Gold Mountain Blues - Ling Zhang [152]
First, Sundance’s father offered up prayers. Although he believed in the Jehovah of the White people, he was unwilling to forget the spirits of the ancestors his tribe had worshipped, so he left it vague as to which spirits his prayers were addressed.
Oh Great Spirit
I hear your voice in the wind
With every breath you take, ten thousand things multiply
I beg you to give me courage
Make my eyes keen
So that I may see the mystery of the rising and the setting sun Make my hands skilful
So that I can discover the wonder in every thing created by you Make my ears sharp
So that I may hear your sighs in the sound of the wind
Make my heart wise
So that I may know your true essence embodied in every stone.…
When he squatted down and prepared to strike the first blow with his axe, the Chief gave a slight cough.
“Are you carving another eagle’s head this time?” he asked, passing over a cigarette.
Sundance’s father took the cigarette and lit it with a match, but said nothing. He was not going to divulge any details of an unfinished work to anyone, not even the Chief.
The Chief took a few puffs, then casually said: “Have you heard? The priest’s camera has disappeared.”
Sundance’s father grunted. He was a man of few words. Though he had been baptized with the Christian name John, he was known to all in the village as Silent Wolf.
The Chief cleared his throat a few times then glanced towards the house. Lowering his voice, he said: “That guest of yours has been seen taking photographs of Sundance in the woods at the bend in the river.”
The other man’s eyebrows flickered. Still he said nothing, but he turned and went towards the house. At the doorway he stopped and showed the Chief in first.
“Any guest of mine is a member of my family. His reputation is my reputation. Please come and see for yourself if there’s anything here which is not ours.”
The Chief looked embarrassed. He clapped Silent Wolf on the shoulder: “It’s your family, just ask them, all right? If you say there’s nothing then there’s nothing. Even if they don’t believe me, they’ll have to believe you.”
It was quiet in the room. Sundance’s mother had gone to the knitting workshop and the children were at school. It was very bright outside and silvery dust motes floated lazily in the single brilliant sunbeam that shone through the window. It took a while for the men’s eyes to grow accustomed to the gloom, and then Silent Wolf saw his daughter sitting in the corner teaching Kam Shan to weave a sweetgrass basket.
Kam Shan stood up as soon as he saw the Chief. Silent Wolf ’s gaze swept over Kam Shan’s body but his waistline looked flat as normal. He knew what the priest’s black box looked like because the priest liked to stroll around the village with it slung over his shoulder, taking pictures. It was big, as big as his two hands put together, and would take up most of a cowhide bag.
“One day, you could teach me how to use a camera,” he said, looking at Kam Shan.
Sundance saw Kam Shan go pale at the words, but he said nothing. The atmosphere was oppressively heavy, so that the room seemed to echo with the thuds of their hearts. Sundance felt like a stranded fish opening and shutting its mouth in desperate gasps. She could not stay there any longer and fled outside.
Silent Wolf tilted Kam Shan’s chin up with one gnarled finger: “Be man and help me clear your name with the Chief.”
Kam Shan could no longer avoid the man’s eyes. Coal black, they were, cold on the surface but with a fire in their depths. Kam Shan’s own eyes, climbing to those cold black orbs, were blinded by the hidden fire. His mind went completely blank.
The Chief sighed: “When there was an outbreak of dysentery in the village last year, the priest rid us of the demons and saved us all. He has nothing to amuse himself with apart from that