Yes, it sounded like the sort of enterprise which might meet his fancy, and for which he doubtless was qualified. He had grown tired of the tribal life of the Pawnees. But this—All that movement, and new lands to see… He smiled as he finished his coffee. He would have to go for an interview and learn all of the details.
So he had gone, talked, and been offered employment. His experiences seemed to impress the interviewer strongly, and he had signed him on for the work.
In the days that remained in St. Louis, Hugh met a number of men who had lived in the wilderness—some of them attracted by the fur company’s hiring, others just passing through, in both directions. One of these had been that strange man, John Colter, who had actually traveled to the far ocean with Lewis and Clark. There was an odd light in his eye, which Hugh at first took as a touch of lunacy but later decided was…something else—something like the look of a medicine man who had been long in the dream-time. Colter did not recite his tales with the braggadocio of the seasoned yarner but with a conviction Hugh found vaguely unsettling. He came away from their talks of travels and adventures with a belief in the man’s absolute sincerity, and he was to wonder about him for years afterwards…
* * *
…Later, as the evening came on, he caught his fish, grilled them, and dined. Then he washed up, massaged his leg, shoulder, and arm for a time, and removed himself a good distance from the trail to make his camp. He fell to sleep with a feeling of satisfaction.
In the morning he dined on berries and water from the river. A few days of steady travel and he’d be accustomed to swinging along with the crutch, he felt. There was a rhythm to it which he was beginning to pick up, and he knew that he was making better time upright, and with less effort.
Each stride took him farther from the Ree and nearer to Sioux country. They called them Dakotas up here. Same thing, though. They’d trust him all right. Henry’s boys had always gotten on well with the Sioux. The closer he got to the Cheyenne River and the farther from the Moreau the better he felt. Hard to judge how many days it would take to really be into their country. If it were a few weeks later, with less foliage on the trees, he’d have a better view westward. Could catch a glimpse of the Black Hills then, to know better where he was. At least he knew where he was headed. He’d come a good distance toward Ft. Kiowa, and while it was still a long way off he’d come into a much more congenial piece of countryside. And his strength was beginning to return. Already, long stretches of his inchworm progress had taken on the fragmented quality of dreaming…
He tried to think about meanness—from Lafitte and the Pawnee women to Jamie—but his spirits were too high. So he just set his mind to rising and falling with the swells like a ship at anchor, and the day passed through, along with pieces of Pennsylvania, the West Indies, and the mounrains, most of them involving days such as this.
He slept deeply that night and did not remember any dreams. In the morning, though, as he headed to the river to bathe and seek after berries and roots, he found a succession of stripped berry bushes, bear tracks and bear scat about the area. This upset him for a long while. That night, after a good day’s travel, he dreamed again of the bear, crushing him, breathing into him, with a certain feeling of urgency, as if it were trying to pull him back, to that time, that place, to do it all again, this time not to let him get away. He awoke sweating and shaking. He sought the shadows and sniffed the air, but he was alone in the night. Later, he slept again.
There was no bear sign the next day, and several times it rained causing him to take refuge among the trees. The going was slower because of the mud this produced, and his fear of falling. He was unable to take any fish and dined entirely on roots.
The following day the land began to rise about him, assuming rougher, more hilly features. Eventually, he moved among bluffs and the river was inconveniently low to his left. Still, he crossed the streams and creeks which fed it, and he speared fish, bathed, and drank from these. It seemed to his recollection that this terrain marked the edges of the valley of the Cheyenne. A day or so here and it would be an easy, downhill walk into the safety of that place.
…And the pain in his hip was better than it had been since the bear. Even the leg was beginning to feel a little stronger. Every time he inadvertently put weight on it there had been twinges, but none of the terrible pains of a break. Even these had eased during the past few days, so that he began to wonder whether it might have healed to the point where it could bear his weight for a few paces. Gingerly, he began to experiment. A little weight… Not bad. A little more. Still all right. Bit of a twinge there. Try again.
The next morning, as he took his way down a slope, he heard the sound of horses. Immediately he headed for cover.
Two mounted Indians rounded the bend and, from an exclamation one of them uttered, he knew he had been seen. A moment later, two pack horses made the turn, and it sounded as if more were coming behind them. Hugh halted and turned as the foremost reached for his rifle.
He faced them, raising his left hand, open palm facing them. Two more riders rounded the bend, also leading horses loaded with baskets and bags. These riders also reached for their weapons.
As they approached, Hugh grew certain they were Sioux. Thinking again of human cussedness, he waited until they drew near and halted, rifles still upon him.
Then he said, “Hugh Glass,” and added “friend” in their language.
Zelazny contributed this story to an anthology and to the collaborative novel
Wilderness
. Slated for prior publication, the anthology was delayed, and
Wilderness
preceded it. This short story comprises two excerpts from the novel: the first starts as the bear mauls Glass, and the second takes place several weeks into his crawling journey.
Zelazny mentions several Native American and First Nations tribes. Around the time of this story the
Arikara
(also Arikaree,
Rickaree
,
Ree
) lived in South Dakota;
Sioux
or
Dakotas
lived in the upper Mississippi Valley and surrounding plains;
Pawnee
occupied Nebraska;
Cheyenne
lived between the Missouri and Arkansas rivers;
Assiniboine
inhabited Southern Manitoba;
Blackfeet
lived on the northwestern plains. The
Leavenworth campaign
of 1823 suppressed the Arikara.
Big Horn
is a Wyoming mountain range. A
travois
is a sled used to carry goods, consisting of two joined poles dragged by a horse or dog. The
Platte
River in Nebraska is a tributary of the Missouri River.
Jean Lafitte
—“Gentleman Pirate of New Orleans”—was a pirate in the Gulf of Mexico in the early nineteenth century. A
cutlass
is a short sword with a slightly curved blade once favored by sailors. A
belaying pin
on a ship secures a rope.
Et
means eaten.
Braggadocio
is arrogance. The
Moreau River
in South Dakota is a tributary of the Missouri River.
Fort Kiowa
(originally Fort Lookout) was an American Fur Company trading post on the Missouri River near Oacoma, South Dakota.
Scat
is animal excrement.
Walking, of course, away from it all,
the run and the crawl.
Walking as we must
beyond tales end, the dark,
the light, and the grey, past
reefs of bleached buffalo bone,
the seasons, the years,
the opened graves and closed,
the burnt villages and blackened plain
where time the river flows,
we look for real endings, finding none,
and graves that come and go.
John Colter died leaving
2 beds, 4 chairs, one glass tumbler,
1 dish and 5 puter plates,
1 plow, 1 hoe, one Dutch oven,
2 pie pans, 3 puter basins,
1 coffee pot, 1 little spinning wheel,
2 bottles, 4 tin cups,
knives, forks and spoons,
1 piggin, 1 pane of cotton cards,
1 flat iron, 3 books,
1 mare, 1 colt, one heffer,
1 cow and calf.
His estate, settled December 10, 1813,
was valued at $233.76-¾
after his debts had been paid,
and, in an unmarked grave on Tunnel Hill,
outside St. Louis was he laid, later forgotten,
and used as landfill,
becoming part of the track bed
of the Missouri Pacific Railway.
None knows where Old Hugh
came to rest, though Jamie Bridger’d
a Wyoming fort to bear his name.
Walking then away from it all
down endless caverns,
through citied futures,
one finds, as at the end of every trail,
a skull. Whose, is hardly important,
but that into the coming together place
where time crosses the world, it held
the act of continual passion,
granting meaning to the bright moment
of its execution, beneath sun, sky, stars,
where lives and futures fuse,
turning courses away from the greater darkness,
signing the earth with the long pressure of its gaze.
Walking, you see them painted now
in ancient halls of the Earth;
walking, you see them all painted,
deep, on the walls of the cave.
Puter
is a deliberate misspelling of pewter, an alloy composed of tin and other metals. A
piggin
is small wooden dipper with a handle formed by continuing one of the staves above the rim.
Heffer
is a deliberate misspelling of heifer, a young virgin cow.
Nothing above. | Nothing to left. |
Nothing behind. | There is no door. |
I
t flew, thing of fiery feather and shimmering underside, occasionally changing shape in its passage through the brilliant void toward the blazing flower about which the others circled. It shed a fearful trail and looked backwards often. Several times, its movement grew erratic but always it recovered and headed on till at length it fell into orbit about the rootless, flaming bloom, then glided, absorbing the healing emanations of that place.
At length—though time meant little here—another such as itself altered its circling course and came to parallel its passage.
“Loxas,” said the other, “your colors are wrong. What is the matter?”
“Tork,” replied the first, “I have seen such things as I never knew nor heard of, and I am no longer the same as before I grazed the destroying vortex.”
“Be grateful you survive to recall it. What happened?”
“I was careless and did not note its approach until it was too late. I was struck, obliquely, and my senses spun away from me. When they returned I found myself being drawn down a long tunnel which darkened as I went. Finally, it took me to a great cave where creatures whose beings were divided into two sorts dwelled. Always they faced to the rear of the cave, observing the shadows that passed there, unwilling or unable to turn and regard the cavemouth beyond which wonders lay. I felt myself drawn to one sort of the creature—big-bellied, it was, and within I could see where it was growing a smaller version of itself. I was overwhelmed then by a desire to enter there and become that smaller creature. As I advanced upon it, I was suddenly halted, and a voice said, ‘No. It is not yet your time. You must return.’ Then I was hurled back up the tunnel toward the light where I emerged. I came here to repair myself and to meditate upon it. Have you ever heard of such a thing?”
“Yes,” Tork replied. “Others have undergone it from time to time, though it is not at all a common occurrence. I have overheard the Elders discussing the phenomenon. What you saw and felt is a thing that is known as a near-life experience.”
I
t rained that night and the old lady made tea, as was generally the case. Sipping it, there at the kitchen table, she looked back over her quiet life. Memories of childhood came to fascinate her, and she wondered again at the quietude that had followed. Though she’d inherited the house and received a small stipend from a trust fund and had traveled considerably she’d never found the right man; or vice versa. The game was about over for her now, though she’d never really been invited to play. There had been nothing of great interest or reminder save for a few visits with the man who hunted people, and the last of these had been years ago. Now…Now it was peaceful to drink her tea and listen to the rain, to reflect on the complexity of existence and one’s own useless role in most of it. She had done a lot of volunteer work, read a lot of books, remembered the wars. She’d been a nurse in both of them, though the second time had involved luck, expediency, and a need that transcended age. Well, there had been one man, back in the first war, she recalled—a quiet British lieutenant named Colin. They might have been happy together, she mused, but the fields of Flanders had eaten him, along with so many others.
She moved to the other room and stoked the fire, adding a few sticks, as she meant to take a second cup of tea in the parlor. Halfway through the cup and some old thoughts, the doorbell rang. She glanced at the clock. It was near midnight.
She rose and crossed the room, opening the door partway.
“‘Evening, Miss Alice,” he said. “Axel J. Beangern at your service. I was wondering whether we might use it tonight.”