Wayward Island (Part 17) How Jake and Detective Matthews became lovers and a wedding was planned By Jake Preston
Reader restrictions: no minors, no readers who are offended by explicit descriptions of gay sexuality. The story as a whole is a psychological study of gay athletic hunks who love nerds, and the nerds who love them in return. The story also deals with the problems faced by gay guys who live in rural areas. If these themes don't interest you, there are many other great "nifty" stories to choose from. Send comments and suggestions to jemtling@gmail.com. Jake will respond to all sincere correspondents.
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April is the cruelest month in the North Country: snow-melt untidily silted, forest trails impossible for snowmobiling and unpleasant for hiking, ice on the lake too perilous for skating, but not melted enough for boating. Even the joy of the sauna is compromised: overheated bodies can neither roll in snow nor sport in the icy lake. Once every four or five years the April doldrums are relieved by the temporary relief of a two-foot blizzard, a reminder that snow-bound is better than mud-bound. Not so this season.
With nothing better to do, in April our volunteer lumberjacks completed the exterior of Ben Hasek's new cabin. With the floor laid and windows installed, their progress was enough to allow Ben and Henry to stay at their place on weekends. Meanwhile, a fire destroyed the cabin between Willy Elbo's and Life of Riley's Resort. Elbo bought the land from its unlucky owner, another miner in Hibbing. Rumor in Ashawa had it that Deputy Nelson was often seen in Elbo's company at his Chevrolet dealership and in the town's liquor store.
Detective Matthews paid more frequent visits to our idyllic heartland of arson, murder, drug dealing, and insurance fraud. He stayed on my farm during those weeks. We didn't date, but we spoke often, and thought about each other a lot. I owed him an explanation for why I didn't ask him out. After three nights of sex in Duluth, why avoid him in Ashawa? "Is it the age difference that you don't like?" Gary asked. He's sixteen years older. "No, I'm not THAT superficial," I said. I told him about the change that took place between me and Red Feather. The adjustment needed time. Gary said he understood. Would my asceticism continue through summer-Gary wondered-or as long as Red Feather was living with me? He would wait, if he saw light at the end of the tunnel.
"It was about Red Feather at first," I said, "but now it's more about me- my feelings for you, Gary. If we decide to become lovers, it has to be serious."
"You mean, like, living together?" Gary asked.
"Something like that, at least when your work takes you to the lake country," I said. "I don't want to pressure you, Gary. I just want us to take time to think about this."
"I guess this is the closest I'll ever get to a marriage proposal," Gary laughed.
"Probably," I said. "I know it's a lot to ask, Gary. If we start living together, folks around here will know. Sooner or later, people in Duluth will hear about it. It might hurt your standing in the Sheriff's Office, so if you're not ready, I'll understand. But if we decide to become lovers, I'm willing to be discreet, but I won't be able to pretend that we're not an item. It's too exhausting."
April was also the month when Red Feather and I drove to the Humane Society in Hibbing and adopted Daisy, a pointer-boxer-American-bulldog mix, a canine companion for Ma'ingan and a backup guard dog. On weeknights, Sam Black Bear, Red Hawk Red Feather, and Randy took turns sleeping in Hasek's cabin, accompanied each night by Daisy. I told Gary (in his alter ego as Detective Matthews) about the steps we were taking to protect ourselves from Willy Elbo. He suggested that we photograph intruders and strange vehicles, and keep a log about unwelcome visitors.
Daisy was an energetic alpha-female. Ma'ingan, a typical laid-back lab, was content to let her have her way in all doggie things to which he attributed no importance, like precedence at the dog-dish or out the door on a run through the woods. When it came to body-contact with me and Red Feather, Ma'ingan stood his ground. He had rights. Daisy conceded that it was Ma'ingan's job to take care of the humans, and to bark when barking was needed. At the approach of an unfamiliar-sounding vehicle, Daisy would give Ma'ingan a signal to bark, so he barked. When Daisy wasn't present, Ma'ingan used other signals to alert me to the approach of strangers. Red Feather and I kept videcams ready near the front doors of my cabin and Ben's.
One week-night, Red Feather spent the night at the Hasek's with Daisy, while Ma'ingan and I held down the fort at home. Suddenly Ma'ingan got restless: he uttered a low growl and herded me toward the door. I heard Daisy's bark in the distance, from Hasek's place. I grabbed my camera and jogged down the road toward Professor Gustafsson's driveway. I was just in time to videocam an old Chevy as it turned the corner and sped away. I got a view of the driver and the back license plate. At the same time, Red Feather walked through the woods from Hasek's to Gustafsson's, and videocam shots of the arsonist in the act. The man's identity was hidden in night-shadows, but the video showed him splashing gasoline on the exterior walls of the cabin and on the professor's "writing stuga"-a miniature "second" cabin where he kept and worked on research during summer vacations. Red Feather and I extinguished the fires with handfuls of snow and wet earth. Detective Matthews took our formal "police reports," and we gave him the videocams. "Whoever it was, he's not even trying to conceal the arson," the detective said. "Two buildings on fire at once, nothing could be more obvious."
"Maybe the motive is to terrorize people on Wayward Bay," I said. "If that's so, it's working. I'm worried about Red Feather staying at Haseks' cabin alone." Matthews said we should return in the morning to investigate the crime scene. Red Feather trudged through snow back to the Haseks while Daisy scrambled ahead to prove that she knew the way.
"Detective Matthews, it's late," I said. "Maybe you should spend the rest of the night at my place." He didn't reply. He opened the passenger side of his vehicle for me. Ma'ingan squirreled into the back seat. We drove to my cabin and went inside. Not a word was spoken between us. Gary broke the silence: "About what you said before, Jake, I'm leaning toward commitment. But I've gotta be honest, I'm not there yet."
I asked if this was the point where I was supposed to say, "It's perfectly all right if you don't love me!?" Gary looked downcast. "Just kidding, buddy," I said, "I invited you, remember? Why so glum?" It didn't take us long to get naked in bed. "I've seen your playful side, Gary, fooling around in the sling. I want you to show me your romantic side."
"I can do that," Gary said, and after a hesitation: "Jake...."
"Yeah?"
"Don't ever think I don't love you. I've done since that day in Town Hall. I've wanted you ever since then. I never said anything, because I assumed that you and Red Feather were an item."
"I hadn't realized...." My words drowned in a kiss that propelled us into the idyllic world of Gary Matthews, not the detective, but the lover. His kisses fell on my shoulders, torso, pubes, genitalia, thighs, ass-cheeks and cleft, not systematically, but random like a boy under a Christmas tree rummaging through a new erector set that he didn't yet know what to do with. He kept me guessing what would come next. His tongue was all action in my pits, my navel, my perineum, my asshole. I tried to keep up with him by returning each kiss and flick of the tongue. As soon as I did, he embarked on another anatomical journey. I got my licks in, but Gary took charge of our foreplay. More than anything else, he wanted me to stretch out to he could gaze at my body "in full-length color," as he put it. He made no effort to conceal the joy he felt at the gift of my body.
We got into a side-by-side 69. Instinct told us that it was time for top- bottom negotiation. We engaged in mutual fellatio. I beat Gary to the punch: my fingers probed his asshole possessively. He fondled my ass in return. It seemed a tentative reflex, as if to say that he would not dispute my claim if I wanted to top him. I could have done it. It would have been easy. Gary psyched himself up for surrender. I recognized the signs in his body-language. But if I fucked him, he would have sensed that something was missing. He would have thought that maybe he'd made a mistake choosing me. I released my grip from his ass, and guided one of his hands to mine. He panted lustily and seized his prize. "Earlier I thought you were trying to tell me you wanted to top me," he said as he was getting ready to mission me.
"I thought you knew I was a bottom," I replied.
"How would I know that?" Gary asked. "I hadn't a clue. After a hesitation, he added, "Jake, your friends don't gossip about you that way. They wouldn't do that."
"I think it's time you got lucky," I said. I positioned myself doggie-style. I arched my back toward Gary, provocatively, with my butt rounded to its curvaceous max. His reaction was sudden. Gary plowed into me. "I'd better get the fuck in here before you change your mind," he muttered. One thing I know about tops: they can't resist a well-rounded butt. While we were fucking, a breeze came up. From the evergreen outside my window, green-needled balsam-branches brushed against the glass. The cones on the balsam could be counted, but the number of fuck-strokes that Gary administered to my butt could not be counted.
Getting topped by Gary wasn't easy. Between eight and nine inches and wedge-thick, he waged war in my anal canal with uncompromising firmness. He was a roller-coaster ride from breathless to mellow and breathless again. He's a vocal lover who talks you through every move. He praised every cranny of my body as godlike, while I spiraled to new degrees of surrender. The way he flipped me kept me guessing what position would come next. He knew how to make me cum while he missioned me. When my jizzy fragrance wafted the bedroom, it affected him deeply. I loved when he seeded me. His conquest of my ass was complete.
In pillow-talk after sex, we hit on a plan. Gary was already settled on the farm for overnight assignments in Ashawa, so I could stay there with him. The dairy farmer on the opposite side of Lund Road was my cousin: if he found out, he'd be the last person to gossip about Gary and me. We pledged ourselves to each other, but agreed to keep our romance quiet as long as possible, if only to protect Gary's job.
"Gary!" I exclaimed as we slid into sleep.
"Yeah?"
"Next time you make the trip from Duluth, make sure you bring the sling. We can set it up in one of the bedrooms in the farmhouse."
"Okay."
Our second coupling was my idea. I woke up horny and straddled Gary's abdomen. I kissed him awake while I edged by but toward his erect cock. It took a few tries, but I engulfed his cockhead with my sphincter. My anal canal sucked his cock into me, like it was a vacuum. Gary wanted to switch positions. He wanted to fuck me from behind, intercursally. I resisted, and insisted on doing it my way. I held him in place and straddle-fucked until he orgazzed my butt.
"I didn't think I could get off this way," Gary whispered when we panted together, keeping the same position.
"I knew I could get you off," I said.
"You're the boss, Jake. From now on I won't question you."
"The bottom is always the boss," I said. "Next time you can top me from behind."
In morning light, Gary, Red Feather and I visited Professor Gustafsson's property to witness the damage. Gary took photos. The red buildings with white trim-a Swedish style-were charred at the base on two sides. Some side-boards would need to be replaced. "These bright red buildings with white trim, I've noticed a lot of them around Lake Ashawa," Gary commented. "It's a Swedish thing, I know, but what does it mean?"
"Most Swedes don't even know that," I said. "The red coloring originated from rural parts of Sweden where there were copper mines, or iron mines. Ore residue from the mines was used to make a thin paint the soaked into the wood and dried. Wood rots fast in Sweden, as it does in Minnesota, but the ore-residue retards the rot. Originally the white trim was birch-bark, shaped into a border to prevent water from dripping inside the exterior boards. It was definitely po'-folks style, but when it caught on in Sweden, the ore-residue and birch bark was replaced by glossy red and white paint."
Gary's jaw dropped. "How do you know all this, Jake?" he asked. Red Feather smiled. He had heard it before.
"From my cousin Gustav Bixo in Sweden," I said. He's a policeman in Stockholm. Two years ago we traveled to our ancestral home in the mountains. We saw an old-style building, stained brownish-red and lined with white birch bark. Gustav explained it."
Gary took our cameras and the photos to the lab, to document as evidence of an attempted arson. For Professor Gustafsson, money wasn't a problem. I called him at his home in Minneapolis, and arranged for Ben Hasek and his friends to do the work.
"Apollo and Admetus" was an aesthetic and commercial success. Mrs. Ravitch sold it to an anonymous admirer who purchased it for an undisclosed sum. The sale allayed her concern about paying her share for Red Feather's support. Still, we reminded each other that Red Feather covered most of his costs by winning a Conservatory scholarship. I told Mrs. Ravitch that I would miss the painting. "Don't worry," she said," I made a copy. Apollo and Admetus will reappear in the future."
Mrs. Ravitch planned a more ambitious project based on Plato's Symposium. It was to be a series of paintings called "Alcibiades and Socrates." After Valentine's Day we formed an evening salon that met once a week for two months to go over the text of Symposium and debate the ideas. The group included Gary and Tom, and ARCH Triangle's college-bound students: Red Feather, Henry, Red Hawk, Drew, and Göran. For them it was a glimpse at collegiality.
"Plato's Symposium is above all a comic dialogue," Mrs. Ravitch said. "That's why Aristophanes is one of the characters. He wrote a play called The Clouds, which pokes fun at Socrates and his philosophical school. In Symposium, the setting is Athens in 416 BC, at the home of Agathon who had just won the prize for his first tragic play. The Symposium is a banquet, mainly a wine- drinking, hosted by Agathon to celebrate his victory. Because of The Clouds, some people think that Aristophanes was an enemy, but Agathon invited him as a friend, along with Socrates. Alcibiades was a friend, too, but wasn't invited. Maybe the reason was humility on Agathon's part. Alcibiades was a handsome prince, a member of the ruling class, an Olympic victor in the four-horse chariot race, and a military hero. Perhaps Agathon thought it presumptious to invite Agamemnon to celebrate his modest prize for drama at the Lenaia, a Dionysian festival of minor importance in Athens. Whatever the reason, it sets the stage for comedy when Alcibiades crashes the party with a troupe of rowdy revelers. Alcibiades's party-crashing is the climax. He's the central character in Symposium, not Socrates."
"So in Symposium, we should look for contrasts between comedy and tragedy," Henry ventured.
"That's right," Mrs. Ravitch said: "The high seriousness of tragedy, and the 'Let your hair down' frolic of comedy. There's something about the Linaea that helps establish the theme, too. It's a Dionysian festival, dedicated to the god of wine and merriment, but it occurs in the month of Gamelion, the Greek equivalent of January. That time of year, sea-travel was dangerous, so all the guests are Athenians. Most of the year, Athens was a cosmopolitan city, but not in January. So the Symposium is a down-home party among friends who have no reason to try to impress foreign visitors."
"It's like Wayward Bay in winter," Drew said. "The population here increases tenfold or more in the summer, with tourists at the resorts."
"And the topic is love," Göran Svenson said. "Each of the guests is challenged to make a speech in praise of love, philia."
"And what are the properties of love, according to the speakers in the first part of the dialogue," Mrs. Ravitch asked.
"Love inspires courtesy in friends and courage in warriors," Göran said. "And in hockey-players, too," he added, glancing at Drew.
"Not just in warriors and hockey-players," Red Feather chimed in. "We've been here before." He read a long passage about Alcestis: "Love will make men dare to die for their beloved-love alone; and women as well as men. Of this, Alcestis, the daughter of Pelias, is a monument to all Hellas; for she was willing to lay down her life on behalf of her husband Admetus, when no one else would, although he had a father and a mother; but the tenderness of her love so far exceeded theirs, that she made them seem to be strangers in blood to their own son, and in name only related to him; and so noble did this action of hers appear to the gods, as well as to men, that among the many who have done virtuously she is one of the very few to whom, in admiration of her noble action, they have granted the privilege of returning alive to earth...." Red Feather paused at each phase so we could take in the meaning. After weeks of studying the myth of Apollo and Admetus, every phrase had meaning.
"This takes us into the deep waters of tragedy," Mrs. Ravitch said. "The passage that Red Feather just read is part an argument made by Phaedrus (a guest at the Symposium), that Love is the oldest and greatest god. Phaedrus defines love mythologically. He also implies that voluntary love, as when a woman loves a man, or a man loves a woman, is more powerful than the natural love between blood relations. Aristotle picked up this theme later, in Nichomachean Ethics, when he praised friendship as the noblest form of love because it was an act of the will."
"After Alcestis, Phaedrus talks about Achilles and Patroklos," Henry said.
"Ah, Achilles and Patroklos!" Mrs. Ravitch exclaimed. "It's a famous passage, and controversial. You know the key terms, Henry: philia, meaning any sort of love; erastes meaning the lover, or top; eronemos, meaning the beloved, or bottom. Try reading the passage in Benjamin Jowett's translation, only substitute the Greek terms when you come to love, lover, and beloved."
"I'll try," Henry said. "Very different [from Alcestis] was the reward of true philia that Achilles had for his erastes Patroklos-his erastes, not his eronemos (the notion that Patroklos was the eromenos is a foolish error into which Aeschylus fell [in a tragedy called Achilles in Love], for Achilles was surely the fairer of the two, fairer also than all the heroes; and as Homer tells us, he [Achilles] was still beardless, and younger by far)."
"Wow!" Drew exclaimed. "That's the reverse of what I would have expected."
"The parallel with Apollo and Admetus is exact," Mrs. Ravitch said. "Admetus was erastes in relation to Apollo, just as Patroklos was erastes in relation to Achilles. It is the essence of myth to overturn social norms. The relation between Alcibiades and Socrates is unexpected, too, but in different ways. There the younger man, Alcibiades, desires to be eronemos in relation to Socrates, the younger man does the courting, not Socrates. If we don't understand the erastes-eromenos relation, we'll never grasp the comedy of Alcibiades and Socrates."
Mrs. Ravitch told Henry to skip the next sentence. "We'll return to it later," she said. "Begin where it says, 'Now Achilles was quite aware....'"
Henry: "Now Achilles was quite aware, for he had been told by his mother, that he might avoid death and return home, to live to a good old age, if he abstained from slaying Hector. Even so he gave his life to revenge his friend, and dared to die, not only in his defense, but after he [Patroklos] was dead. Wherefore the gods honored him even above Alcestis, and sent him to the Islands of the Blest. These are my reasons for affirming that Philia is the eldest and noblest ad mightiest of the gods, and the chiefest author and giver of virtue in life, and of happiness after death."
"Very good," Mrs. Ravitch said. "And now, Henry, read the sentence that we skipped before. It shows how the gods endorse gay love in particular."
Henry: "However much the gods honor the virtue of philia, still the return of philia on the part of the eromenos [meaning Achilles] to the erastes [Patroklos] is more admired and valued and rewarded by them, for the erastes is more divine, because he is inspired by God."
"Can you put this in your own words, Henry?" Mrs. Ravitch asked. She should have been a college professor.
Henry: "Patroklos, as erastes, was inspired by Zeus to love Achilles, so there was a divinity in Patroklos's love. By returning that love, Achilles, as eromenos, was all the more honored by the gods."
"We've talked about this sort of argument before, Henry. Do you remember what it's called?" Mrs. Ravitch said.
Henry thought for a moment. "A forteriori," he said. "It's an argument a forteriori. If A is true, how much more so must B be true. If an erastes's love is inspired by Zeus, how much more divine is the eronemos when he returns that love."
"Very good, Henry!" Mrs. Ravitch exclaimed. "You're learning how to read like a critical thinker." She pointed out later passages in Symposium where Plato extended the argument a forteriori to friendship between adult men. If the erastes-eromenos relation between younger men is noble, how much nobler is it when this love continues later in life: "For they love not beautiful boys, but intelligent beings whose reason is developed, at a time when their beards begin to grow. And in choosing such men for their companions, they mean to be faithful to them, and pass their whole life in company with them, not to take them in their inexperience, and deceive them, or run away from one to another of them."
Göran put an arm around Drew and pulled him close. Red Feather thought about Chaim. Gary squeezed my hand. We looked forward to learning more about ourselves and each other from Plato's Symposium.
One Thursday evening in April, Ben Hasek and Sam Black Bear came unannounced to the farm where I was staying with Gary. They surprised us in sex, but we quickly got dressed and I poured Mcmyra scotch all around. We gave them a tour of the farmhouse, including the bedroom where the sling stood waiting for a willing occupant. "Someday soon, I hope we'll be invited," Sam said, and laughed rather nervously.
"Thanks for the thought," Gary said. "You will be."
"Sam and I want to get married," Ben said. His divorce from his wife was finalized. "We've been talking about this for weeks," he said.
"Does Henry know?" I asked.
"He's been part of the decision from the start," Ben said.
"Gay marriage isn't legal in Minnesota, not yet, anyway," I said. Of course I was just stating what everyone knew.
"We want to get married by the Ojibwe Nation," Sam said. "It's not customary for the Ojibwe, either. It would be unusual, maybe unique, but it's not explicitly forbidden, as far as we know."
I realized that they were consulting me as the junior Shaman in Crane Lake. "When I speak to Dark Eagle about this, do you want to come with?" I asked. They said yes. They were surprised when I called Dark Eagle on my cellphone and arranged to see him on Saturday. I said I'd invite Roger Johnson, if he'd invite Steve Waabooz. "At least one of the elders should be present," I said.
"Dark Eagle has a cellphone?" Sam asked. He knew that the Shaman didn't have a land line.
"A gift," I said. "He's on my Verizon family account." Life on the Res might be primitive, but selectively so. The Ojibwe can be up to date when they want to be. "Henry is an amazing young man," I said. "He kept your secret without breathing a word."
"I like to think that's Red Hawk's influence," Sam said. "He had his say in the decision, too."
"If it's possible, Red Hawk should come with us to Crane Lake," I said. "Not Henry, though. He shouldn't watch his father in a peyote-ritual. Things seen cannot be unseen. We should be on the road by nine. We'll want to spend time in the sweat lodge, and we'll pass the peace-pipe. We will have to consult Manitou, the Great Spirit. It might take all day, so be prepared for that. Would it be OK if Gary came too?"
Ben consented. I was pleased that Gary would be allowed to see my "Shaman" side. After Ben and Sam left, I asked Gary if he was familiar with the use of peyote, "not as an illegal substance, but as a ritual gateway to the Great Spirit Manitou." This was unknown to Gary. "You'll see a part of Ojibwe culture that very few white men have seen," I promised. "Gary, I should forewarn you that the peyote-ritual is needed to bring out the Shaman in me, to bring out my second spirit. I'll be expected to make some sort of prophecy. For that to happen, I must be sexualized by the group. You might not like it."
"You mean you're to be the target of a gangbang," Gary said.
"Something like that. If you don't want to come, I'll understand."
"I love you for who you are, Jake," Gary replied. "Two Spirits is part of your identity. I accept that. It's my duty to be there for you."
"Detective Gary Matthews, the gangbanger," I quipped.
"Sam Black Bear has the hots for the sling," Gary said, changing the subject.
"Is he hoping to ride, or sway at the side?" I wondered.
"No one steps out of the swing-room with his ass unshattered."
"Then maybe you should get some practice," I laughed.
Gary took my hand and led me to the sling-room. He settled me into the swinging saddle. He bound my wrists to the hang-chains, and my ankles to the ankle-grips, talking all the while about whether or not my restraints were secure. This game was my idea, not his, but he liked playing it. He told me to try to get free, and wasn't satisfied until I was fully captive. The game was founded on mutual trust, but more. The wrist- and ankle-grips helped me achieve total surrender: an erotic feeling that I can only describe as more intense than the sensation of falling when you fall almost into sleep but get jolted awake by some real or imagined sound. For me, the sling-game was an exercise designed to condition my body and mind for that feeling. No one but Gary knew this. For Gary, the sling-game was a voyage of discovery in search of undiscovered erozones, alternated with playful fucking. No square inch of my body was unknown to him, but we always managed to find some newfound patch of skin that responded to fingers or tongue. It wasn't "quiet time." Gary is an intriguing paradox. On the job and in ordinary conversation, he's strong and silent, but during sex he's a PhD-level chatter-box, always putting words to his touch, declaring his intentions, asking how it feels, demanding an answer. Sometimes the only way to shut him up is to put cock in his mouth, but Gary's wordy sex-play was one of a kind, sui generis. It bound my spirit to his. My responsiveness bound his spirit to mine. He taught me the art of verbal love-making, too, but I never quite reached his talkative level. Still, he knew when to keep quiet. He always seemed to know when that sudden fall-into-surrender was coming to me. He could hear it in my breathing. He could read it in my eyes. Then he got silent so I could concentrate. And when I orgazzed, as much a pleasure for him as for me, he confined his comments to amazed oooo's and aaah's.
It rained April showers all day Saturday. For the ride to Crane Lake we split up into two cars. I drove with Ben. Gary followed in his service vehicle, with Sam and Red Hawk. He filed a report with the Sheriff's Office, saying that he was taking Saturday as a work-day to pay an official visit to the Shaman. This was true, in fact, and it got him points with the Sheriff for his ability to connect with the Ojibwe. The arrangement permitted an exchange of confidences about our lovers-not idle gossip, but secrets about our experiences and feelings. "You're an amazing guy, Jake," Ben said. "You've gotten deep into the world of the Ojibwe, yet you've chosen a waspy detective for your lover." It was the sort of thing that only a trusted friend could say.
"It wasn't a choice," I said. "It was an event. It was something that happened to both of us. We're stuck with each other."
"I know what you mean," Ben replied. "Do doubt my relationship with Sam Black Bear seems odd, even to our friends."
"Not to friends who saw how it started and watched it develop," I replied. "It seems perfectly natural to me. I think you're lucky to have such a big-hearted lover. About Gary, what can I say? He's a very compartmentalized guy. As a detective in the Sheriff's Office, he has a role to play and he's good at it, but there's another side to him that you haven't seen. That's why he seems such a mystery."
We stopped at two shops in Ashawa to buy gifts for Dark Feather: a corncob pipe, five pounds of the best tobacco, boxes of kitchen matches, and a box of chocolate-covered cherries (I had learned that he was partial to these). I knew that Dark Feather enjoyed tequila. The liquor store in Ashawa didn't have the best quality, so I contributed a bottle of Don Carlos añejo, for his use only. We would be drinking whisky. I brought a bottle of Mcmyra scotch to use with the peyote.
Meanwhile, in the other car, Gary had many questions for Sam and Red Hawk about life on the Res. They were surprised to learn that Gary knew Red Feather so well. He didn't mention that he was the holder of Red Feather's cherry, well, co-holder with me, or that Red Feather gave up his virginity on impulse during a game of sling-tag in his home in Duluth, days before he met Chaim. He talked about how Red Feather and I adopted each other. He talked about Chaim, a lovely Jewish boy from New York, the boyfriend that Red Feather was mooning about. "They're on the phone every day, sometimes for hours, or so it seems. I haven't met Chaim yet, but from what I've heard, I understand why Red Feather is leading a life of chastity. He'll be staying at Jake's cabin for the summer, so you'll meet him, too."
"I love multicultural sex," Sam said. It's so... multicultural!"
Inevitably their conversation turned to the sling in our farmhouse. (I thought if it as "ours," Gary's and mine.) Sam had questions. Red Hawk's curiosity was piqued. "I'd like to try it, but only if Ben agrees," Sam said, "and he'd have to be there, too."
"Sex in the sling can be intimate if you want it to be," Gary said, thinking about our time together, "but mainly it's recreation, ideal for group sex." By the time we got to Crane Lake, Gary and Sam agreed to a play-date. Red Hawk said he'd like to try it, too, but only if he could be alone with Henry. "I can't share Henry with anyone else," he said. "I'm sorry, but that's the way it is."
"I respect that, Red Hawk," Gary said. "Does that mean you're off limits, too?"
"I wouldn't say that."
Dark Eagle greeted our party of five with sandwiches from Helen White Dove's bakery. "Unlike the Red Loon café, Mrs. White Dove's bakery hasn't burned down," he said with a mischievous smile. Sam started to explain the reason for our visit, but Dark Eagle silenced him. "Consent is given in deeds, not words. Shaman Two Spirits has brought you here. By his action, he speaks for me. We are gathered to receive the blessing of Manitou, the Great Spirit, for a union that has already been determined by Him."
Steve Waabooz and Roger Johnson arrived. They greeted me with hugs and kisses. Steve fondles my ass. "I can hardly wait for the peyote-ritual," he said.
"That's why you were invited," I quipped.
"Ah, gee, and I thought it was because I was an elder!" Steve exclaimed. When I looked him up and down, my ass twitched inside with the memory of the last time he had been there.
In front of the fireplace, Dark Eagle rolled out a round ceremonial carpet. It was different shades of green, with a red thunderbird at the center, with eight totem-figures at the circumference: dodemwag, he called them. The carpet is Ojibwe land, he said. Thunderbird represents the Ojibwe people. He sat behind the Crane totem, called mooshka'oosi, also known as baswanaazhi, 'echo-maker'. It represents North, he said. He seated me opposite, to the South, behind the bald eagle totem, migizi. "Two Spirits is jisakiiwin, 'tent-shaker'," he said. "When Manitou speaks, it will be through him." He seated Sam at the West, home of the Bear totem. He seated Ben in the East, which he called Turtle Island. "During our ritual today, Ben, you will cross the Anishinaabe trail from East to West. The place on Sam's right, waawaashkeshi (the deer-totem) will be for you." He seated Steve Waabooz at Ben's right, wawaaxzissi (totem of the bull's head). He told Red Hawk to sit at Sam's left, at gekek (the hawk-totem), and next to him Roger, at aan'aawenh (the pintail duck-totem). That left Gary in the place of moozoonsi, the moose-totem. "These are ancient Chippewa totems, doodemag," Dark Eagle said, not forgetting to mention that -ag was an inflexion for plural attached to doodem. The word totem is just the English form of Ojibwe doodem. "The totems represent separate Chippewa nations, joined in the unity of the circle."
Dark Eagle opened a chest full of rolled-up scrolls made of birch-bark. Contrary to what most people think, the ancient Ojibwe were not illiterate. They used hieroglyphic symbols long before white men taught them to write in an alien tongue. "I've reviewed Ojibwe history in these scrolls," Dark Eagle said. He picked out three scrolls and opened them to places that he had marked with a felt-tip pen. "For the Ojibwe, history and law are one. They are not separate categories, as they are for white men. Yesterday I met with the elders, yes, your father Peter Brave Heart, too," he nodded toward Red Hawk. "We examined the scrolls together. We found three cases where a warrior married a berdache, a man with two spirits."
Dark Eagle paused. He dispatched Gary, Red Hawk, Steve, and Roger to the lakeshore to fire the sweat-lodge. He said it was time for the Shamans to speak to Sam and Ben in privacy. Dark Eagle, Ben, Sam, and I stayed in our ceremonial seats, marking North, West, East, and South. "The Ojibwe recognize three genders: "Man, woman, and berdache, Dark Eagle said. A berdache is a man who gives himself in unity with another man. As a matter of custom, or what white men call law, I must ask Sam and Ben if one of them is berdache." He chose his words with diplomacy. Neither of them had to identify themselves in this way.
"That would be me," Ben piped up. I was surprised, but no less so than I would have been if it were Sam. Between a lumberjack and a miner, who could tell? Both were tough guys. I remembered the night I spent in Hibbing with Ben. He assumed that I was a top and was willing to bottom for me, but when he learned otherwise, he cleaned my clock. "Mind your own business, Jake," I scolded myself. Dark Eagle gave Ben a nod of approval. He laid an Ojibwe Nation marriage license on the kitchen table. Sam and Ben wrote their names in the blank places for "Spouse," plus addresses and birthdates. It didn't escape notice that "Spouse" is a gender-free term.
"After the marriage ceremony, Two Spirits and I will sign at the bottom," Dark Eagle said. "A week or two later, you'll get a St. Louis County marriage certificate, mailed from Duluth."
"This will be an historic event," I said: "The first legal gay marriage in the state of Minnesota."
Dark Eagle's eyes sparked mischief. "The Ojibwe are one of the First Nations." He had learned the concept from Ojibwe in Canada. "As a First Nation, our laws take precedence over white man's law." Dark Eagle took a wider view of the marriage of Sam Black Bear and Ben Hasek: it symbolized Ojibwe independence.
Dark Feather wore boxers in the sweat-lodge, but he told us to get naked because nudity breaks down barriers to friendship. He forbade us from sitting next to our lovers. Hmmm, if I couldn't sit next to Gary, Roger, or Ben, where could I sit? I guess Ben doesn't count. Steve solved the problem. He sat at my right, and told Red Hawk to sit at my left. He fondled me shamelessly, and Red Hawk followed his example. I told them to knock it off. They could wait for the peyote- ritual.
"Is there a sweat-lodge ritual?" Ben asked me. "Just friends shooting the breeze," I said. "That's the ritual." With the exception of Steve, the guys were unwilling to frolic in the austere presence of Dark Feather. They looked to me for guidance about what they must do, and more importantly, what they must not do. Apart from a bit of surreptitious fondling, there was no fooling around, but plenty of eye-candy. Dear Reader: Don't believe what you've read about the rigors of the sweat-lodge, according to which a man is supposed to endure intolerable heat. Only a madman posing as a guru would impose such torment on others. When we got overheated, we jumped in the lake, as any normal human being would do. The water was still bitter cold. Ice-chunks floated in the bay. But we cooled ourselves in it, indulged in a bit of grab-ass with guys who we hadn't yet had sex with, and returned to the sweat-lodge for another round of heat.
I told Sam and Ben to make the rounds and kiss the other men in the circle. Dark Feather got even more modest kisses on the forehead, but the rest of us got passionate kisses, accompanied by fondling and groping. Cocks hardened. Dark Eagle looked at Ben's mine-hardened body and said to Sam: "Manitou brought you a great gift."
Back in the lodge, it was time for the peyote-ritual. While Dark Eagle prepared the peyote-chips, I sent Sam and Ben to my car to fetch the gifts for Dark Eagle. Sam gave him the pipe and tobacco. Ben gave him the Don Carlos. I gave the box of chocolates. Dark Feather was pleased with the gifts. He told us to get naked and take our places on the ceremonial carpet. Sam circulated the tray of peyote-chips: "No more than six each," Dark Eagle said, "except for Two Spirits." I was to have eight. Ben circulated with a tray of whisky tumblers filled with Mcmyra.
Peyote was a new experience for Gary and Ben. They were surprised that the taste was so disgusting. "Don't wolf them down," I warned. "Make sure you chew them thoroughly. Only then should you wash them down with scotch." "I don't feel anything yet," Gary said. "Don't worry about that, Gary," Sam said. "By the time we've finished passing the peace-pipe, you'll know you've been eating peyote." All the guys looked to me for cues about how they should behave.
After everyone had taken their ration of peyote, Dark Eagle asked Sam if he had something to say. "I've come here with Ben Hasek, from Hibbing. He would like to join the Waabooz, as a member of our tribe, in consideration of our marriage."
After a long silence, I signaled to Ben that it was time for him to speak. "It's true," Ben said, "I would like to join the Waabooz."
"This desire to join the Waabooz, does it come from Sam Black Bear, or from your own spirit?" Dark Eagle asked.
"It comes from my love for Sam Black Bear," Ben said.
Another silence. It was broken by Steve Waabooz: "I speak for the Chippewa elders. We agree that Ben would be a worthy addition to our tribe."
Dark Eagle: "Ben Hasek, the people in Hibbing call themselves Bluejackets. I give you diindiisiw as your Ojibwe name. It means 'bluejay'. Ben Hasek Bluejay is welcome to the Waabooz. It's official. You're a member of our tribe. It means that your marriage to Sam Black Bear will be a legal act of the Ojibwe Nation."
Dark Eagle filled the ceremonial calumet with some of his new tobacco. He smoked on the pipe, and walked across the carpet to give it to me. After I smoked, it passed around the circle, three times. After the calumet, Dark Eagle went into a trance. He chanted an Ojibwe prayer to Manitou. After each line, those who were able repeated his words. For the benefit of Ben and Gary, Steve Waabooz translated each line into English. I had been brushing up on my Ojibwe, but I was glad to have Steve's translations.
Ben made the symbolic Anisinaabe journey: he crossed the carpet to sit next to Sam. Other seating arrangements changed. Steve Waabooz sat on my right. He told me to pick a partner for my left side. I chose Gary. Not to leave Roger out, I told him to wait for my signal. He would be first to fuck me. "When the time comes," I told Steve and Gary, "you guys support my weight in midair, to make an invisible sling. Roger will know what to do."
"He sure is a bossy bottom," Gary said to Steve. The peyote affected me, too. The guys in the group were kaleidoscopically radiant in shifting colors. Steve and Gary frog-legged me while Roger lubed my ass. They fondled the erozonic regions of my inner thighs, my cleft, my perineum, and upward to my nips and pits. They teased my ears simultaneously with their lips. My cock throbbed, untouched by aching for attention. I clung to their shoulders when they hoisted me airborne. Roger stood in front of me. Gary and Roger lifted my forelegs to his shoulders. Roger stepped forward and aimed his rigid cock toward my asshole. His cock-thrust jolted me. I would have bolted, but peyote masked the pain.
With the exception of Dark Eagle, who kept an austere distance, the other guys gathered around while reeled around Roger's rod, swaying midair in my invisible sling, clutching Gary's and Steve's shoulders while they joined hands to support my back. The guys talked among themselves. Each of them wanted a crack at my unspooged butt. Roger withdrew and let Sam take his place. Ben tapped him on the shoulder and said it was his turn. Red Hawk fucked with the frenetic energy of an eighteen-year-old. Roger and Red Hawk relieved Gary and Steve as my sling-supporters, and took turns in the cockpit. Their figures blurred in the radiance of peyote- rainbows. Steve poured himself into me, then Gary. They were spent, but had the strength to resume their posts at my side. I soaked in spooge from Sam and Ben, and Red Hawk who came in unforgettably strong. Stimulated by Red Hawk's fondling, I orgazzed and uttered an Ojibwe message: Makwa nashka... giizis ishpagoojin baapinakamigad diindiisiw.
Steve and Gary held me in place while I rested my forelegs on Red Hawk's shoulders. I repeated the message: Makwa nashka... giizis ishpagoojin baapinakamigad diindiisiw. My supporters made ready to help me to my feet, but I resisted and clung to their shoulders with hands and forelegs. I repeated the message a third time: Makwa nashka... giizis ishpagoojin baapinakamigad diindiisiw. After a luminous peyote-colored silence, I uttered a second message, just once: Manoomin agonde. Only then did I allow my three supporters to help me to my feet. My steps were unsteady, but Gary helped me to the sofa, where I sat between him and Red Hawk while we debated the meaning of the message. No one, not even Gary, doubted that it was an oracle from Manitou, the Great Spirit.
Steve Waabooz wrote down the words, and attempted an initial translation: Makwa = Bear; nashka = Look!; giizis = sun; ishpagoojin = high in the sky; baapinakamigad = festival or powwow; diindiisiw = Bluejay. He translated the second message: Manoomin = wild rice; ziibi = water. The message had everyone guessing. Makwa and diindiisiw were easy: 'Bear' and 'Bluejay' referred to Sam Black Bear and Ben Hasek, now called Bluejay. Nashka was the simple but puzzling. Why would a common expletive be used in an otherwise telegraphic message? We decided to try to decipher the repeated message first, and tackle the second message later.
"It's a word-puzzle; some sort of telegraphic message."
"The first message is repeated three times. That means it has ritual significance. We should look for something in the words, maybe in the number of words."
"The message has six words. Six in relation to time: six days? Should the wedding take place in six days? Or six months from now?"
"The sixth month of the year," I said. "June; the wedding must be in June."
"June 18th? Six times three is eighteen."
"No," I said. "If words are months, letters must be days. Let's suppose that the key words are Makwa, referring to Sam Black Bear, nashka, an expletive meaning something like 'Look!' or 'Lo!' and Diindiisiw, referring to Ben Hasek as Bluejay. How many letters?" We counted twenty-one. "And what is June 21?" I asked.
"Summer Solstice."
"Right," I said. "Summer Solstice. That's when the sun is highest in the sky. The message isn't a word-puzzle after all. It's a perfectly grammatical sentence addressed to Sam and Ben who are called by their Ojibwe names: Makwa nashka giizis ishpagoojin baapinakamigad Diindiisiw-Bear [and] Bluejay, observe your festival when the sun is highest in the sky. Nakwa is usually an expletive, but here it's used as a verb, its most likely grammatical function in Ancient Ojibwe."
"What about the last part of the message?-Manoomin agonde: Rice is by the water? Rice is in the water?"
"The first message was meant for Sam and Ben, or maybe for Sam, Ben, and Dark Eagle, since it was repeated three times. I believe that the second message was meant for me," I said.
"Could it mean that you're supposed to serve wild rice at the festival?"
"Maybe manoomin is just symbolic of weddings, you know, throwing rice at the bride and groom as they depart for their honeymoon."
"'Manoomin agonde'," I mused, ignoring wild guesses. "Like the first message it's a sentence. Agonde is verbal-'something is in water'. If it were a word-puzzle the word would be nibi, water. Maybe that all-important word nashka applies here, too: Nashka manoomin agonde: Look for rice in the water? Find rice in the water? It doesn't make sense."
"Rice in water, rice on water, rice on the river, Rice River," Gary said. "You're to observe the wedding festival on summer solstice at your farm, which is on the Rice River."
Everyone congratulated Gary on this bit of literary detection. The moment he said "Rice River," we recognized this as an obvious truth. Still, I wasn't convinced, and because I wasn't convinced, Dark Eagle wasn't, either. "I agree with what we've got so far: the date and location for the wedding of Sam Black Bear and Henry Hasek Bluejay. But there's a deeper meaning. Manitou is telling us something important for all the Ojibwe people. He's telling us to look for something on or near the Rice River. Could this have been sacred ground in the past?"
For weeks, small parties of Ojibwe volunteers searched my homestead, looking for clues of an earlier Chippewa settlement there. Nothing of interest was found. Most of the Ojibwe concluded that the message from Manitou was fully decoded after all: His blessing was signified by naming the location and date for the wedding. Dark Eagle, Gary, and I were a minority of three who continued to believe in a deeper message, as yet undeciphered.
"Maybe nakwa doesn't mean 'search'," I mused. "Maybe it means that we should 'look' at something that Manitou will reveal to us in His good time, at Midsummer or sometime before." When news of my speculation spread among people in Crane Lake and Orr, I realized that we need to plan for a large crowd of guests at the Summer Solstice powwow.