Maybe not. But he still dreams he can bring down the moon.

• • •

Morton Fretwell is convicted in a trial that lasts only one day, peopled by a jury that is hard-pressed to conceal its rancor. He is found guilty of kidnapping, conspiring to commit murder, and as an accessory to murder—for by Arápache law, unwinding and murder are one and the same. Then, in a move that is no surprise to anyone, rather than pronouncing a life sentence, the judge falls back on an old tradition.

“Let the aggrieved levy punishment on the convicted,” the judge announces, which opens the door to whatever the Tashi’ne family wants to do to him, including putting his life to a most painful end.

“This is justice?” Fretwell cries as he’s led back to the jailhouse after the verdict. “This is justice?” There are no ears sympathetic to his pleas.

The following day, Elina, Chal, and Pivane Tashi’ne come to face Fretwell, along with Una and Lev. While they were there in the courthouse, never once did Lev see them make eye contact, or even look directly at Fretwell. Perhaps because they were so sickened by him, or perhaps because it would make this moment today all the more meaningful.

Fretwell looks pathetic in his cell. Dirty, even in the clean beige jumpsuit of Arápache convicts.

While Pivane, Chal, and even Una stand back, Elina comes forward to look at him. Her face is a study of the true Arápache heroine. Lev is in awe of her presence as she regards Fretwell. It’s enough to make the man stand in quivering respect.

“Are you being treated well?” Elina asks, always the doctor.

Fretwell nods.

She regards him for a good long time before she speaks again. “We have discussed the various options of your punishment for the kidnapping and murdering of our son.”

“He ain’t dead!” Fretwell insists. “All his parts is still alive—I can prove it.”

Elina ignores him. “We have discussed it and have decided that your death at our hands would be meaningless.”

Fretwell breathes a sigh of relief.

“Therefore,” she continues, “you will be remanded to the Central Tribal Penitentiary. You will, for the rest of your life, be given nothing but bread and water. The minimum required for survival. You will be allowed nothing to entertain yourself. No contact with other human beings—so that you will be left with nothing but your thoughts until the end of your days.”

Fretwell’s eyes swell with horror. “Nothing? But you have to give me something. A Bible at least. Or a TV.”

“You will have one thing,” Elina says, then Chal reaches behind him and pulls out the object he has been concealing.

It’s a rope.

He hands it to the guard in attendance, who then passes it through the bars of the cell to Fretwell.

“We offer you this mercy,” Elina tells him, “that when your existence becomes too awful to bear, with this rope, you may end it.”

Fretwell grips the rope tightly in his hands and, looking down on it, bursts into tears. Satisfied, Lev, Una, and the Tashi’nes leave the room.

The following morning Fretwell is found dead, having hung himself from the ceiling light fixture in his cell. His question is finally answered. This is justice.

Lev has no idea if anyone in the outside world will mourn the man. He finds his own heart hardened. Fretwell’s capture, conviction, and sorry demise mean only one thing to Lev. An opportunity.

That very afternoon, Lev petitions the Tribal Council for an audience. He receives his summons a week later. Elina is surprised that they responded to him at all, but Chal is not.

“Legally, they have to respond to every petitioner,” Chal points out.

“Yes, and they don’t get to some petitioners for years,” says Elina.

“Perhaps Lev’s a little too large a public figure to keep on their plate.”

The idea of Lev being a large public figure in spite of his size both tickles Lev and makes him uncomfortable.

Elina and Chal accompany him, although Lev would have preferred to go alone.

“No one should face the council without a lawyer and a doctor,” Chal says as they make the drive to Council Square. Then he gives Lev a mischievous smile. “Besides, irritating the Tribal Council is part of my basic job description.”

“Yes,” says Elina, feigning irritation, “and it’s kept you from being the tribe’s attorney general.”

“Thank God!” says Chal. “I’d rather be representing the tribe’s interests out there in the world than be stuck handling the tribe’s piddling internal affairs.”

Lev shifts the heavy backpack he holds on his lap. The Tashi’nes haven’t asked what’s inside. He’d tell them if they asked, but he knows they won’t, if he hasn’t offered to share it. They do know the nature of his petition, however.

“You don’t need to do this,” Elina tells him. “As long as you don’t bring trouble on us, you can stay.”

And that’s the problem. Because trouble is exactly what Lev means to bring to the Arápache. Their minds and souls need to be as troubled as his.

• • •

The Arápache council chamber consists of chairs around a huge donut-shaped table made of fine reservation-grown oak. On the outside rim of the table sit the chief, several representatives from key clans of the tribe, and the elected tribal officials. Twice a week they meet for public forum to hear the suggestions, complaints, and petitions of the people.