Jim Genia
A week after his uncle died and already Elliott Red Feather could feel the resentment creeping in. Not at his uncle’s passing—the ravages of cancer had made death a mercy. No, what smoldered within Elliott came from the responsibility his uncle had burdened him with, one that kept him tethered to a reservation in North Dakota he’d happily left. “I need you to look after my friend,” his uncle had said, and now Elliott was stuck, stuck living in dismal tribal housing, cooking boxed mac-and-cheese mixed with canned commodity pork, taking care of a two-hundred-plus-year-old dwarf named Heck who murdered people with a tomahawk.
“Aho,” said Elliot, standing in the kitchen, leaning over the dented stove with wooden spoon in hand. “Dinner’s almost ready.”
From the recliner in the living room, the dwarf said nothing. On the TV, violence and gore. As usual, Heck alternated between chuckling and outright laughter, ugly sounds that made Elliott think of growling res dogs and mean-spirited badgers.
In the week since his uncle had died, there were no thanks for the meals prepared, no gratitude for keeping the fridge stocked. If Heck didn’t occasionally grunt at him, Elliott wouldn’t be sure the dwarf knew he was there.
“Aho,” Elliott said to himself, wooden spoon in hand and resentment creeping in, when there was a knock at the door.
It was nearly ten at night, and no one ever came to this corner of the res by accident. Elliott opened the door unsure of what to expect.
His uncle was standing there, which Elliott knew was impossible. As per tribal custom, his uncle’s ashes had been scattered along the riverbank.
“Hello, neph.”
Elliott didn’t know what to say, didn’t know what to think. He had the urge to reach out, to pull the thing close and see if it felt like his uncle in his embrace, but Heck was suddenly there beside him.
“Hmm,” said Heck, his thick, meaty hand between them, pushing against Elliott’s chest, stopping him in his tracks. “No.”
Confusion at how fast the dwarf had moved from the recliner to the door.
Confusion at the car parked in the driveway, and the man getting out of the driver’s side door to watch them.
At the thing that looked like his uncle, except it no longer looked like his uncle. It was an ugly dwarf with an upturned nose, protruding brow, beady eyes and sharp teeth—features similar to Heck’s, but with shocks of white hair marking him as older. Elliott didn’t know what to think of any of this, but then his eyes went to the curved knife in the dwarf’s hand, and he was frightened.
“No,” said Heck, this time to the dwarf. One hand was to Elliott’s chest, and the other held his tomahawk. He gestured at the darkness beyond the driveway, at the tree line casting shadows on the moonlit snow. Then they were gone, impossibly fast and impossibly quiet, creatures whose existence Elliott had been ignorant of a little more than a week ago.
The man trudged up to the door. Said, “Don’t mind them. They’re just going to kill each other.”
The man made himself comfortable at the kitchen table, his bones creaking with the chair, and by way of introduction said he was Fontaneau, a Kootenai from the Flathead Reservation and a friend of Elliott’s uncle.
By way of explanation, said, “Their medicine is very old. Much older than ours.”
By way of apology, said, “Your uncle was a good man. My little friend, he shouldn’ta done that.”
Elliott fought the urge to say he didn’t want this responsibility, that he didn’t belong there, that he should be far away, taking classes at a community college with the short hairs and not babysitting a monster.
Instead, he scooped mac-and-cheese-and-pork into a chipped bowl and set it on the table before Fontaneau. Handed him a fork. Asked if what he said about them killing each other was true.
“Geez, your uncle didn’t prepare you for this job at all, did he?” said Fontaneau. “They believe dying in battle is their path to the afterlife.” A forkful of food into his mouth, noisy chewing, and Fontaneau said, “My little friend is sick, so…” His voice trailed off. “So this probably won’t be much of a fight.”
Elliott let what Fontaneau said sink in, and when it finally did, he shook his head. Said “savages” with so much disdain it was as if the word tasted awful in his mouth.
“Aho,” said Fontaneau. “You sound like a colonizer.” Another forkful of food. Noisy chewing. “They were the original Natives. We have to respect their ways.”
To Elliott, Fontaneau sounded like every white college counselor or outreach volunteer trying to justify overlooking a res Indian’s alcoholism or meth habit. He told him as much.
“You got a lot of self-loathing in your words,” said Fontaneau. “You hate your people, or just yourself?”
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