CHAPTER ONE
FIRST OFF, SUN Moon and me each came close to dying, stars and cornicles, and got sprung back to life. Seems like a good place to start. Me first.
I was in the yard of Boss John Aldrich's General Mercantile loading up the wagon, and he was as impatient with me as usual.
"Asie, get a move on!"
"Yes indeedy." It pleased me to say it that way, a little pflumphed up, because it would irk him. Then I started whistling. I knew what annoyed Boss John. He'd been annoying me since the day I came to work for him, and the Mormons longer than that.
"You'll be late!"
"Yes indeedy."
I switched to a new tune as I smoothed the breast collar flat and rubbed the mare on the chest, which I believed she liked. Heckahoy, no sense in asking what late would be, because Boss John never told customers any special hour, just "tomorrow morn" or "long 'bout noon" or "in the latter half of the day." I never figured out why John Aldrich then acted so determined to rush everybody and everything. I suspected it was because the man had antsy blood, roily bowels, or hot hair. Boss John always hurried. He'd rush the sun even if it shortened his own life, that was just his way. First it kind of tickled me, but not any longer.
I started arranging the load in the wagon. Boss Aldrich never paid no attention to what weight was where. Of course, Boss Aldrich didn't have to drive it out to the Alpha farm today.
"You on Injun time, boy?"
That stopped my whistling. I bit my tongue. I didn't care to be called an Injun, even if I was, and I didn't like the usual Mormon word, Lamanite, any better. My years in the Kingdom of Deseret had taught me that being a Lamanite among the Saints was no privilege. Boss Aldrich didn't agree, of course. "You're lucky to get to be a Saint." But then Boss Aldrich was in too much of a hurry to see some things.
I set the sack of pinto beans next to the flour.
Heckahoy, I thought I'd as soon be an Indian, the way I was born and started growing up. But I really didn't know. Folks said maybe I was Shoshone, but I hadn't been around them enough to know what they were like. Last time someone asked me what tribe I was, I'd answered, "I'm a whistler."
I switched to whistling "Come, Come, Ye Saints." Whether Boss Aldrich liked me whistling or not, he wouldn't have the nerve to shut down the Mormon anthem.
Stars and cornicles, I was a whistler. I could whistle any tune anyone ever heard, high parts and low parts, brassy as a trumpet, piercing as an oboe, soothing as a flute. It was my ambition to whistle a whole band, or at least a calliope, at the same time, drumming with my hands and feet.
This whistling started when the oldest of my adopted brothers, Little Peter, got a tin pipe for Christmas when we were both ten. I never wanted anything so bad in my life, but Little Peter wouldn't share. I took to whistling harmony with him. Before long I could do virtuoso stuff and Little Peter could barely finger the notes. Little Peter quit, and later gave me the pipe. By then it was one of my musical weapons. I had a banjo. I played the piano in the parlor. And I had my whistling. To me music was ... It felt like a kind of glory.
I even learned to imitate birds with my whistles, except that wasn't exactly whistling. Twice I even got an osprey to converse with me. I kept that part of my music to myself.
"You gonna take them groceries to the Alpha or turn into a band?"
I nodded amiably in Boss John's direction without meeting his eye. I climbed onto the spring wagon, started the mare with a cluck, and launched into "Green Grow the Lilacs."
THE TIME IS out of joint. That's the phrase I said to myself sometimes, irritably. At twenty-one I wasn't sure what all it meant, but I felt things weren't right.
This morning, for instance, the moon and the sun were up at the same time. This happened regularly, once or twice a month. Every time I saw the moon in the daylight sky I thought of that phrase: The time is out of joint. What exactly did it mean? It was a line the bishop often quoted, from the Bible or The Book of Mormon. Well, seemed to me the sun and moon shining at once meant the time was out of joint, or else I couldn't think what would. Even the day and the night mixed up.
The morning was fine after a solid week of rain, I liked that. Sun on my back, mud under my wheels, squishing. I was headed north along Bear River with this wagonload of supplies to the Alpha farm. "Be on time," Boss John kept saying. "You might get stuck, you might be late." The time is out of joint. Worry, worry, worry--white people were always worrying about time. Stars and cornicles, I told myself, if I don't watch out, I'll turn white.
I'd been feeling out of joint for years, maybe ever since I came to the Mormons. Recent-like it was worse. I kept having a feeling right at the bottom of my ribs, in the center, that said something was wrong. Sometimes it gurgled up, sometimes it sank down. Sometimes it was somewhere else, in my head, like out-of-tune music. Usually, though, if I paid attention, a bad feeling was somewhere.
I wished my blood was red, every drop of it. Even if I was half-Indian, I'd lived among white people ever since I could remember. Was it crazy to want to be red? I didn't know.
I wasn't a man to take things apart in my head. To me that was what white people did, especially the bishops in their preachments in the meetinghouse every Sunday morning. I just listened to my insides. What they said was, Something isn't right.
The mare was lagging. I flicked the traces against her lazily. She didn't like hauling for Boss John, and neither did I. Alpha farm was several miles ahead on the other side of the Bear River. Don't be late!
What do I care?
The time is out of joint.
The symbol of the Mormons for themselves was the beehive. They were busy as bees, it said, creating their divinely revealed utopia, the state of Deseret. This was a great source of pride.
I didn't want to grow up to be a bee.
Wait! Is that music?
I could almost make out a melody.
No, it's the wind.
Yes, the wind. A lane bordered with poplars ran toward a farmhouse to the west. The wind was moving in the poplars, murmuring, making the slender leaves into thousands of bells.
It really does sound like music.
It wouldn't be that strange. In a way I heard music in my head all the time. It was part of what made me different from everyone else. But this wasn't the same, this wasn't the music in my head, it was only half music, and it wasn't inside me, it was ...
Suddenly I felt wild, excited.
It must be a fever.
I came to a turn. Straight north stretched the road to Fort Hall and Eagle Rock. To the east reached a narrower road, rockier, less traveled. I geed the mare around to the right. Something swelled up in me. I almost laughed out loud at myself. Something, something like the spirit, I guessed, the spirit that rose under the tent at that gospel meeting I went to in Ogden, something that fiddlers got going whenever they played, something ... Whatever it was, my hands sent it down the traces to the mare, and she whinnied and jumped into a trot.
Fifty yards ahead the road crossed the river on a bare bridge of rough, clackety planks.
The half music came back--whistling, humming, singing, tinkling, beating, but only half-sounding, only half-heard....
