying to be polite Wishwater commented to the soldier when he handed her, her blanket "They're so nice, and neatly folded."



He didn't acknowledge her expression of gratitude, but just stared, lashing her in the eye, until she finally diverted herself bent into a shameful seclusion then as she turned to walk away, Wishwater saw the other man off some distance with a single big book. He was also wearing a long black coat. Apparently, she thought, he'd come here along with those other soldiers.



His eyes went fixed to Wishwater's, locked into a mutual gaze as she approached him, he pointed to his opened book, and asked her: "Woman, is your name written in this book, from the foundation of the world?"



Wishwater, was frightened by the sudden booming and quiver in his voice. She just looked down again and hurried past him, then turned back to puzzle and gaze at him some more; his clothes were be-shoveled, dusty and tattered, his hair was long and his beard, unkempt. He lifted the book over his head with one hand, and pointed at her with the other: "Woman! Your time has come, G-d, is calling you now, by and unto this Word, and to write you forever, in his book of Life!"



Wishwater, turned again and ran back to her hut. Never, had anyone spoke to her that way! She just sat stunned on the ground in her hut arranging the small pebbles into circles and spirals and she wondered at what she'd heard.



Wishwater, also remembered the notion of Wolf-Jaw, and his persistent attempts at some jocular "Big-Talking," with those white soldiers, that were lined up one after another; and that mostly, they just ignored him too, until he'd eventually pestered them beyond their silence. And then, Wolf's Jaw, finally got his much sought after teed bit of information, and in some blind and fanciful ambitious haste, he began cogitating "A Plan!"



Being a strong and fit young man, he met almost all of the requirements to go south and work

wrangling cattle, or shearing sheep, and with his fifteen bucks, he could finally make it all happen!



And at the very sight of Wolf's Jaw's groveling, Wishwater had begun openly, to despise him, thinking and calling him to his face a "white-weasel," which means "sell-out!"



"So What!" Wolf's-Jaw replied, as he wadded his blanket into a ball and threw it inside Wishwater's hut, he pointed and barked to Wishwater: "You keep that, till I get back!"

And with that, Wolf's-Jaw, and his $15.00 left straight away for "The White mans'," village.



-----------------



Wolf's-Jaw, would have to obtain (for a price) an official looking piece of paper --that he could not read, but --which stated in writing, that his legal "white-name," was now: "Frank Moore!" and while he was still in town, Frank went strutting down the front way--just like the other white people--to the Dry-Good store, where he was quickly dispossessed of the remainder of his "White-man money/papers;" and with which, Frank, purchased a quart sized bottle of whiskey and a shiny new pair of Sheep-shears.



The following day while on the return leg of his trip, the elated 'new' Frank Moore, began rehearsing, to himself, all his waiting success; and, this future occasion called for a celebratory drink, or two right now ...



As he walked along, he'd imagine great and swelling things, and appoint them to himself,

like all the money/papers he could earn working in the south, women, and prominence; even, with the white herdsmen.

And, it was at this point that, Frank, encountered a sobering realization: All of his funding's, were gone! and, he quickly needed more! and a fast way to get it.



Then Frank remembered "Wishwater!" and so,

another pull, from the whiskey bottle!



It was just a little before dark when Frank arrived back at the territorial camp, holding up his "New name paper," in one hand and a bottle of whiskey in the other and, on his hip, was the new pair of sheep-shears, he wore like a knife; but already having some difficulty with his balance, articulation and logic, Wolf's Jaw, didn't notice the strange absence of the other tribe's people.



Frank's full concentration was devoted, toward making his way back to Wishwater's hut and thinking to himself: Tonight, me with Wishwater, and tomorrow, Wishwater's money, with me!



It was a smug pleasure that Wishwater reflected, she was able to obtain what necessities she needed without much effort, and because her looks were her source of procurement, both, and an on going affront with which to vex the other females; and therefore, she was forced to stay away from the main camp. She lived somewhat away, and secluded.



By the time Wolf's Jaw found his way back to Wishwater's hut, he had just under two thirds of his whiskey left, and at first, she felt gladness at his arrival, but as soon as he stumbled through the door, and rudely shoved his paper in Wishwater's face, then struck his fist against his chest, abrupt and loudly he announced : "Me, Frank Moore now!"



Wishwater looked up narrowly and in dismay from her bead-work, then began snarling and giving her teeth, as she murmured under her breath : "YOU DRUNKEN FOOL ... BOY !" Then Frank shoved his paper at her again: "Look at This!" Wishwater still said nothing, neither would she look at his "paper!"



Both frustrated and insulted, Frank, slapped his paper on the ground in front of Wishwater: "You Look!" Wishwater, now fixed, and never loosing her eye lock with Frank, snatched his paper defiantly off the dirt, crumpled it up, and threw it out the door opening.



After a short tense pause Wishwater turned again to sit back down, when the--bested over and humiliated--Frank, came up to her, and tried to reassert himself with physical dominance, he began making some humping motions with his crotch right in her face. She pushed him back some then grabbed a stone she'd been using as a hammer, and threatened him as if to throw it. Frank, only laughed and she let fly, the stone missing Frank, but it hit against the wall. Frank walked back up to Wishwater and grabbed the hair on back of her head then shoved her face against his groin, then began singing, while rolling her head left to right and back again.



Wishwater, had already begun rising to her feet, and she bit him there, right through the thin piece of nape leather loin cloth he wore, determined in herself not to let go until she felt her front teeth mash against each other. Frank shrieked out like a banshie in pure horror and pain as he began to shuffle backwards with his arms flailing. Wishwater then grabbed around his legs with both her arms, so that he couldn't get away, and he fell backwards, as he did, his hand landed on the stone hammer.



He quickly swung it against the side of Wishwater's head, knocking her unconscious. Still drunk, in much pain and set now to repay her for biting him, Frank, then took the stone hammer and knocked out, most all of, Wishwater's front teeth.



Upon seeing the results of his actions, Frank, flew briefly into a kind of drunken panic, and the first instinct of a coward, is always to run! which, he would have done, but he also remembered the $15.00, for which, he'd actually come! He began in a panic, to overturn Wishwater's belongings, but his frantic search turned him up--empty handed, Wishwater knew enough to hide her money elsewhere; however, Frank did find again, his bottle of whiskey, and to restore himself back to some clarity of thought, he took another big drink: "I'll just have to wait for this bitch to wake up!" So Frank takes another sizable pull from the bottle,

and leans back to wait, another drink, and waits...



... Silence ...



As they passed, a couple of hours, Wishwater slowly began to regain consciousness, and struggling to gather a fix as to what happened, she sees the drunken boy now also passed out,

and the mere sight of him caused a bolting pain through her mouth, she spits into her hand, a mixture of blood, saliva, dirt and a couple of tooth fragments, then she saw the bloody stone-hammer on the ground: and without a single thought, Wishwater flew into a mindless rage!



Bending down Wishwater methodically pulled the boy's sheep-shears from his scabbard, circled around the sprawling boy to softly kneel down at his head, she then reached for that same rock he'd used on her, next she raised the long blades of the sheep-shears, to situate their pointed ends, just, precisely over his temple and there, slammed the stone-hammer down on the round handle, driving them through--Wishwater felt the thin bones in his skull succumb beneath the pointed blades of the large scissors, and, she relished in the tender crumbling and easy penetration--and through both his temples. And there she pinned Frank's head down in the dirt beneath his own new blanket. Frank's eyes and mouth popped open wide, aghast: his body began in arrhythmic contorts to writhe by jerks and thrashing fidgets.



Still in unsatisfied ferocity, Wishwater beat the shears down and deeper into the ground, then upon making eye contact with Frank, Wishwater sought to curse him, but she was unable to speak clearly, so she got up and spat in his face, kicked dirt into his opened mouth and into his eyes, as he then faded away, never removing his head from it's backward impalement and growing puddle of blood.



Just as quickly as Wishwater came to herself, and realized she'd both embraced and even consummated herself to some strange "Anathema," and in this viscous and hateful rage that was now transpired somehow to become, mayhem... wrack, and even some new inordinate and vile kind of pleasure! Wishwater quickly averted to justly mask certain and more unseemly elements in this indulgence: in the activity's gratifications and attribute them instead to her "loyalty and dedication" to the Tribal-Nation's interests. After all "Frank, was a sell-out!" but just as much as she knew she'd have to flee this incident: Wishwater knew that she'd also seek an opportunity, to do this again!



In her own self dismissal and panicked haste, Wishwater snatched her new blanket, some dried pieces of meat, her knife and lastly the "Cunning to Victory," War-Vest, that she'd been craftily stringing together for Wolf's Jaw; but, she had no intentions of leaving such an affect to him now: Not to a white-weasel traitor!



Wishwater lit for the woods toward the westward, she understood full well, what would happen when Wolf's Jaw was discovered : But, three days now had passed, and nothing!



--- None yet, not one ----



None of the other "Brave-men," had yet come for her. Wishwater knew their diligence, expertise and tenacity. She'd admired and offered reward to them on so many occasions, they'd have no trouble tracking her through the forest, and on horseback; but nothing, not a sound, nor a stalker, not a horse or rider, strangely, just nothing. She'd grown, since the morning, weaker and now somewhat nauseous. Wishwater suddenly felt the need to halt and vomit, then an horrid thought passed through her mind: "Maybe, I've become pregnant by that sell-out!"



She just needed to stop here and inquire of these darkening whirls that assailed her : Such that were like "the hound winds" blowing inside of her, but on her outsides' wound a gripping anguish and growing adversity to what was now become, her own detestable reality.



Dizziness, simultaneous with thundering aches

that were begun like waves inside her body and head, seemed to speak to her, of urgent spiritual instructions: "Make a prayer, here and now!"



Wishwater, quickly began by oblation, her makeshift alter, where she hanged the beaded "Victory" War-Vest on a small brush grown there: Hopeful, A memo or offering toward the "Good Spirits," then, preparing herself to prayer again she opened her blanket on the ground in front of the War-Vest,



Wishwater, knelt herself, and began:



"I went above a man in my tent, in my hut, I killed a Brave-Man. He demanded my wrong usage, but I put my hand to violence instead. He hurt me with my hammer-stone: I vexed him dead, with his new shearing-tool. I fastened his head to the ground. I kicked dirt in his eyes and into his mouth. I spat on him, because I could not pronounce a curse!

Now, I've taken his courage, in a fight, A woman, went over a Brave-Man!

But I feel no sorrow, for what I've done!"



--- The apparitions ---



Having left off of her strange invocations, Wishwater, laid herself down on the blanket and began the "Wait." She'd remember once having seen the big salt waters from the sandy shores, but now she felt as if she was going far beyond them, floating on the 'kindness' of those big laughing waters. Everything seemed so easy here, and a feeling of security. All she needed to do was just surrender, lie down and close her eyes ...



Then, another feeling wound slithering around her like : An emaciated white-skinned evil, evil man appeared from beneath her, also wearing the new long black coat, it was the official, who talked with the tribal chiefs, the man who talked with no lips. He seemed to climb up out of the waters. He was difficult to see or distinguish, but if he had any distinction at all it appeared to be in much and very much, his abominable authority and he was above many, and many great and wondrously ruined peoples, lay beneath him and in his wakes.



Wishwater, remembered the coats, they covered both the two strange men who came with the soldiers, but she sensed that she was not recalling the tattered looking man from the trail; howbeit, this was a man she'd also encountered before, but she couldn't recall the event.



It was Wishwater's nature to acknowledge others "Of Authority!" So, politely, she gazed, a gesturing offer, into his eyes, then she recognized the oppressive way he'd lashed back at her, just as did the arrogant soldier, with the new blankets; and again, Wishwater quickly averted her eyes back downward. She felt both paralyzed and mortified as he then opened his coat to reveal himself and state of decomposition, beckoning her to join him. He leaned down and lay himself on top of her, embracing her, and situated his blanched face upon hers to place his mouth opening over her own lips, and began heaving in, in his voluminous sucking and swallowing everything left of her liveliness from her...



As his sickening gulps continued, Wishwater again: Flinched, and in a jerk, managed to somehow to free herself of his clinch, by pressing her lips tightly together, then she looked back to see her body lain completely limp upon the blanket, then he'd gone! Vanished!



Upwards and from out from the blanket's corners came thousands upon thousands of fleas like thunderous clouds come from far, like long ago spilled water, that passed through her motionless body, and her life spilled out just as the water ran into the dust from her mother's dropped water-skin pouch: and, just as the warm colors began to disappear, and fade from Wishwater's face.



Both angered and horrified at the sight, Wishwater screamed : "NO! No not yet!" then realized, she'd, yet maintained some influential presence; and so, she must somehow fight back, and then Wishwater, was given to remember what had earlier happened. She quickly grabbed the Beautiful War-Vest, from the brush and pulled it over her shoulder: "I'm still here!", "I'm still here!"



She then surged in her self like a whirling wind, and opened her eyes wide, her numb and blackening fists trembling, she'd somehow partly recovered herself and fully reoccupied her body. She was very weak.



Wishwater sat up straight, on the blanket: She was partly wearing the "Beautiful Vest of Victory!"

The sounds of someone walking caught her attention. Was it the "Brave-Men!" come to kill her?



Wishwater tried to get to her feet, but her legs were no longer hers, she had no balance, she just fell back, crashing into the underbrush, and lay there unable to climb out again.



The walker approached.

Wishwater then reasoned at the circumstance. A Brave-Man, would never be so clumsy as to come stomping and climbing through the bushes. Then, she saw him, still wearing the long black tattered coat! and still holding that Big Book! It was the strange awkward White-man from the Camp. He was alone.



He with long strides came straight up to Wishwater, and picked her up almost effortlessly.

Wishwater lay helpless, limp, and silent as he then laid her belly down on the edge of the blanket. He then walked around and knelt, facing her: "I've come for you." Wishwater, was astonished and wide-eyed but lay still, and though she tried, she was unable to speak or even move. She speculated: This guy is come, about the thing with Wolf's Jaw!



Anger, and fear bellowed up inside of Wishwater; and although she'd never survive the return trip, she would somehow try to evade this guy also. Her guilt, was result of the inhuman pleasure she took in the violent act, but she'd fight any semblance of regret or contrition for killing Wolf's Jaw: He was a white-man's coward: He deserved to die! He deserved it! Wishwater tried with all her might to scream her vindication at the, now standing, man; she'd opened her mouth wide, but, only to gargle at him; however, this man, it seemed, somehow understood her perfectly.



Still unable to move her head, she could clearly see upwards at him, he then spat on her, and said nothing but began kicking dirt into her mouth, and then in she looked once again down as the dirt flew at her eyes and lastly she saw this thing: It was her very own feet, there, kicking the gravel and dust!



A man's voice, like booming thunder, commanded her to: "SPEAK !"

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" "Help me!"



Wishwater was at last broken to bits, she now realized that "her sin," was not in killing: to defend herself and her belongings, but that for partisan type harassment of, and the pointless excess violence against an already dying man; and that she took pleasure in the mechanics, and self-satisfaction in her self assertion over a rendered helpless man. This was noted in the man's big book as an act, waged not against a man, but against G-d!



She looked upwards at the strange man : "Help me!"



The Man then reached down to take Wishwater's hand, "Now we can go home."

Wishwater rose, freely to stand, and saw her lifeless body still lain upon the blanket. No longer fearful of the man, but still puzzled by his involvement with her, Wishwater asked him: "Why did you come here, for me?"



The Man then opened the big book and pointed to her name: "Wishwater!"

Astounded that she could also read it, she then asked him: "What are you?"

He answered: "A writer."

Then she asked: "Where did you come from?"



He answered: "From the foundation of the world!"



--- The End ---



Foot Note: Even though she lived a few days longer, "The half-breed," Wishwater, died without knowing why "The Brave-men" never came for her.



It was because they also, were all dead. Remnants of the British Crown occupied The transitional US Government, who, distributed blankets, that were deliberately infested with fleas carrying the bubonic plague.



The Native Americans, had no natural resistance to the sickness; but White-Europeans, by virtue of the antibodies, already established in them from their ancestral blood, were innocuous to the sickness.