Volume 036-3 - July 1982 (8 pages)

guished was the family invited to gather round the body. Then, as the fire was being rekindled for the final burning, Owl’s cry warned that the attack was beginning, and soon all could hear the crashing of horses in the brush below. Even if there had been time to escape, the widow would not have abandoned her spouse’s remains, so she and her female relatives waited as the soltanu came charging up two sides of the hill. The unarmed women and children were seized by several white men, whose companions rode off in hot pursuit of the men. For some unaccountable reason the soldiers had poked about the fire, seemingly as distressed and angry with the griefstricken widow as she was with them. When the wolesem warriors came back from the chase emptyhanded, torn, and bloody, the widow was glad. Before she could think about her own fate much, she and the other women and young people were led downhill to the wolesem camp and she began to be afraid. The hungry eyes of the soltanu explored her body, lingering often upon her uncovered breasts. She thought that she would not like to be exposed to such searching examinations without the protection of her skirt. It did not disturb her if nisenan men occasionally observed her bathing naked at the river, but they did not look at her with such undisguised lust as these soldiers did. It was because they had no women of their own, she knew. She also knew that they did not treat nisenan women with respect. She was taken to a cloth house and pushed inside. Here she found herself in the presence of three men, two of whom she guessed to be chiefs of the wolesem. The third one began to speak to her in a strange language, and it took awhile for her to realize that he was trying to speak her tongue. His pronunciation was outrageous and he was speaking in a dialect which she had only heard once or twice in her life. If she concentrated very hard, however, and he. repeated the words often enough, she could make out the gist of what he had to say. “Talk chief,” said the interpreter. “You talk chief, O.K.? You talk chief, say stop! No kill Americans! American chief stop kill nisenan. Understand?” She was puzzled. What did he mean? Yes, she understood his words, but his meaning was unclear. Obviously the fighting had stopped or else the soltanu would not be here in the camp. Was that what he meant? If so, he must think her stupid. She said nothing and waited to see if he would speak again. “Understand: Chief Wema? You know Chief Wema?” She nodded yes. Everybody knew Chief Wema. “Know place Chief Wema live?” She didn’t know, not now. She shook her head. “You find chief! Tell chief Americans want smoke pipe.” “The soltanu wish to smoke the pipe with our chief?” she asked. “Yes! Good! Tell chief Americans not kill your people.” “What are you talking about? You have killed my husband! What stupid talk is this? What do you mean Melikin don’t kill our people? They do it all the time!” she snapped angrily. The interpreter could not follow her rapid speech and held up his hand in protest: “Stop! Talk more slow—no understand fast talk!” Very slowly, she said, “Do you think I am crazy or stupid? Your people havekilled my husband—for nothing!” She waited while he translated her words into the wolesem language and listened as the chiefs chattered back and forth. Their pink faces changed to bright red. The interpreter turned to her again and said: “American Chief say bad thing your husband die. American Chief say him sorry.” She did not reply, so the man went on: “American Chief want stop war. American Chief go home now. Take nisenan women, children to Johnson's Ranch. You tell Chief Wema, come Johnson’s Ranch, smoke pipe. Stop war. Then women, children go home. Understand?” She nodded. He pressed her for a reply: “What you say Chief Wema?” “T’ll tell Chief Wema the soltanu have taken my family prisoner and are taking them to Chansen Lanjo. I'll tell the chief you wish him to come to Chansen Lanjo and smoke the pipe with the wolesem chief. Pll tell him you will end the war and release the prisoners.” “Say again, more slow.” He'd lost most of her words, she could tell. Scornfully, she imitated his broken speech, even corrupting her excellent diction in order to mimic his awkward pronunciation. When she had finished, the interpreter smiled with relief. Pleased with his success in making the woman understand, he turned proudly to his chiefs and spoke in their language. The chiefs talked to one another. Then one went away. When he returned, he carried something white and flat and thin which he handed to the other chief. After examining it for several minutes, the second chief had folded it carefully until it became very small, small enough to fit in the palm of his hand. He gave it to the go-between, who handed it to her. “Give to Chief Wema,” he said. “Good medicine. Save Chief from harm. Tell Chief carry papel. American see papel, no harm Chief Wema. Understand?” She looked at the thing in her hand with great curiosity. So this was the substance called papel about which she had heard but never before seen. It was slightly stiff, like an animal skin before it had been softened, but so much thinner and more delicate. The man said it was good medicine, but how could one trust wolesem to speak the truth? Vil After the Americans released her, the widow hurried back to the site of her husband’s remains. Already the scavengers had been at work and they had disposed what the fire had not. At the top of the hill she dug two holes with a sharp manzanita branch. It took a long time to make both holes deep enough to satisfy her. At last she stopped digging and began to gather the bone fragments which had belonged to her man—the warm, strong and handsome person who had shared her house for twenty-four winters. She laid the bones in one of the holes and covered them with the ashes of her husband. Under normal circumstances, she would not have done these tasks herself. Other women would have burned the body and buried the remains, but today they were far away and could not help the lonely widow. Next she took a sharp-edged rock in one hand and a hard piece of oak in the other and began to cut her long black hair between the tool and the cutting board. She cut until her head was closely cropped all over and then carried the shorn tresses to the second hole and buried them. Had a fire been available she might have burned the hair, but she had no fire drill. She covered the bones, ashes, and hair, pressed the soil firmly with her feet, and laid pine needles, acorns, leaves and twigs across the surface so that no sign of her excavations remained. Finally, she carried a number of large rocks to the burial spot and piled them on it to discourage wild animals. The widow walked about in the woods on top of the hill until she found a bleeding pine from which she could obtain pitch to apply to her scalp. When head and hair were thoroughly coated with the sticky substance, she came back to the former camp. Locating the firepit where the tribe’s meals had been prepared, she rubbed handfuls of ashes into the pitch on her head. With one tarry hand she drew a line across her cheek from the corner of her mouth to the bottom of her ear. Then, with the other hand she repeated the decoration on the opposite cheek, so that her face seemed to be bisected by a continuous line running from ear to ear and passing through her mouth. This done, she sat down once more and reached out her black and sticky hands to hold herself in a tight embrace. For two or three minutes she seemed not to move or to make a sound. Then she bent slightly at the waist and began to rock slowly back and forth, moaning quietly as she did so. Soon she was moving more quickly and she had begun to weep. Forward and back, forward and back, she rocked, the rhythm of her cries matching the motion of her body. Before long her voice had become a rising and falling wail, full of grief and misery and longing. Except for the low whisper of the wind, the forest had grown silent. The birds and animals on the hill stopped their talk and warnings as if listening gravely to the keening of the nisenan woman. As she sat and rocked and wept and wailed, the widow's tears etched a lacy pattern across the black and gray finger trails left by her hands as she clutched her chest and shoulders. 21

guished was the family invited to gather round the body. Then, as the fire was being rekindled for the final burning, Owl’s cry warned that the attack was beginning, and soon all could hear the crashing of horses in the brush below. Even if there had been time to escape, the widow would not have abandoned her spouse’s remains, so she and her female relatives waited as the soltanu came charging up two sides of the hill. The unarmed women and children were seized by several white men, whose companions rode off in hot pursuit of the men. For some unaccountable reason the soldiers had poked about the fire, seemingly as distressed and angry with the griefstricken widow as she was with them. When the wolesem warriors came back from the chase emptyhanded, torn, and bloody, the widow was glad. Before she could think about her own fate much, she and the other women and young people were led downhill to the wolesem camp and she began to be afraid. The hungry eyes of the soltanu explored her body, lingering often upon her uncovered breasts. She thought that she would not like to be exposed to such searching examinations without the protection of her skirt. It did not disturb her if nisenan men occasionally observed her bathing naked at the river, but they did not look at her with such undisguised lust as these soldiers did. It was because they had no women of their own, she knew. She also knew that they did not treat nisenan women with respect. She was taken to a cloth house and pushed inside. Here she found herself in the presence of three men, two of whom she guessed to be chiefs of the wolesem. The third one began to speak to her in a strange language, and it took awhile for her to realize that he was trying to speak her tongue. His pronunciation was outrageous and he was speaking in a dialect which she had only heard once or twice in her life. If she concentrated very hard, however, and he. repeated the words often enough, she could make out the gist of what he had to say. “Talk chief,” said the interpreter. “You talk chief, O.K.? You talk chief, say stop! No kill Americans! American chief stop kill nisenan. Understand?” She was puzzled. What did he mean? Yes, she understood his words, but his meaning was unclear. Obviously the fighting had stopped or else the soltanu would not be here in the camp. Was that what he meant? If so, he must think her stupid. She said nothing and waited to see if he would speak again. “Understand: Chief Wema? You know Chief Wema?” She nodded yes. Everybody knew Chief Wema. “Know place Chief Wema live?” She didn’t know, not now. She shook her head. “You find chief! Tell chief Americans want smoke pipe.” “The soltanu wish to smoke the pipe with our chief?” she asked. “Yes! Good! Tell chief Americans not kill your people.” “What are you talking about? You have killed my husband! What stupid talk is this? What do you mean Melikin don’t kill our people? They do it all the time!” she snapped angrily. The interpreter could not follow her rapid speech and held up his hand in protest: “Stop! Talk more slow—no understand fast talk!” Very slowly, she said, “Do you think I am crazy or stupid? Your people havekilled my husband—for nothing!” She waited while he translated her words into the wolesem language and listened as the chiefs chattered back and forth. Their pink faces changed to bright red. The interpreter turned to her again and said: “American Chief say bad thing your husband die. American Chief say him sorry.” She did not reply, so the man went on: “American Chief want stop war. American Chief go home now. Take nisenan women, children to Johnson's Ranch. You tell Chief Wema, come Johnson’s Ranch, smoke pipe. Stop war. Then women, children go home. Understand?” She nodded. He pressed her for a reply: “What you say Chief Wema?” “T’ll tell Chief Wema the soltanu have taken my family prisoner and are taking them to Chansen Lanjo. I'll tell the chief you wish him to come to Chansen Lanjo and smoke the pipe with the wolesem chief. Pll tell him you will end the war and release the prisoners.” “Say again, more slow.” He'd lost most of her words, she could tell. Scornfully, she imitated his broken speech, even corrupting her excellent diction in order to

mimic his awkward pronunciation. When she had finished, the interpreter smiled with relief. Pleased with his success in making the woman understand, he turned proudly to his chiefs and spoke in their language. The chiefs talked to one another. Then one went away. When he returned, he carried something white and flat and thin which he handed to the other chief. After examining it for several minutes, the second chief had folded it carefully until it became very small, small enough to fit in the palm of his hand. He gave it to the go-between, who handed it to her. “Give to Chief Wema,” he said. “Good medicine. Save Chief from harm. Tell Chief carry papel. American see papel, no harm Chief Wema. Understand?” She looked at the thing in her hand with great curiosity. So this was the substance called papel about which she had heard but never before seen. It was slightly stiff, like an animal skin before it had been softened, but so much thinner and more delicate. The man said it was good medicine, but how could one trust wolesem to speak the truth? Vil After the Americans released her, the widow hurried back to the site of her husband’s remains. Already the scavengers had been at work and they had disposed what the fire had not. At the top of the hill she dug two holes with a sharp manzanita branch. It took a long time to make both holes deep enough to satisfy her. At last she stopped digging and began to gather the bone fragments which had belonged to her man—the warm, strong and handsome person who had shared her house for twenty-four winters. She laid the bones in one of the holes and covered them with the ashes of her husband. Under normal circumstances, she would not have done these tasks herself. Other women would have burned the body and buried the remains, but today they were far away and could not help the lonely widow. Next she took a sharp-edged rock in one hand and a hard piece of oak in the other and began to cut her long black hair between the tool and the cutting board. She cut until her head was closely cropped all over and then carried the shorn tresses to the second hole and buried them. Had a fire been available she might have burned the hair, but she had no fire drill. She covered the bones, ashes, and hair, pressed the soil firmly with her feet, and laid pine needles, acorns, leaves and twigs across the surface so that no sign of her excavations remained. Finally, she carried a number of large rocks to the burial spot and piled them on it to discourage wild animals. The widow walked about in the woods on top of the hill until she found a bleeding pine from which she could obtain pitch to apply to her scalp. When head and hair were thoroughly coated with the sticky substance, she came back to the former camp. Locating the firepit where the tribe’s meals had been prepared, she rubbed handfuls of ashes into the pitch on her head. With one tarry hand she drew a line across her cheek from the corner of her mouth to the bottom of her ear. Then, with the other hand she repeated the decoration on the opposite cheek, so that her face seemed to be bisected by a continuous line running from ear to ear and passing through her mouth. This done, she sat down once more and reached out her black and sticky hands to hold herself in a tight embrace. For two or three minutes she seemed not to move or to make a sound. Then she bent slightly at the waist and began to rock slowly back and forth, moaning quietly as she did so. Soon she was moving more quickly and she had begun to weep. Forward and back, forward and back, she rocked, the rhythm of her cries matching the motion of her body. Before long her voice had become a rising and falling wail, full of grief and misery and longing. Except for the low whisper of the wind, the forest had grown silent. The birds and animals on the hill stopped their talk and warnings as if listening gravely to the keening of the nisenan woman. As she sat and rocked and wept and wailed, the widow's tears etched a lacy pattern across the black and gray finger trails left by her hands as she clutched her chest and shoulders. 21