New Money

An imagined history. This revision shortened to less than 600 words.

 

New Money         575 Words (give or take)

 

            The women must think I am deaf, or a child. They say my granddaughter is to marry a white man.  When the pain goes away, I will rise up and kill them both.  Better for her to be dead, and it is a long time since I killed a white man.

            The French priest comes by every day now.  He brings medicine in a blue bottle.  He reads from the black  book, and I sleep.  I do not think I ask for his medicine, but I am no longer sure.

            I was a man once. Now my belly grows like a woman with child.  I travail like a woman.  I lie here listening for the wagon that brings the priest and the medicine.

            A guest, Crooked Nose, has come from Ft. McLeod. When he was a boy his father and I rode with the Lakota and the Arapaho. Cheyenne were men in those days. Now he walks with a long stick; all the way from Ft. McLeod with his long stick… this will end soon; he would not have come otherwise.

            “Can you see?” Crooked Nose raised the lamp wick until it began to smoke, and then lowered it a little.  He pulled a tobacco sack from his pocket and emptied it into my hand.

            “What is this?  What have you given me?”

            “A piece of money, but not from Canada.  Look, American money, no fat queen , no fat king, new money, a new thing.”

             There was a buffalo.  I had not seen a buffalo in many summers.  “Tatanka, in your father’s time they covered the Earth, the dust of the herds put out the sun.”

            “Yes, yes I know all this. The buffalo is good medicine, but there is better, turn the money over.  Tell me what you see.”

            “One of the People, an Indian.”

            “Look closer at this Indian.”

            ”It cannot be.”

“Look again, and tell me that!” Crooked Nose ordered.

 He looked older than I remembered. His fierceness vanished into stiff dignity, like those reservation Indians who stayed in America and posed for any photographer who offered a drink of whiskey, but it was him.  I was certain it was him.  “Two Moons.  This Indian on their money is Two Moons.”

 A grin broke across Crooked Nose’s face and he laughed.  He held my hand and laughed until I forgot the fire in my belly.  I joined him; I was, for a moment, once more a young man.  I felt summer heat; I heard blood sing in my ears; a taste of salted iron filled my mouth; and all that was then became now.  I saw the sloping hill above the Lakota village on the Greasy Grass River, that water white men call the Little Big Horn.  I saw horses, blue shirts, and arrows.  I watched Two Moons raise his arm, bloody to the elbow, high above his head.

 

I saw the yellow hair in his hand.

 

“May I keep this?” I asked Crooked Nose.

He put the money back into the tobacco sack and tied it around my neck with a leather thong.  It was a good sign that he came to see me.  I no longer think I asked the French priest for his medicine.  I do not think I have ever asked a white man for anything.

 

 

 

Author's Note

Any comment will be read respectfully. Some readers may have seen a longer version of this story.

Reviews

[49k_jdys]

I thought this story was beautiful, in a way that makes me believe it might have taken a bit of emotional toil to complete. It suggests that you have a deep connection to the characters--maybe through a shared heritage? And even if not, it comes across impressively authentic. There's much to be said about a writer who can exhibit strong emotions, character building, and scene setting in fewer than 600 words; and without leaving the reader with that lack of closure, that closure that many short story writers seem to neglect. I plan revisit this story again. I find it inspirational in its sincerity. I admire your skill of writing vulnerably, but succinctly.

[Delmar Cooper]

Thanks for your flattering review. I have no relationship to the characters. I was reading the "Old Farmer's Almanac" and came across a story about the buffalo nickel which led to speculation, limited research and with some personal knowledge of grumpy old men the story presented. Closure, yes, I like to read stories that actually end so I tend to write that kind of story. Sincerity? I have never considered sincerity a virtue. Hitler was sincere. I do like being succinct and if you leave out the modifiers and write with nouns, verbs and and articles it lessens the ballast. Thank you for your beautifully written review. It is the best one I have ever received.

[49k_jdys]

You're most welcome! Please keep writing!

[KCthelastboyscout]

A beautiful crafted tale.very rare reading native American content these days and that's a shame.so many wonderful stories to share...

[Delmar Cooper]

Thanks for reading and for your comment. Yes, lots of stories in that culture and all the cultures that make up America.

[Great Aunt Astri]

I felt this was very 'real'. You made the story very believable and you told it well. I enjoyed it. thank you.

[Delmar Cooper]

Astri, so good to see your voice. Keep on making poems we are almost out of poets and other songbirds.

[Great Aunt Astri]

Thanks Delmar. But I thought there were many many poets on line. Why do you say 'we are almost out of poets and other songbirds'?

[Great Aunt Astri]

Almost out of poets and other songbirds? I thought there were loads on WC. Please explain.

[Delmar Cooper]

Poets? yes certainly, sure, no doubt. I stand corrected.

[Annette Pisano-Higley]

The currency of lives- bought and sold at what human price...skillfully written story backed by truth and history. Masterful, tale-telling style.p and technical excellence. Powerful, sad, authentic voices heard. Native pride acknowledged. Kudos my friend!

[Delmar Cooper]

Thank you, you are kind. I am glad you read this piece.

[Annette Pisano-Higley]

You are very welcome and most talented. Glad to meet you!

[h d e rushin]

Mothers asleep now, so I can muse without musing; smile without cracking / the American Indian argument of an Imperfect savagery is a misguided one. Their lust for medicine like your lust for story telling is the stuff of legend. Impressive.

The moment one realized that others walked the earth before us is the moment the earth becomes unmappable. And only you can weave a scalping into a short story about currency..The voice parts I can almost hear.....nicely written mr Delmar....dana

[Delmar Cooper]

I am obliged by your comments and kind nod to me. Did I ever tell you I saw a queen once, the real McCoy, Elizabeth II. She waved to me. Yes me, I was alone on the pavement. She may have thought I was a Canadian, but she waved. I don't know why the queen wave came to mind when I read your comment. But did.

[Keshan mitchell]

This was a captivating story I really loved it

[Delmar Cooper]

Keshan,
Glad you read it and happy you told me so. Looking forward to more excellent writing from you. Best of luck.

[Keshan mitchell]

Thank you best of luck to you too

[W.k.kortas]

There are two things which I am especially fond of in this piece. First, the dialogue is wonderfully done--it captures speech just so, which sounds easy until you try to write it. A close cousin to that is how well the first-person narrative is put together; it very much reads as someone musing to himself, with just the right changes in emotional pitch. Again, sounds easy, but let me see you do it. The technical skill allows the piece to have real depth and texture which belies its relative brevity. First-rate writing.

[Delmar Cooper]

Thanks, you are too kind. I have always had a fondness for this piece even when it was a barely legible and barely intelligible notebook hen scratch. I liked the idea and I liked the unlikable character. These barely five hundred words have been revised almost that many times, or maybe it just seems like it.