Leslie Marmon Silko
Every day the sun came up a little lower on the horizon, moving more slowly until one day she got excited and started calling the jailer. She realized she had been sitting there for many hours, yet the sun had not moved from the center of the sky. The color of the sky had not been good lately; it had been pale blue, almost white, even when there were no clouds. She told herself it wasn’t a good sign for the sky to be indistinguishable from the river ice, frozen solid and white against the earth. The tundra rose up behind the river but all the boundaries between the river and hills and sky were lost in the density of the pale ice.
She yelled again, this time some English words which came randomly into her mouth, probably swear words she’d heard from the oil drilling crews last winter. The jailer was an Eskimo, but he would not speak Yupik to her. She had watched people in other cells, when they spoke to him in Yupik he ignored them until they spoke English.
He came and stared at her. She didn’t know if he understood what she was telling him until he glanced behind her at the small high window. He looked at the sun, and turned and walked away. She could hear the buckles on his heavy snowmobile boots jingle as he walked to the front of the building.
It was like the other buildings that white people, the Gussucks,* brought with them: BIA and school buildings, portable buildings that arrived sliced in halves, on barges coming up the river. Squares of metal paneling bulged out with the layers of insulation stuffed inside. She had asked once what it was and someone told her it was to keep out the cold. She had not laughed then, but she did now. She walked over to the small double-pane window and she laughed out loud. They thought they could keep out the cold with stringy yellow wadding. Look at the sun. It wasn’t moving; it was frozen, caught in the middle of the sky. Look at the sky, solid as the river with ice which had trapped the sun. It had not moved for a long time; in a few more hours it would be weak, and heavy frost would begin to appear on
* Derived from a Russian word, Gussuck is a local word for “white man.”
Questia, a part of Gale, Cengage Learning. www.questia.com
Publication information: Book title: Reckonings: Contemporary Short Fiction by Native American Women. Contributors: Hertha D. Sweet Wong - Editor, Lauren Stuart Muller - Editor, Jana Sequoya Magdaleno - Editor. Publisher: Oxford University Press. Place of publication: New York. Publication year: 2008. Page number: 131.
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