Page 105 of The River We Remember

“Take a look at this,” Bluestone said. He turned the cut end of the branch toward the boy. “See the star?”

There it was, inside the branch, dead center. A dark, five-pointed star. Brody could see it, too.

Scott’s eyes grew large with wonder.

“There’s a story my people tell about that star,” Bluestone said. “They say that all the stars in the sky are actually made inside the earth. Then they seek out the roots of cottonwood trees, where they patiently wait. Inside the branches of the cottonwoods, they’re dull and lightless, like you see here. When the Great Spirit decides that more stars are needed, the wind shakes the branches of the cottonwoods, and the stars are released. They fly up and settle in the heavens, where they shine and sparkle and become the luminous creations they were always meant to be.” Bluestone looked seriously at the boy. “Do you know why I wanted to tell you this story?”

Scott said, “No.”

“When you saved that girl, I told you that you’d received a gift. The gift is like this star at the center of the cottonwood. It’s inside you now. Someday, when you need it, it will come out, like the stars when the wind shakes the cottonwood trees, and it will shine for you, well and truly.”

The boy seemed to think about that.

“What a load of horseshit,” Creasy said.

“It’s a wonderful story,” Felix Klein piped in. “Your people are wise, Noah.”

“His people have always been thieving, lying, murdering sons of bitches,” Creasy said.

“That’s enough,” Brody said.

Scott said, “Can I keep the cottonwood?”

“Of course.” Bluestone handed the cut branch through the bars.

Brody said, “Eat up, boys. Food’s getting cold.”

CHARLIE HAD CALLED Sam Wicklow on her return from Des Moines the previous day and had made arrangements to meet with Noah Bluestone at eleven on Sunday morning. When she arrived, Brody had already released both Tyler Creasy and Felix Klein. He’d let Creasy go because there were no real grounds for holding him. He’d never actually charged Klein with anything, just got him to a place where he could sober up. Brody sent him off with the understanding that the little man would abstain that Sabbath Day from drinking alcohol, that he’d eat decently and would apologize to Gordon Landis for his transgression. Felix had solemnly sworn he’d faithfully comply with all these conditions.

Brody brought a chair for Wicklow and locked him and Charlie in the cell with Bluestone, then left them alone. Charlie wasn’t at all certain how things would go.

“Thanks for agreeing to talk to me, Noah,” Wicklow said.

Bluestone said, “Hihanni waste.”

“He honnay washtay?” Sam gave him a bewildered half smile. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“Exactly my point,” Bluestone said. “I’ve lived in a white man’s world all my life. But you have never lived in mine. It’s like hearing a foreign language and not knowing any of the words.”

“Was that Sioux you spoke?”

“It’s a greeting. Charlie says you want to write a book.”

Wicklow nodded. “I don’t know much yet. It will be about this area, about its history, its people. All of its people.”

“Why?”

“Why will it be about these things?”

“Why write it at all? Who cares?”

“I care. It doesn’t matter to me if no one else does. I want to try to get at the truth of things I believe are important. I suppose if I were a painter, I’d use canvas. But I’m a writer, so I use words. Does that make sense?”

“You’re really going to publish that editorial you wrote?”

“Yes.”

“In the old days, they’d tar and feather you. Or worse.”