Heartsong (16 page)

But Martin St-Cyr was almost desperate to help Charging Elk. It was plain that the man was dying. He could be dead in hours or days and nothing would be known of him. The brutish jailer and his comrades would dump the body in a cart and wheel it out to Cimetière St-Pierre, where it would be buried in the indigents' section without a cross or a name.

St-Cyr tried to identify what it was about the Indian that affected him so. Surely some of the other cells were filled with men in equally desperate circumstances. His own countrymen who were being held in such squalid conditions, possibly starving too. Even now, he could smell a damp, ashy odor that spoke of illness, even death.

Perhaps it was that the Indian could not speak any language but his own, and his countrymen were thousands of miles away on the other side of the earth, that made St-Cyr desperate to do something
that would help the Indian survive, until at least his court date. But, as Borely had said, the courts were backed up, and the Indian didn't look like he would last another day.

“Perhaps, monsieur, if I left a little money, you could see that the Peau-Rouge gets something substantial to eat? Perhaps some sausage and cheese and peasant bread?” St-Cyr dug in his pocket and found several francs.

“We do not dispense special privileges here, monsieur. He eats what everyone else eats.”

But St-Cyr was prepared for this response. He opened his wallet and pulled out a twenty-franc bill. “A little something for your time, monsieur,” he said, offering the bill.

The jailer glanced quickly, instinctively, toward the door; then he stuffed the bill and the coins into his tunic pocket. “I'll see what I can do.”

“Soon?”

“Oui, oui, monsieur
. Soon.”

St-Cyr didn't trust him, but there was nothing he could do about that. But there was something he could try to do about the Indian. About Charging Elk. He made himself think the man's name. He made himself look into Charging Elk's face. He was a man, a human being, and he would likely die if St-Cyr didn't do something.

But for the moment, he could only drop his packet of Gauloises and a box of matches on the bed beside Charging Elk's brown hand. “For you,” he said in English. “Don't worry. I will help you out of this wretched place. Don't worry, Monsieur Charging Elk.”

C
harging Elk listened to the key turn in the lock and heard the bolt thrust home with a thin echo. Then it was quiet. He drew his feet up onto the bed and watched the newly disturbed dust motes circle and float in the shaft of light.

He had no idea how long he had been in the stone room of the iron house. In spite of the cold he had slept much of the time, and he had dreamed of home. In his dreams he saw the golden eagles soaring over the Stronghold; he heard the bark and howl of coyotes in the night; he smelled the sage in the spring wind, and the crisp chunks of venison cooked over an autumn fire; he cupped his hands in the clear stream of Paha Sapa and felt the cold water take his breath away as he splashed his sweaty face. He dreamed of home, and so he slept much. He saw his mother picking berries in the Bighorns and his father cleaning his many-shots gun in the lodge on the Greasy Grass. His brother and sister played games with rag balls and slim bones in the evening quiet of the big camp. And he and Strikes Plenty caught the winged hoppers they threw into the water for the slippery swimmers.

Sometimes the dreams ended in the blackness of night; sometimes in the light of the high window. Sometimes they ended happily; other times with images of soldiers attacking the big camp on the Greasy Grass, or with the people descending into the valley of the Fort Robinson, with its many soldiers and the big flag of America.

Once he dreamed of Crazy Horse, and the great warrior chief told him that one day he would go to that land where the sun rises, across a big water, where the favored
wasichus
came from. Crazy Horse had told him that he could not accompany Charging Elk because he would be killed soon by his own people. Charging Elk had reached out for the
wichasa yatapika's
arm, but it was not there. Crazy Horse had become a cloud in the sky above the badlands.

Some of the dreams disturbed Charging Elk; others comforted him. But all were welcome, for Charging Elk knew he was very close to joining his ancestors. And that is why he sang his death song all day and dreamed of home all night. And each night he
prayed to Wakan Tanka that this would be the night that he would finally make the journey across the big water. He even prayed to badger to give him strength for the journey, but he was sure that his power was gone, that his animal helper would not hear him in a faraway iron house.

His hand brushed the packet of cigarettes as he smoothed his coat tighter against his knees. He picked it up and looked at it. The pale blue of the packet reminded him of clear skies over Paha Sapa and he thought of the sacred beings that roamed there and he remembered the ceremonies of the old
pejuta wicasa
out at the Stronghold, which always began with a smoke.

Charging Elk held one of the smoke-sticks and pointed it to the sky and to the earth and to the four directions, offering prayers for each. He prayed to the sacred beings and the ancestors, just as the holy man had done. He offered prayers to the four-leggeds and the wings of the air; then he prayed long and fervently to Wakan Tanka, vowing to serve him always in the real world behind this one. He lit the cigarette and smoked it halfway down, then smudged it out in his palm. He rolled the cigarette between his thumb and forefinger until the remaining tobacco shreds fell into his hand. Then he put them in the pocket of his coat so that he would have something to offer badger when he returned home.

Charging Elk lay down on the iron bed. He wasn't cold anymore and he felt at peace with all his being and with the world around him. He stared up at the high ceiling and he heard himself singing. It was a powerful song, and he thanked badger for giving it to him. He closed his eyes, singing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER FIVE

T
wo days after Martin St-Cyr's account of the “lost soul” in the “en
trails” of the Préfecture appeared in
Le Petit Marseillais
, not much had happened, which was disappointing to the young reporter. In his wilder daydreams, he had imagined a monstrous public outcry—rallies on the steps of the Préfecture and in the
place
of the Palais de Justice; marches by trade unionists and socialists; candlelight vigils by religious and social justice groups; perhaps even a visit from Paris by the Minister of Justice. In his more sober moments, he thought there would be a small but vigorous protest by ordinary citizens, who often gathered to demonstrate against one thing or another. Usually these citizens chose small issues, such as the price of baguettes going up another centime. Or a new ordinance that restricted the amount of garbage that could be left at the curb.

While St-Cyr's article didn't create the massive reaction that he would have liked, it did bring several people down to the
Préfecture. An old priest led them, and he did talk of the outrageous and inhuman treatment of the Peau-Rouge, one of God's simplest creatures. He spoke of compassion and mercy, of prayer and forgiveness. Soon he was rambling, preaching a sermon that had less to do with the plight of this particular Peau-Rouge than with the fate of uncivilized savages the world over, all of whom were God's simplest creatures.

St-Cyr stood at the back of the small group, counting the disappointingly obedient, well-behaved heads. There were no more than twenty-five of them, also disappointing, so he decided to double it in his follow-up story. There were five
gardiens
stationed like pickets before the great doors. Perhaps he could mention something about suppression, the potential for violence, but even as he took notes he began to have doubts about his career as a writer.

His editor had at first seemed unmoved by his account of Charging Elk's imprisonment. But one might chalk that up to a deficiency in the man's personality. He didn't seem to have one. And when St-Cyr had asked to be allowed to write the story himself, even though he was merely a police reporter, he had expected a terse rejection, perhaps a sharp bark of mirthless laughter. But the editor sat for a long moment, perhaps two, with his fingers steepled before his grim face. In his black suit and with his bald head gleaming under the overhead light, he looked like an undertaker lost in thought while the mourners wept.

Just as St-Cyr was thinking of trying to walk out the door of the small office backward, retracing his footsteps as if to erase this awful moment, the editor stood and slapped his palm on the desk. St-Cyr almost jumped straight up at the gesture.

“Can you do it?” the editor said in his even undertaker's voice.

“Yes, of course, Monsieur Grignan. I will do my best.”

“Very well.” The editor looked at the small crystal clock on his desk. “You have two hours. Take it to Fauconnier when you are finished. Tell him to make the necessary adjustments.”

St-Cyr had been pleased that Fauconnier, the veteran journalist, had not found it necessary to make too many changes. He crossed out “brutish” in St-Cyr's description of the jailer (“He might eat you next time”) and “cold-blooded” in reference to the whole police department (“We have to work with them even if they are coldblooded bastards”).

In the end, Fauconnier had clapped St-Cyr on the shoulder and said, “I think you are in love with this
Indien
,” a comment that the young journalist took as a compliment.

That night he celebrated with champagne and
fruits de mer
, followed by a visit to Fortune, who swore she had seen the Peau-Rouge the other day, poking in the refuse piles near the Quai de Rive Neuve. As she slipped into her kimono, she said, “He was a small wiry sort with stiff hair, like a Levantine—except he wore a suit of feathers.”

The next morning, St-Cyr read his story and was quite impressed with his first effort at real journalism. It appeared as he and Fauconnier had left it, except that the typesetters had left out a letter in Borely's Christian name—Ambose. Ah well, Ambrose would see the humor in this; he was a decent cop. But when St-Cyr went on his rounds of the police stations, he was met with a kind of stiff hostility. Borely was not on duty at the Préfecture, a fact which disappointed the reporter. But as the day wore on, he became increasingly glad that he did not have to face the desk sergeant. After all, it was Borely who had let him venture down to the cells to see the Indian.

St-Cyr had miscalculated the police reaction to his article. What he thought was merely a plea to save the Indian from the inhuman conditions of the jail was taken as a slap in the face by the police departaient.
St-Cyr got his police reports that day but with little enthusiasm.

Now, as he folded up his notebook, he became unsure of himself and wondered if he could write a follow-up article on such a pitiful reaction to his first one. Even if he doubled the crowd size and made it more enthusiastic, he had little to write about. And too, he had not been able to find out anything about Charging Elk. The desk sergeant at the Prefecture had said he knew nothing about the Peau-Rouge; inmates in the jail were none of his concern.

What if he was dead? St-Cyr felt a sudden rush of panic that made his upper lip tingle with sweat, in spite of the chill of the building's shadows. Perhaps the sergeant was covering up the fact that Charging Elk was already dead—that already a hole had been dug in the indigents' cemetery! Of course, that was it. That was why he had not been given any information about Charging Elk. The jailer, brute that he was, had not used the money to buy food—he had pocketed it to buy wine and salacious magazines. But what did St-Cyr expect? That the police cared about the savage?

But even in his panic, which was now becoming a churning in the pit of his stomach, St-Cyr was formulating the follow-up story in his head: “Where is the Peau-Rouge? Why have the police denied a humble reporter access to the savage called Charging Elk? Do they have something to hide? Could it be that the
indien
has died of starvation, or perhaps even more likely, a broken heart, in the gloomy dungeon of the Prefecture? The citizens of Marseille demand to know the answers to these and other questions. The church is up in arms, as witnessed by the large demonstration on the steps of the Préfecture, led by the holy fathers of the city and its outlying reaches. Unionists and socialists were seen in the audience—an unholy alliance that has united the distressed citizenry in its demand that the Peau-Rouge be freed, or, at the very least, released to the care of a more humanitarian institution. It is clear,
even to a disinterested observer, that the hearts of the Marseillais have gone out to this pitiful savage, who apparently remains in his cold, damp cell in the bowels of the Prefecture. However, it is the duty of your humble servant to report that several of the protesters were advocating violence, if violence be the only means to attain justice. Let the police consider themselves forewarned.”