An Online Short Story by Louise Erdrich
"Saint Marie"
A Short Story
by Lousie Erdrich
So when I went there, I knew the dark fish
must rise. Plumes of radiance had been soldered on me. No reservation girl had ever prayed
so hard. There was no use in trying to ignore me any longer. I was going up there on the
hill with the black-robe women. None were any lighter than me. I was going up there to
pray as good as they could, because I don't have that much Indian blood. And they never
thought they'd have a girl from this reservation as a saint they'd have to kneel to. But
they were going to have me. And I'd be carved in pure gold. With ruby lips. And my
toenails would be little pink ocean shells, which they would have to stoop down off their
high horse to kiss.
I was ignorant. I was near age fourteen. The sky is just about the size of my ignorance.
And just as pure. And thatthe pure wideness of my ignoranceis what got me up
the hill to the Sacred Heart Convent and brought me back down alive. For maybe Jesus did
not take my bait, but them Sisters tried to cram me right down whole.
You ever see a walleye strike so bad the lure is practically out its back end before you
reel it in? That is what they done with me. I don't like to make that low comparison, but
I have seen a walleye do that once. And it's the same attempt as Sister Leopolda made to
get me in her clutch.
I had the mail-order Catholic soul you get in a girl raised out in the bush, whose only
thought is getting into town. Sunday Mass is the only time my father brought his children
in except for school, when we were harnessed. Our souls went cheap. We were so anxious to
get there we would have walked in on our hands and knees. We just craved going to the
store, slinging bottle caps in the dust, making fool eyes at each other. And of course we
went to church.
Where they have the convent is on top of the highest hill, so that from its windows the
Sisters can be looking into the marrow of the town. Recently a windbreak was planted
before the bar "for the purposes of tornado insurance." Don't tell me that. That
poplar stand was put up to hide the drinkers as they get the transformation. As they are
served into the beast of their burden. While they're drinking, that body comes upon them,
and then they stagger or crawl out the bar door, pulling a weight they can't move past the
poplars. They don't want no holy witness to their fall.
Anyway, I climbed. That was a long-ago day. A road for wagons wound in ruts to the top of
the hill where they had their buildings of brick painted gleaming white. So white the sun
glanced off in dazzling display to set forms whirling behind your eyelids. The face of God
you could hardly look at. But that day it drizzled, so I could look all I wanted. I saw
the homelier side. The cracked whitewash, and swallows nesting in the busted ends of
eaves. I saw the boards sawed the size of broken windowpanes and the fruit trees,
stripped. Only the tough wild rhubarb flourished. Golden-rod rubbed up their walls. It was
a poor convent. I know that now. Compared with others it was humble, ragtag, out in the
middle of no place. It was the end of the world to some. Where the maps stopped. Where God
had only half a hand in the Creation. Where the Dark One had put in thick bush, liquor,
wild dogs, and Indians.
I heard later that the Sacred Heart Convent was a place for nuns that don't get along
elsewhere. Nuns that complain too much or lose their mind. I'll always wonder now, after
hearing that, where they picked up Sister Leopolda. Perhaps she had scarred someone else,
the way she left a mark on me. Perhaps she was just sent around to test her sisters'
faith, here and there, like the spot-checker in a factory. For she was a definite hard
trial for anyone, even for those who started out with veils of wretched love upon their
eyes.
I was that girl who thought the hem of her black garment would help me rise. Veils of
love, which was only hate petrified by longing, that was me. I was like those bush Indians
who stole the holy black hat of a Jesuit and swallowed little scraps of it to cure their
fevers. But the hat itself carried smallpox, and it was killing them with belief. Veils of
faith! I had this confidence in Leopolda. She was different. The other Sisters had long
ago gone blank and given up on Satan. He slept for them. They never noticed his comings
and goings. But Leopolda kept track of him and knew his habits, the minds he burrowed in,
the deep spaces where he hid. She knew as much about him as my grandma, who called him by
other names and was not afraid.
In her class, Sister Leopolda carried a long oak pole for opening high windows. On one end
it had a hook made of iron that could jerk a patch of your hair out or throttle you by the
collarall from a distance. She used this deadly hook-pole for catching Satan by
surprise. He could have entered without your knowing itthrough your lips or your
nose or any one of your seven openings gained your mind. But she would see him. That
pole would brain you from behind. And he would gasp, dazzled, and take the first thing she
offered, which was pain.
She had a string of children who could breathe only if she said the word. I was the worst
of them. She always said the Dark One wanted me most of all, and I believed this. I stood
out. Evil was a common thing I trusted. Before sleep sometimes he came and whispered
conversation in the old language of the bush. I listened. He told me things he never told
anyone but Indians. I was privy to both worlds of his knowledge. I listened to him but,
still, I had confidence in Leopolda. For she was the only one of the bunch he even
noticed.
There came a day, though, when Leopolda turned the tide with her hook-pole.
It was a quiet day, with all of us working at our desks, when I heard him. He had sneaked
into the closets in the back of the room. He was scratching around, tasting crumbs in our
pockets, stealing buttons, squirting his dark juice in the linings and the boots. I was
the only one who heard him, and I got bold. I smiled. I glanced back and smiled, and
looked up at her sly to see if she had noticed. My heart jumped. For she was looking
straight at me. And she sniffed. She had a big, stark, bony nose stuck to the front of her
face, for smelling out brimstone and evil thoughts. She had smelled him on me. She stood
up. Tall, pale, a blackness leading into the deeper blackness of the slate wall behind
her. Her oak pole had flown into her grip. She had seen me glance at the closet. Oh, she
knew. She knew just where he was. I watched her watch him in her mind's eye. The whole
class was watching now. She was staring, sizing, following his scuffle. And all of a
sudden she tensed down, poised on her bent kneesprings, cocked her arm back. She threw the
oak pole singing over my head. It cracked through the thin wood door of the back closet
and the heavy pointed hook drove through his heart. I turned. She'd speared her own black
rubber overboot where he'd taken refuge, in the tip of her darkest toe.
Something howled in my mind. Loss and darkness. I understood. I was to suffer for my
smile.
He rose up hard in my heart. I didn't blink when the pole cracked. My skull was tough. I
didn't flinch when she shrieked in my ear. I only shrugged at the flowers of hell. He
wanted me. More than anything he craved me. But then she did the worst. She did what broke
my mind to her. She grabbed me by the collar and dragged me, feet flying, through the room
and threw me in the closet with her dead black overboot. And I was there. The only light
was a crack beneath the door. I asked the Dark One to enter into me and alert my mind. I
asked him to restrain my tears, for they were pushing behind my eyes. But he was afraid to
come back there. He was afraid of her sharp pole. And I was afraid of Leopolda's pole,
too, for the first time. I felt the cold hook in my heart. It could crack through the door
at any minute and drag me out, like a dead fish on a gaff, drop me on the floor like a
gutshot squirrel.
I was nothing. I edged back to the wall as far as I could. I breathed the chalk dust. The
hem of her full black cloak cut against my cheek. He had left me. Her spear could find me
any time. Her keen ears would aim the hook into the beat of my heart.
What was that sound?
It filled the closet, filled it up until it spilled over, but I did not recognize the
crying wailing voice as mine until the door cracked open, I saw brightness, and she
hoisted me to her camphor-smelling lips.
"He wants you," she said. "That's the difference. I give you
love."
Love. The black hook. The spear singing through the mind. I saw that she had tracked the
Dark One to my heart and flushed him out into the open. So now my heart was an empty nest
where she could lurk.
Well, I was weak. I was weak when I let her in but she got a foothold there. Hard to
dislodge as the months passed. Sometimes I felt himthe brush of dim wingsbut
only rarely did his voice compel. It was between Marie and Leopolda now, and the struggle
changed. I began to realize I had been on the wrong track with the fruits of hell. The
real way to overcome Leopolda was this: I'd get to heaven first. And then, when I saw her
coming, I'd shut the gate. She'd be out! That is why, besides the bowing and the scraping
I'd be dealt, I wanted to sit on the altar as a saint.
To this end, I went on up the hill. Sister Leopolda was the consecrated nun who had
sponsored me to come there.
"You're not vain," she had said. "You're too honest, looking into the
mirror, for that. You're not smart. You don't have the ambition to get clear. You have two
choices. One, you can marry a no-good Indian, bear his brats, die like a dog. Or two, you
can give yourself to God."
"I'll come up there," I said, "but not because of what you think."
I could have had any damn man on the reservation at the time. And I could have made him
treat me like his own life. I looked good. And I looked white. But I wanted Sister
Leopolda's heart. And here was the thing: Sometimes I wanted her heart in love and
admiration. Sometimes. And sometime's I wanted her heart to roast on a black stick.
She answered the back door, where they had
instructed me to call. I stood there with my bundle. She looked me up and down.
"All right," she said finally. "Come in."
She took my hand. Her fingers were like a bundle of broom straws, so thin and dry, but the
strength of them was unnatural. I couldn't have tugged loose if she had been leading me
into rooms of white-hot coal. Her strength was a kind of perverse miracle, for she got it
from fasting herself thin. Because of this hunger practice her lips were a wounded brown
and her skin was deadly pale. Her eye sockets were two deep, lashless hollows. I told you
about the nose. It stuck out far and made the place her eyes moved even deeper, as if she
stared out of a gun barrel. She took the bundle from my hands and threw it in the corner.
"You'll be sleeping behind the stove, child."
It was immense, like a great furnace. A small cot was close behind it.
"Looks like it could get warm there," I said.
"Hot. It does."
"Do I get a habit?"
I wanted something like the thing she wore. Flowing black cotton. Her face was strapped in
white bandages and a sharp crest of starched cardboard hung over her forehead like a
glaring beak. If possible, I wanted a bigger, longer, whiter beak than hers.
"No," she said, grinning her great skull grin. "You don't get one yet. Who
knows, you might not like us. Or we might not like you."
But she had loved me, or offered me love. And she had tried to hunt the Dark One down. So
I had this confidence.
"I'll inherit your keys from you," I said.
She looked at me sharply, and her grin turned strange. She hissed, taking in her breath.
Then she turned to the door and took a key from her belt. It was a giant key, and it
unlocked the larder, where the food was stored.
Inside were all kinds of good stuff. Things I'd tasted only once or twice in my life. I
saw sticks of dried fruit, jars of orange peel, spices like cinnamon. I saw tins of
crackers with ships painted on the side. I saw pickles. Jars of herring and the rind of
pigs. Cheese, a big brown block of it from the thick milk of goats. And the everyday
stuff, in great quantities, the flour and the coffee.
The cheese got to me. When I saw it my stomach hollowed. My tongue dripped. I loved that
goat-milk cheese better than anything I'd ever eaten. I stared at it. The rich curve in
the buttery cloth.
"When you inherit my keys," she said sourly, slamming the door in my face,
"you can eat all you want of the priest's cheese."
Then she seemed to consider what she'd done. She looked at me. She took the key from her
belt and went back, sliced a hunk off, and put it in my hand.
"If you're good you'll taste this cheese again. When I'm dead and gone," she
said.
Then she dragged out the big sack of flour. When I finisbed that heavenly stuff she told
me to roll my sleeves up and begin doing God's labor. For a while we worked in silence,
mixing up dough and pounding it out on stone slabs.
"God's work," I said after a while. "If this is God's work, then I've done
it all my life."
"Well, you've done it with the Devil in your heart, then," she said. "Not
God."
"How do you know?" I asked. But I knew she did. And I wished I had not brought
up the subject.
"I see right into you like a clear glass," she said. "I always did."
"You don't know it," she continued after a while, "but he's come around
here sulking. He's come around here brooding. You brought him in. He knows the smell of me
and he's going to make a last-ditch try to get you back. Don't let him," she glared
over at me. Her eyes were cold and lighted. "Don't let him touch you. We'll be a long
time getting rid of him."
So I was careful. I was careful not to give him an inch. I said a rosary, two rosaries,
three, underneath my breath. I said the Creed. I said every scrap of Latin I knew while we
punched the dough with our fists. And still, I dropped the cup. It rolled under that
monstrous iron stove, which was getting fired up for baking.
And she was on me. She saw he'd entered my distraction.
"Our good cup," she said. "Get it out of there, Marie."
I reached for the poker to snag it out from beneath the stove. But I had a sinking feeling
in my stomach as I did this. Sure enough, her long arm darted past me like a whip. The
poker landed in her hand.
"Reach," she said. "Reach with your arm for that cup. And when your flesh
is hot, remember that the flames you feel are only one fraction of the heat you will feel
in his hellish embrace."
She always did things this way, to teach you lessons. So I wasn't surprised. It was
playacting anyway, because a stove isn't very hot underneath, right along the floor. They
aren't made that way. Otherwise, a wood floor would burn. So I said yes and got down on my
stomach and reached under. I meant to grab it quick and jump up again, before she could
think up another lesson, but here it happened. Although I groped for the cup, my hand
closed on nothing. That cup was nowhere to be found. I heard her step toward me, a slow
step. I heard the creak of thick shoe leather, the little plat as the folds of her
heavy skirts met, a trickle of fine sand sifting somewhere, perhaps in the bowels of her,
and I was afraid. I tried to scramble up, but her foot came down lightly behind my ear,
and I was lowered. The foot came down more firmly at the base of my neck, and I was held.
"You're like I was," she said. "He wants you very much."
"He doesn't want me no more," I said. "He had his fill. I got the
cup!"
I heard the valve opening, the hissed intake of breath, and knew
that I should not have spoken.
"You lie," she said. "You're cold. There is a wicked ice forming in your
blood. You don't have a shred of devotion for God. Only wild, cold, dark lust. I know it.
I know how you feel. I see the beast ... the beast watches me out of your eyes sometimes.
Cold."
The urgent scrape of metal. It took a moment to know from where. Top of the stove. Kettle.
She was steadying herself with the iron poker. I could feel it like pure certainty,
driving into the wood floor. I would not remind her of pokers. I heard the water as, it
came, tipped from the spout, cooling as it fell but still scalding as it struck. I must
have twitched beneath her foot because she steadied me, and then the poker nudged up
beside my arm as if to guide. "To warm your cold-ash heart," she said. I felt
how patient she would be. The water came. My mind was dead blank. Again. I could only
think the kettle would be cooling slowly in her hand. I could not stand it. I bit my lip
so as not to satisfy her with a sound. She gave me more reason to keep still.
"I will boil him from your mind if you make a peep," she said, "by filling
up your ear."
Any sensible fool would have run back down the hill the minute Leopolda let them up from
under her heel. But I was snared in her black intelligence by then. I could not think
straight. I had prayed so hard I think I broke a cog in my mind. I prayed while her foot
squeezed my throat. While my skin burst. I prayed even when I heard the wind come through,
shrieking in the busted bird nests. I didn't stop when pure light fell, turning slowly
behind my eyelids. God's face. Even that did not disrupt my continued praise. Words came.
Words came from nowhere and flooded my mind.
Now I could pray much better than any one of them. Than all of them full force. This was
proved. I turned to her in a daze when she let me up. My thoughts were gone, and yet I
remember how surprised I was. Tears glittered in her eyes, deep down, like the sinking
reflection in a well.
"It was so hard, Marie," she gasped. Her hands were shaking. The kettle
clattered against the stove. "But I have used all the water up now. I think he is
gone."
"I prayed," I said foolishly. "I prayed very hard."
"Yes," she said. "My dear one, I know."
We sat together quietly because we had no
more words. We let the dough rise and punched it down once. She gave me a bowl of mush,
unlocked the sausage from a special cupboard, and took that in to the Sisters. They sat
down the hall, chewing their sausage, and I could hear them. I could hear their teeth bite
through their bread and meat. I couldn't move. My shirt was dry but the cloth stuck to my
back and I couldn't think straight. I was losing the sense to understand how her mind
worked. She'd gotten past me with her poker and I would never be a saint. I despaired. I
felt I had no inside voice, nothing to direct me, no darkness, no Marie. I was about to
throw that cornmeal mush out to the birds and make a run for it, when the vision rose up
blazing in my mind.
I was rippling gold. My breasts were bare and my nipples flashed and winked. Diamonds
tipped them. I could walk through panes of glass. I could walk through windows. She was at
my feet, swallowing the glass after each step I took. I broke through another and another.
The glass she swallowed ground and cut until her starved insides were only a subtle dust.
She coughed. She coughed a cloud of dust. And then she was only a black rag that flapped
off, snagged in bob wire, hung there for an age, and finally rotted into the breeze.
I saw this, mouth hanging open, gazing off into the waving trees.
"Get up!" she cried. "Stop dreaming. It is time to bake."
Two other Sisters had come in with her, wide women with hands like paddles. They were
smoothing and evening out the firebox beneath the great jaws of the oven.
"Who is this one?" they asked Leopolda. "Is she yours?"
"She is mine," said Leopolda. "A very good girl."
"What is your name?" one asked me.
"Marie."
"Marie. Star of the Sea."
"She will shine," said Leopolda, "when we have burned off the dark
corrosion."
The others laughed, but uncertainly. They were slow, heavy French, who did not understand
Leopolda's twisted jokes, although they muttered respectfully at things she said. I knew
they wouldn't believe what she had done with the kettle. So I kept quiet.
"Elle est docile," they said approvingly as they left to starch the
linens.
"Does it pain?" Leopolda asked me as soon as they were out the door.
I did not answer. I felt sick with the hurt.
"Come along," she said.
The building was quiet now. I followed her up the narrow staircase into a hall of little
rooms, many doors, like a hotel. Her cell was at the very end. Inside was a rough
mattress, a tiny bookcase with a picture of Saint Francis hanging over it, a ragged palm,
and a crucifix. She told me to remove my shirt and sit down on her mattress. I did so. She
took a pot of salve from the bookcase and began to smooth it upon my burns. Her stern hand
made slow, wide circles, stopping the pain. I closed my eyes. I expected to see the docile
blackness. Peace. But instead the vision reared up again. My chest was still tipped with
diamonds. I was walking through windows. She was chewing up the broken litter I left
behind.
"I am going," I said. "Let me go."
But she held me down.
"Don't go," she said quickly. "Don't. We have just begun."
I was weakening. My thoughts were whirling pitifully. The pain had kept me strong, and as
it left me I began to forget, I couldn't hold on. I began to wonder if she had really
scalded me with the kettle. I could not remember. To remember this seemed the most
important thing in the world. But I was losing the memory. The scalding. The pouring. It
began to vanish. I felt that my mind was coming off its hinge, flapping in the breeze,
hanging by the hair of my own pain. I wrenched out of her grip.
"He was always in you," I said. "Even more than in me. He wanted you even
more. And now he's got you. Get thee behind me!"
I shouted that, grabbed my shirt, and ran through the door, throwing the shirt on my body.
I got down the stairs and into the kitchen, but no matter what I told myself, I couldn't
get out the door. It wasn't finished. And she knew I would not leave. Her quiet step was
immediately behind me.
"We must take the bread from the oven now," she said.
She was pretending nothing had happened. But for the first time I had gotten through some
chink she'd left in her darkness. Touched some doubt. Her voice was so low and brittle it
cracked off at the end of her sentence.
"Help me, Marie," she said slowly.
But I was not going to help her even though she calmly buttoned my shirt up and put the
big cloth mittens in my hands for taking out the loaves. I could have bolted then. But I
didn't. I knew that something was nearing completion. Something was about to happen. My
back was a wall of singing flame. I was turning. I watched her take the long fork in one
hand, to tap the loaves. In the other hand she gripped the black poker to hook the pans.
"Help me," she said again, and I thought, "Yes, this is part of it." I
put the mittens on my hands and swung the door open on its hinges. The oven gaped. She
stood back a moment, letting the first blast of heat rush by. I moved behind her. I could
feel the heat at my front and at my back. Before, behind. My skin was turning to beaten
gold. It was coming quicker than I had thought. The oven was like the gate of a personal
hell. Just big enough and hot enough for one person, and that was her. One kick and
Leopolda would fly in headfirst. And that would be one millionth of the heat she would
feel when she finally collapsed in his hellish embrace.
Saints know these numbers.
She bent forward with her fork held out. I kicked her with all my might. She flew in. But
the outstretched poker hit the back wall first, so she rebounded. The oven was not as deep
as I had thought.
There was a moment when I felt a sort of thin, hot disappointment, as when a fish slips
off the line. Only I was the one going to be lost. She was fearfully silent. She whirled.
Her veil had cutting edges. She had the poker in one hand. In the other she held that long
sharp fork she used to tap the delicate crusts of loaves. Her face turned upsidedown on
her shoulders. Her face turned blue. But saints are used to miracles. I felt no trace of
fear.
If I was going to be lost, let the diamonds cut! Let her eat ground glass!
"Old she-devil bitch!" I shouted. "Kneel and beg! Lick the floor!"
That was when she stabbed me through the hand with the fork, then took the poker up
alongside my head and knocked me out.
I came around maybe half an hour later. Things were so strange. So strange I can hardly
tell it for delight at the remembrance. For when I came around this was actually taking
place. I was being worshiped. I had somehow gained the altar of a saint.
I was lying back on the stiff couch in the Mother Superior's office. I looked around me.
It was as though my deepest dream had come to life. The Sisters of the convent were
kneeling to me. Sister Bonaventure. Sister Dympna. Sister Cecilia Saint-Claire. The two
with hands like paddles. They were down on their knees. Black capes were slung over some
of their heads. My name was buzzing up and down the room like a fat autumn fly, lighting
on the tips of the tongues between Latin, humming up the heavy, blood-dark curtains,
circling their swaddled heads. Marie! Marie! A girl thrown in a closet. Who was afraid of
a rubber overboot. Who was half overcome. A girl who came in the back door where they
threw their garbage. Marie! Who never found the cup. Who had to eat their cold mush.
Marie! Leopolda had her face buried in her knuckles. Saint Marie of the Holy Slops! Saint
Marie of the Bread Fork! Saint Marie of the Burnt Back and Scalded Butt!
I broke out and laughed.
They looked up. All holy hell burst loose when they saw I was awake. I still did not
understand what was happening. They were watching, talking, but not to me.
"The marks ..."
"She has her hand closed."
"Je ne peux pas voir."
I was not stupid enough to ask what they were talking about. I couldn't tell why I was
lying in white sheets. I couldn't tell why they were praying to me. But I'll tell you
this. It seemed entirely natural. It was me. I lifted up my hand as in my dream. It was
completely limp with sacredness.
"Peace be with you."
My arm was dried blood from the wrist down to the elbow. And it hurt. Their faces turned
like fat flowers of adoration to follow that hand's movements. I let it swing through the
air, imparting a saint's blessing. I had practiced. I knew exactly how to act.
They murmured. I heaved a sigh and a golden beam of light suddenly broke through the
clouded window and flooded down directly on my face. A stroke of perfect luck! They had to
be convinced.
Leopolda still knelt in the back of the room. Her knuckles were crammed halfway down her
throat. Let me tell you, a saint has senses honed keen as a wolf's. I knew that she was
over my barrel now. How it had happened did not matter. The last thing I remembered was
that she flew from the oven and stabbed me. That one thing was most certainly true.
"Come forward, Sister Leopolda." I gestured with my heavenly wound. Oh, it hurt.
It bled when I reopened the place where it had begun to heal. "Kneel beside me,"
I said.
She kneeled, but her voice box evidently did not work, for her mouth opened, shut, opened,
but no sound came out. My throat clenched in the noble delight I had read of as befitting
a saint. She could not speak. But she was beaten. It was in her eyes. She stared at me now
with all the deep hate of the wheel of devilish dust that rolled wild within her
emptiness.
"What is it you want to tell me?" I asked. And at last she spoke.
"I have told my sisters of your passion," she managed to choke out. "How
the stigmata ... the marks of the nails appeared in your palm and you swooned at the holy
vision..."
"Yes," I said, curious.
And then, after a moment, I understood.
Leopolda had saved herself with her quick brain. She had witnessed a miracle. She had hid
the fork and told this to the others. And of course they believed her, because they never
knew how Satan came and went or where he took refuge.
"I saw it from the first," said the large one who had put the bread in the oven.
"Humility of the spirit. So rare in these girls."
"I saw it too," said the other one with great satisfaction. She sighed quietly.
"If only it was me."
Leopolda was kneeling bolt upright, face blazing and twitching, a barely held fountain of
blasting poison.
"Christ has marked me," I agreed. I smiled a saint's smirk in her face. And then
I looked at her. That was my mistake.
For I saw her kneeling there. Leopolda with her soul like a rubber overboot. With her face
of a starved rat. With her desperate eyes drowning in the deep wells of her wrongness.
There would be no one else after me. And I would leave. I saw Leopolda kneeling within the
shambles of her love.
My heart had been about to surge from my chest with the blackness of my joyous heat. Now
it dropped. I pitied her. I pitied her. Pity twisted in my stomach as if that hook-pole
were driven through me at last. I was caught. It was a feeling more terrible than any
amount of boiling water and worse than being forked. Still, still, I couldn't help what I
did. I had already smiled in a saint's mealy forgiveness. I heard myself speaking gently.
"Receive the dispensation of my sacred blood," I whispered.
But there was no heart in it. No joy when she bent to touch the floor. No dark leaping. I
fell back onto the white pillows. Blank dust was whirling through the light shafts. My
skin was dust. Dust my lips. Dust the dirty spoons on the ends of my feet.
Rise up! I thought. Rise up and walk! There is no limit to this dust!
from The Atlantic Monthly (March 1984). Copyright © 1984 by Louise Erdrich. Online Source. Visit the Atlantic Monthly website to read several more Erdrich stories.
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