Read an Excerpt
Wil Usdi
Thoughts from the Asylum, a Cherokee Novella
By Robert J. Conley UNIVERSITY OF OKLAHOMA PRESS
Copyright © 2015 University of Oklahoma Press
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-8061-5144-1
CHAPTER 1
Reflection
Little Will sat in his lonely cell (he called it a cell) in the state mental hospital at Morganton, North Carolina. He tended to think of himself as Little Will, or Wil Usdi, rather than as Colonel William Holland Thomas. His thoughts were clearer on things of his youth than of yesterday or last week. And even when he could recall more recent things, they were not as pleasant as things of long ago. He was getting close to ninety years old, and he had many things in his mind—when he could recall them. He liked to think of fishing in the mountains outside of his home on Raccoon Creek when he was about ten years old. He had no more pleasant memories than those. The log house he grew up in with his mother was about two miles east of Mount Prospect in North Carolina. It was surrounded by trees of all kinds, surrounded and shrouded. His whole world was green. He lived there alone with his mother, for he had never known a father. His father, whose name was Richard, had drowned in an accident some time before he was born.
He puffed up as he recalled some things he had been told about his family. His mother had made sure that he knew these things. Family was important. She was a grandniece of Lord Baltimore and was of the family of Calverts, who had been the founders of the colony of Maryland. And on his father's side, Wil was related to President Zachary Taylor and was a cousin of the great Jefferson Davis. He could remember those things and he remembered them with pride. His mother had taught him school at home, since the school was too far from their home for him to get there on time.
He also liked to hunt, and recalled hunting mostly for rabbits and squirrels, although he did remember shooting a large wild turkey one time. He grinned a wide grin when he recalled it. It was a big, beautiful bird with a large fantail, and he remembered his mother's face when he brought it home. Ah, it had made a fine meal for the two of them. Just the two of them. He could recall the succulent taste as if he had just taken a big bite. His mother had been a fine cook.
He loved the memory of those days. He had a deep fondness for the old log house and for its setting in the mountains, along the side of Raccoon Creek. But those happy days had come to an end when he was twelve years old. His mother had decided that it was time Will found his own way in the world. Life was hard for her at forty-two years of age, and Will was old enough to work at a man's job. He was well educated, she thought, even if she herself had been his teacher. So Temperance Calvert Thomas contacted her old family friend, congressman Felix Walker.
Walker was well-known, and his son had one trading post in Mount Prospect and another on Soco Creek in the Cherokee country, about thirty miles distant. He could not properly run both of the stores. He needed some help. Young Will was bright and could cipher well. He was mature for his age—although he did not look it because of his diminutive stature. Walker and his son came by the log house to visit with Will and his mother, and he brought a contract for Will to sign. The contract said that Will would be a clerk in the store and would perform all duties connected to that position. He would have one assistant, a young Cherokee boy who was already employed there. Will's time of service under the contract, which was renewable, was three years, and for that time he would receive one hundred dollars, his board, and clothing.
One hundred dollars seemed a fortune to Will at that time. He was glad to sign the contract. He was anxious to be a man and be earning his own way. When Walker was gone, Will's mother helped him to pack his clothes. There weren't very many. She also packed a few books for him. He was a voracious reader. She fixed him a fine meal of fish he had caught in Raccoon Creek the day before, corn bread, and greens, and then sent him on his way. He rode the distance from Raccoon Creek to the store on Soco Creek in a buggy with the younger Walker, and when he got to the store, he showed the contract with Walker's signature and his own on it to the Cherokee boy who was running things. Walker introduced the two boys to each other and told the Cherokee boy that Will was to be in charge of the operations of the store. Will recalled all of these things as if they had happened the day before.
The Cherokee boy was about Will's age, and he could speak English passably but not well. He was called John, but, of course, that was not his real name. His real name was Oowalookie Loony, but he did not want to be called Loony in English, and Oowalookie was too difficult for English speakers. Someone had started calling him John, and he decided that John was as good as anything else. So he was John. Will had soon decided that it would be easier to learn to speak Cherokee than to teach John better English, so he began studying. He studied by listening carefully to John when he spoke Cherokee and listening to other Cherokees speak. That was easy for he was surrounded most of the time by Cherokees.
He started by greeting Cherokees in their own language and asking, "How are you?" Then he would ask them what he could do for them, and when he could no longer keep up the conversation in Cherokee, he would call on John for help. As time went by, he called on John less and less. He soon found that it was a great pleasure to speak in Cherokee to his customers and to carry on conversations in Cherokee with John when they were alone in the store. It wasn't long before he no longer needed to call on John for help. He could talk with anyone about anything in Cherokee for as long as he wanted. He became comfortable in the new language.
As he talked with John when they were alone, he asked John about Cherokee life. He began to learn about the things that the Cherokees ate and about their beliefs and ceremonies. John told him the old Cherokee stories. He particularly loved the old story about Brass, the Gambler, the one who had invented the game the Cherokees called gatayusti. He was disappointed to learn that they no longer played it. They still engaged in the rough game of Anetsodi, known in English as stickball; and they played marbles, not the way white boys played it, but in a particularly Cherokee way. Will wanted to learn to play Cherokee marbles and stickball and he told John so.
Of course, Will was learning other things as well. He was learning the value of pelts, and he was learning how to keep the books when he gave a Cherokee credit. And he found that he was giving a great deal of credit. Mostly the Cherokees had little money, so his bookkeeping became a very important skill. He would record the name of the Cherokee customer, perhaps, say, Bear Meat, and then he would write down what the customer had wanted, perhaps five pounds of sugar, five pounds of coffee, maybe a knife, and he would record the value of each item. He would then explain to the Indian what he had written and have the Indian sign the book, usually with a mark. Sometimes the Indian would write his own name in English letters, but that was extremely rare.
One day a big and handsome Cherokee strode into the store. "'Siyo," said Will. "What can I do for you?" But of course he continued speaking Cherokee, and the conversation continued in that language.
The big man said, "Yonaguska dagwado. 'Gado dejadoa?"
"Will dagwadoa," Will answered. "Dohiju?"
"I am just fine," answered Bear Drowning Him, for that was the name he had been given.
"And how about you, Little Will?"
"I, too, am just fine," said Will. "Did you come in to buy something?"
"I just came in to see who was here. I like to know everyone around here."
"Oh. Well, I am very glad to know you, Yonaguska. Sit down and let's have a talk."
He pulled a chair out from behind the counter for Yonaguska to sit on. Drowning Bear sat down. "Is it all right if I smoke?" he asked.
"Of course," said Will.
"Do you have a pipe?"
"No," said Will.
"I do not."
"Who are your parents, Wil Usdi?"
"My mother is Temperance Calvert," Will said. "My father died before I was born. I never knew him, but his name was Richard Thomas."
"And where does your mother live?"
"She lives alone on Raccoon Creek near Mount Prospect."
"That's too bad about your parents."
They continued to make small talk for several minutes before Yonaguska got up to leave, apparently satisfied that he now knew who was running the store. Will felt satisfied that he had made a new friend and that he had carried on a conversation with the man in the Cherokee language. He had liked Yonaguska. He hoped that he would come back to visit again.
John, who had been out on an errand, came back into the store, and Will said, "John, I have just met a very interesting man. His name is Yonaguska, and we had a good talk."
"Will," said John, "you have made an important friend. Yonaguska is highly respected around here."
"Oh? He called me Little Will."
It was four days later when Will was just finishing up with a customer who was getting some goods on credit, when Yonaguska came back into the store. "'Siyo, Wil Usdi," he almost shouted out. He had a big smile on his face. "Are you well today?"
"'Siyo, Yonaguska. Yes. I'm well. And you?"
"I'm bully fine," said Yonaguska in English. Then back in Cherokee, "Where is my chair?"
Will turned to John. "John," he said, "can you finish this for me?"
John took over the deal Will had been working on, and Will fetched the chair for Yonaguska. He pulled one out for himself and sat down beside the man. Yonaguska reached into the bandoleer bag he wore over his shoulder and pulled out a pipe, which he held out to Will. "Now you have a pipe," he said. "Let's smoke." He took out his own pipe and a pouch of tobacco from which he filled both pipe bowls. Will went to the stove for an ember and lit the pipes. He was careful, for he had never smoked before, and he was afraid that he might cough or choke, but he did not. He managed it well enough. John finished with the customer and looked on in slight amazement, and a little jealousy, at the way in which Will and Yonaguska were getting along.
"Wil Usdi," said Yonaguska, "since you have no father, I'm going to make you my son. I'll be your father now."
Wil smiled comfortably as he recalled those early days. The adoption by Yonaguska had made a big difference in his life. The news spread quickly. Within a few days it seemed that just about all Cherokees knew that Yonaguska was now the father of Wil Usdi. And things started happening for Wil too. He was invited to take part in a stickball game by John, who said that the invitation had really come from the captain of the team. Wil showed up to play the way all of the players did. He wore a pair of shorts and nothing else. He and the other players were taken to the water, down at the river's edge, and there the medicine man scratched them with a turkey's claw down their backs and down the back sides of their legs—to make them run fast.
The two teams lined up facing one another on a large flat field with goals set up at either end. The goals were willow poles stuck into the ground, and the ball had to be thrown or carried between them. The two teams yelled out at one another as they moved closer together. At last a driver, the game's only official, took the ball, small enough to close one's fist around, and tossed it into the air.
From the moment the ball was first thrown, there seemed to be no rest. It was a fast-moving game. Wil tried his best to catch the ball with his ballsticks as required, but it was extremely difficult to do. He missed one ball and it came crashing down on his forehead. Then he was run over by several players who were after the ball. Wil scrambled with them all, and he actually got the ball. When he stood up to run with it, three big players from the other team tackled him and knocked the ball loose. When it was at last all over, Wil felt fortunate indeed that nothing on him was broken. He had a few scratches and bruises, but nothing worse. He felt great, though, for having played in the game.
Yonaguska came to him to go hunting also, and when he could take off from his duties at the store, Wil went with the old man. However, he soon discovered that once they were out in the woods, Yonaguska drank whiskey and would get drunk. When he did, Wil always tried to get his rifle away from him and carry it. Usually Yonaguska offered no resistance. He walked along happily with his jug, content to let Wil fire at any game that appeared. When Wil shot his first deer, he was very puffed up, and he gave the deer to Yonaguska. When they got back to the town, Yonaguska told everyone they met, with great pride, that his son, Wil Usdi, had shot the deer and made a present of it to him.
Yonaguska saw to it that Wil began dressing like a Cherokee, and very soon, for all practical purposes, Wil had become a Cherokee. He began playing Cherokee marbles, and he continued playing stickball. He even developed some proficiency with his ballsticks, both catching and throwing the ball with them. He took part in the Green Corn Dance when the time came, and he learned to sing the songs and to dance. Sometimes John was with Wil at these activities, but more often than not, one of them had to be at the store.
There was a sudden knock at the cell door, and it brought Wil back to reality and out of his reverie. "What?" he shouted. "Who is it? What do you want?"
"It's George, Mr. Thomas," came a voice through the door. "I have your supper."
"Well, come on in with it. Don't stand out there letting it get cold."
George opened the door and stepped in. He put a tray on the table. Wil noticed that, as usual, there was nothing for him to eat with except a spoon. "You're still afraid that I'll try to kill you with a fork or with a table knife, are you? Ha ha. I might. Bring me one sometime and we'll find out."
"You'll manage all right with what you have there," said George. "This looks like a good meal. I wish I had one like it right now."
"Well, get you one. What's wrong with you? Get one and eat it."
"It's not my meal time yet," said George. "I have to see that all of you are fed first."
"All of us nuts?"
"Now I didn't say that."
"No, but you thought it, didn't you? We are all nuts. Crazy as bed bugs."
"Mr. Thomas, you'd better eat your food and drink your coffee before it gets cold."
"I suppose so," said Wil, picking up his spoon.
"Oh," said George, "I nearly forgot. I have a letter here for you."
He reached inside his shirt and produced a letter, which he handed to Wil. Wil took it and looked at it. He read the return address. It was from a James Mooney in Washington, D.C. He tossed it aside. "Aren't you going to read it?" said George.
"I don't know him," said Wil, "and besides, I'll read it when you're gone. Whatever it is, it's none of your business."
"Well, all right. Hell. I'm gone," said George. "I hope you choke." He left the room, shutting the door behind him. Wil took a bite of green peas with his spoon, looked at the closed door, and reached for the letter. He ripped it open quickly, took out the letter and unfolded it. He read through it and discovered that Mooney was an ethnologist with the Bureau of American Ethnology. He said that he was assigned to write about the Cherokees, and he intended to visit the home of the Eastern Band of Cherokee Indians. He would need to interview some of them, and he would very much appreciate Wil's help in getting the names of people who would be good for him to talk with. He said he would also like to interview Wil for his knowledge of Cherokee history and culture.
Wil tossed the letter aside once more and went back to eating his meal. It wasn't too bad. It was much like everything else they gave him to eat in this madhouse. It hadn't much taste. The peas and mashed potatoes tasted much alike, as did the bread and the meat. As to what kind of meat it was, he could not say. He ate it, though, and then he went to his desk drawer for a pen and ink and some paper. He had to answer Mr. Mooney's letter.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Wil Usdi by Robert J. Conley. Copyright © 2015 University of Oklahoma Press. Excerpted by permission of UNIVERSITY OF OKLAHOMA PRESS.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
