"Very sweet," Sam echoed. Now or never, he thought. "Calliope — that is your name, right?"
"Yes," the girl said.
Sam put on his salesman's this is a serious matter voice. "Calliope, do you know who the-"
"My name wasn't always Calliope," she interrupted. "Sherman — he was the sculptor — started calling me Calliope, after the Greek muse of epic poetry. He said that I inspired men to art and madness. I liked the way it sounded so I took it as my real name. My mom even calls me Calliope now."
Sam had brought thousands of sales interviews back into control when the client tried to wander, he wouldn't let this girl sidetrack him. "Calliope, who was the Indian-"
"You know, the Indians used to change their names as they grew up and their personalities changed or when they did certain things, like Walks Across the Desert and stuff like that. Did you know that?"
"No I didn't," Sam lied. "But I really need to know-"
"Oh, there's my car!"
Sam slowed and pulled the Mercedes in behind the Z. "Calliope, before you go-"
"We can't have sex tonight," she said. "I have some things to do, but I can cook you dinner tomorrow if you want."
Sam turned to her, his mouth hanging open. She was smiling at him, waiting for his answer with her eyes wide, as if she'd just been surprised. He realized that every time he had looked at her she'd worn that same expression of wonderment, and each time it had thrown him. Dammit, he wouldn't be distracted. She was sharp, but he was sharper. He was in control here.
"Okay," he said.
"Terrific. I live at seventeen and a half Anapamu Street — that's upstairs. Whatever you do, don't go to the downstairs door. Six o'clock, okay?" Without waiting for his answer, she was out of the car and away.
Sam rolled down the window and shouted after her. "My name is Sam."
She looked back at him and smiled, then got into the Datsun and fired it up. Sam watched the little sports car tilt with the torque of the engine as she revved it. She burned off the back tires, filling the air with squeals and blue smoke as she pulled away.
CHAPTER 9
Quitting Now Greatly Reduces the Chance of Visions
Crow Country — 1967
It was well before dawn and no lights burned in the houses and shops of Crow Agency as Pokey piloted his old truck through town, a sleepy-eyed Samson wobbling on the seat next to him.
"How far is it to the fasting place?" Samson asked.
"About two hours, but only fifty or so miles as the Crow drives. Get it, as the Crow drives?" Pokey grinned at Samson and took a swig from a pint bottle of whiskey. He and Harlan had talked and drunk all night after Samson's sweat. Now he was using the road like a buttered harlot — he was all over the place while trying to stay in the middle — and scaring Samson, whose head whacked the window when Pokey got too much shoulder and had to yank the truck's retreads back onto the asphalt.
"Could we slow down, Pokey?"
"We're not going that fast."
Samson peeked at the speedometer, which registered zero, as did all the broken gauges in the truck. Pokey caught Samson looking and grinned again.
"I ain't in any danger at all, you know. I seen my death in a medicine dream. I get shot, and it ain't nowhere near this old truck. Nope, I'm plumb safe in this truck, no matter what I do."
"What about me?" Samson asked.
"Don't know? What's your death dream?"
"I didn't have one."
Pokey looked down at Samson with a worried expression. "You didn't?"
"Nope," Samson said with a gulp.
"Well then, if I wreck you could be plumb fucked." He began to weave more radically, leaning hard into Samson as the truck slipped off the shoulder again. "Oh, shit! These tires are bald too! Don't worry, son, I'll dance for your ghost at the Sun Dance!"
"Pokey, stop it!" Samson had begun to giggle as his uncle leaned into him.
"Quick, go to sleep fast, and dream of dying on top of a pretty woman, Samson. It's your only chance."
"Pokey!" Samson was doubled over with laughter now as Pokey fishtailed the truck back and forth in the road while pumping the brakes and the clutch, causing Samson's head to jerk around like a rag doll's.
Pokey shouted, "Blacken your face, Samson Hunts Alone, this is a good day to die." Then he slammed on the brakes and brought the truck to a skidding stop in the middle, of the road. Samson was thrown to the floor of the truck among a collection of old beer cans and soda bottles. Still giggling, he climbed back up onto the seat and began pounding on Pokey's shoulder. Pokey grabbed his hands and shushed him.
"Look," Pokey said, nodding to the front of the truck. Samson turned to see a huge buffalo bull crossing the road in front of them.
"Where did he come from?" Samson asked as he watched the bull lumber out of the headlights.
"Must of wandered off the Yellowtail's place. They got a few head of buffalo."
"Good thing you saw him in time."
"I didn't see him. Them things are so dark they just eat up your headlights. I was just fooling with you when I stopped."
"We were lucky," Samson said gravely.
"Nope, I told you we was safe. Now you quit being afraid of things that ain't happened yet. That's why I gave you that dream."
Pokey geared up the truck and they rode in silence for a while, listening to the rattling grind of the old Ford's engine. The sky was just getting light and Samson could see the new leaves coming on the trees and the blossoms on the cotton-woods. He was glad his fast was to be in the time of the first grass. The days would be mild and warm, but not hot.
"Pokey," Samson said. "What do I do when I get thirsty?"
Pokey took a long pull on the pint before he answered. "You must pray that your suffering is accepted and you are given a spirit helper."
"But what do I do? What if I die?"
"You won't die. When your suffering is too much you must go to the Spirit World. You must see yourself traveling into a hole in the ground and down a long tunnel. You will come out into the light and you will be in the Spirit World. There you will not be hungry or thirsty. Wait there and your spirit helper will come to you."
"What if my spirit helper doesn't come?"
"You must go back down the tunnel again and again, looking for him. In the buffalo days you had to have a spirit helper to go into battle or people thought you were a Crazy Dog Wishing to Die."
"What's that?"
"A warrior who is so crazy, or so full of sadness, that he rides against the enemy just so they will kill him."
"Was my dad a Crazy Dog Wishing to Die?"
Pokey smiled and looked wistfully ahead. "It is bad luck to speak of it, but no, he did not wish to die. He just got too drunk and drove too fast after his basketball games."
They drove south through Lodge Grass, where the only activity was that of a few dogs trying to clear their throats for the day's barking and a few ranchers cadging free coffee at the feed and grain store. Once through town, Pokey turned east on a dirt road into the rising sun to the Wolf Mountains. In the foothills the road became deeply rutted, and washed out in places. Pokey shifted into low and the truck ground down to a crawl. After a half hour of kidney-jarring bumps and vertiginous cutbacks, Pokey stopped the truck on a high ridge between the peaks of two mountains.
From here Samson could see all the way to Lodge Grass to the west, and across the green prairies of the Northern Cheyenne reservation to the east. Lodgepole pines lined the mountain on both sides, as thick as feathers on a bird, thinning here, near the peak, where the ground was arid, strewn with giant boulders, and barren but for a few yucca plants and the odd tuft of buffalo grass or sage.
"There." Pokey pointed east to a group of car-sized boulders about fifty yards from the road. "That is the place where you will fast. I'll wait for you on this side of the road if you need me, but you must only come up here if you have a vision or if you are in trouble." Pokey grabbed a bag from the floor of the truck and handed it to Samson through the window. "There's a blanket in there and some mint leaves to chew when you get thirsty. Go now. I will pray for your success."