Markwildyr.com,
Post #217
The dark young man picked up a
soup spoon and applied it properly to his bowl to an almost audible sigh of
relief from five individuals seated with him at the dining room table. He
glanced briefly at each through vivid blue eyes staring from an otherwise American
Indian visage.
Grandmother Haleworthy, plump
and soft and patrician, seemed most discomfited of all. She tended to fiddle
with the silverware, her crystal goblet of iced water, her dangling ruby
earrings, anything her stubby fingers could reach.
Grandfather was more stolid
and circumspect, but his eyes and ears caught everything. Funny how his thick
moustache resembled a graying caterpillar moving across his face with each chew
he took.
Uncle Bertrand and Aunt Liliby—brother
and sister, thank goodness… they’d make a horrible married couple—simply
couldn’t keep their eyes off him. They were obviously fascinated and likely repulsed.
He suspected a gorilla at their table plying flatware and speaking proper
English would not have provoked more awe.
Cousin Dorian, seated opposite
him was the only one brave enough—or perhaps rude enough—to eye him frankly with
his thoughts hanging right on his face… what fun it was going to be to deal
with this savage from the western frontier.
Once the young man discerned
his hosts were more uncomfortable than he was, he mentally relaxed and
internally conversed with his brother, even though Gabe had been dead for fourteen
years, struck down by a rifle ball in the chest from land grabbers when he was
but five years old. He smiled, also internally, as he contemplated telling that
bizarre truth.
A sound like a rusty gate
swinging open startled him until he realized it was Aunt Liliby asking
Grandmother where she would lodge him for the night, bringing a look of near
terror to the older woman’s face.
He thought of telling them he
would just pitch a teepee out in the back yard but chose to be more discreet.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, I won’t be
able to overnight. I need to be somewhere downstate in the morning and will be
on my way. I’m merely fulfilling a pledge to my father to pay a courtesy call
to his… uh, our eastern family should I find myself in the Boston area.”
The mood at the dining table
brightened. His grandmother leaned back in her chair and placed a hand to her
bosom.
“And we’re so pleased you did,
William. Please give Giddeon our love.”
Good Lord! How could his
father, a good, bluff, army officer have come from this lot?
At that point, his cousin obviously
decided on some mischief. “Pray tell, are you William Haleworthy or Ides
Haleworthy? I’ve heard whispers of both names.”
He decided to play along. “Actually,
Dorian, I have three names. Two formal, and one a nickname.”
His cousin perked up, perhaps
sensing a verbal duel in the offing. “And what are they?”
He pushed away his plate and
leaned back in the hair, an uncomfortable, ladderback affair. “One I should
never tell you, but as you are close kin, I suppose it’s all right to reveal
it.”
“Oh, good. A family secret. Do
go on.”
“The name on my birth certificate
is William Haleworthy.” He nodded to his grandfather, “In honor of you, sir.”
“Yes, yes. Go on,” Dorian
urged.
“My Indian name is Istá To.
It means Blue Eyes, in English.” He heard the intake of his grandmother’s
breath.
“And?” Dorian prompted.
“And my uncle John dubbed me
Ides the first time he laid eyes on me.”
“Ides?” his aunt asked. “Because
of the date of your birth.”
“Yes, ma’am. March 15.” He
dabbed his lips with a linen napkin. “Uncle John’s a student of the Bard, I
guess you could say.”
“Is that right? And he’s an… a
Native?” Dorian asked.
Ides was beginning to enjoy
himself, he pushed on despite the cautioning whispers from his dead brother. “A
breed, actually. Of course, John Strobaw is also a successful rancher in South
Dakota, as well. Now, he has several names.”
“Is that so?” his grandfather
asked with a wary note in his voice.
“Yes. Over the years, he was
awarded different names by the tribe based on exploits or incidents in his
life.”
Dorian’s eyes sparkled. “And
are you free to reveal them.”
Mischief had gained the upper
hand now. “I shouldn’t. But… well, as I say, you are family. His American
name is John Jacobsen Strobaw. Jacobsen after his mother’s family name. His childhood
Indian name was War Eagle. That was their… our way of saying Golden Eagle. Then
he earned the name of Night Sky Hair. That was because he has streaks of his
mother’s Scandinavian blond hair in his black mop. As he gained a reputation as
a shaman, he became Medicine Hair.”
“Good heavens,” his grandmother
exclaimed. “Is that all?”
Mischief was now a runaway. “No,
ma’am. Most recently, he was awarded the name of American Killer.”
He was gratified by the rattle
of silverware on bone china as his grandmother dropped her fork.
Let me know what
you think? I’m truly at sea at this point.
Website and blog: markwildyr.com
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mantra: Keep on reading. Keep on writing.
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See you later.
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