The Cannibal Spirit by Harry Whitehead Page B

chose that path as well. But also since I took my mother’s crests and those of my own first wife’s clan as well, rather than join the church congregation every Sunday, as so many did. And now as many must.
    I stood there thinking this: I am George Hunt, and I am Kixitasu, and Maxulagilis, and Yagwis too, and No-oqoela, and Laqoagila; and in the Winter Dances I am Qomogwe, for the king beneath the sea, and many names more beside. I spoke them all to myself and then I pressed down until I felt my son’s skull begin to quiver, and then it did collapse under the pressure of my fingers. Even as his skull broke, so his neck snapped and his whole head slumped forward to rest against his chest.
    Do you wonder that I let tears fall even now? Indians put the dead to their boxes quick as possible. The neck is broke to be sure they are dead, for tales get told of voices from the graveyards, weeping in the night, and of men showing up what none know if they is living or they is ghosts. So do we make certain the dead remain dead.
    I guess it’s the white blood in me what meant that, once the deed was done, my mind churned and I did not know where I was or even, maybe, who. Next thing, I was standing outside the greathouse with the sun on my face, and the Reverend Crosby—that shit-faced, limberdick cocksucker— was about me.
    I had heard that there was rumours being spoke against me in the village. When that man showed his face, I put two and two together and made asum of which he was part. So, from the outset, I was not minded to hear what he might say. Then he comes to lecturing on David, and I heard also the threat behind his words. My rage came out and then fool Harry pipes up supporting Crosby!
    Well, all things in good order. I did harangue Harry, even as that blackrobed blackheart streak of piss To-Cop was dragging Crosby from off the ground. I do regret that now. I know Harry was but shaken from witnessing what I done to David. It must have raised the wind up him something serious. Godless savagery. Barbarian practices. All true enough, no doubt. Still, I don’t suppose Harry saw my actions as more than the rage of the moment, and did forgive me after. Ain’t we all monsters in our darkest hours?
    After Crosby had been sent off, I got to the canoes and Charley was there to silence those drunks what was guffawing their support overloud.
    Charley whispered to me, “We’s with you all the way, but you make it right again with Fat Harry when you’ve a chance. He’s your last son. Don’t you forget it.” Then he says, “But that bastard priest carries a shitsack of trouble with him. You best take care with him.” And he was not wrong.
    Anyhow, I sat up in the prow of the canoe beside the gravebox. Shortly, we were out in that motley flotilla what was making its way across to the Island of Graves. I remember one drunk fool in a sailboat raising a sheet dead against the wind and jeers to follow as he swung about and was near swamped. But all the time I was simmering still and wishing I had been at that shit-eater Crosby’s throat, him representing all those limberdick teachers, doctors, Indian agents, administrators, and condescending do-gooders who would drag the people to their obliteration. That, at least, was as I saw it in that moment.
    â€œMy son, he was Indian,” I muttered out loud. Old Henry Omxid, paddling in front of me, says, “But now he a dead man Indian, George. Like all of them. And that be that. Amen.” And then he looked embarrassed for saying the Christian word.
    So I thought on all the dead, and my rage baked so I could feel the nails of my hand dig into the hard wood of my rod of the Sisiutl, great double-headed serpent coiled under us, and Henry Omxid looked away, studioussuddenly in his concentration on his work. I felt again the snapping of my son’s neck beneath my fingers. I was near to roaring aloud.
    Three-quarters of the