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Moon Medicine Kindle Edition
When Honoré Greenwood sits down to tell his tale, people listen. Friend of such stalwarts of the West as Kit Carson, Thomas Fitzpatrick, John Hatcher, and the Brent brothers, Charles and William, Honoré, at ninety-nine, has lived the life that has become the dime novel.
As a young schoolboy, Jean Guy was considered a genius. The only thing distracting him from his love of books was his love for a kitchen maid, Nicole. When Nicole is raped and brutalized, Jean exacts revenge, murdering the rapist and stowing away on an English packet bound for New Orleans. It is there that the young Jean Guy changes his name and becomes Honoré Greenwood, soon to become one of the legends of the American West.
New Orleans is an exciting place for the young Honoré, but falling in love with Gabriela Badfillo-a beautiful young woman from Taos, New Mexico, who is promised to another in an arranged marriage-forces Honoré to flee, brokenhearted into the wilderness. He volunteers for a most dangerous project, building a fort right in the heart of Comanche country. His orders are to establish trade with the warlike, horse-rich Comanches.
The Mexican War and the California Gold Rush usher chaos into the plains. And the Comanches are a proud, powerful, and unpredictable people, but Honoré earns their trust, but the vile whiskey trader, Bill Snakehead Jackson, is happy corrupting the Comanches and breeding violence between them and their ancient enemies, the Apaches.
It will take all of Honoré's genius and his strange power to hold the trade together. Because his power follows the phases of the moon enabling him to go without sleep for days, the Comanches dub it Moon Medicine. Through it all, Honoré becomes a successful trader and ransom negotiator, earning the title Plenty Man. But when Gabriela desperately calls for help, Honoré will risk everything he has for the woman he still loves.
At the Publisher's request, this title is being sold without Digital Rights Management Software (DRM) applied.
- LanguageEnglish
- PublisherForge Books
- Publication dateFebruary 17, 2003
- File size583 KB
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Editorial Reviews
From Publishers Weekly
Copyright 2001 Cahners Business Information, Inc.
Review
About the Author
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
ONEADOBE WALLS, TEXAS MARCH, 1927
The ghosts of Charles and William Bent spoke to me last night. The spirit of Kit Carson came to me in the same vision. This was not a dream, but a vision. I know the difference.Kit said, "Come on, Plenty Man, I've marked the trail."William said, "It's alright, Kid."Charles added, "Better hurry, Mr. Greenwood, before you do something stupid and take the low road."As I woke, the echoes of their voices faded and became raindrops tapping the windowpane. The pale light of dawn illuminated my one-room sod house. I got up and went out in the weather in my nightshirt. I say, "Bah!" to anyone who suggests that a man of ninety-nine years should not be trudging around in the cold rain. The rain won't hurt you. And if you breathe a smudge of fir needles, it will ward off attacks from the Thunderbird. The Comanche medicine man, Burnt Belly, taught me that decades ago, and I have never been struck by lightning.The smudge? Simple. Place the fir needles on a hot coal, and breathe the pungent smoke. You will need a forked stick of chokecherry to lift the coal from the fire. Chokecherry is dense and hard and resists burning. A live chokecherry tree will tell you all this and more if you listen hard enough.Anyway, this morning, I went out into the drizzle and walked through the orchard and up the gentle grade of the prairie, letting the raindrops fall on my bare head, and feeling the mud ooze between my toes. I stood over the vestigesof the last few sunbaked bricks--all that remain now of Fort Adobe.The casual observer would not even recognize these as adobe bricks. They now resemble a mere bump rising from the prairie. Grasses have taken root upon them. It looks as if someone dumped a wheelbarrow full of dirt here and left it. Yet, I know what lofty dreams and desperate struggles those few decaying adobes represent."Ta'a ko'oitu," I said in Comanche. We are dying.I was not really sad. I got over my sorrow long ago. I remembered things I had done here. The children I had ransomed out of captivity. The battles I had fought. The demons I had slain. Here I rode with trappers and traders legendary in their own time. Jim Bridger, John "Freckled Hand" Hatcher, Thomas "Broken Hand" Fitzpatrick. Old Gabe. And, of course, William Bent and Ceran St. Vrain. Here Kit Carson would become my friend. The Comanche chief, Shaved Head, would adopt me. The warrior, Kills Something, would become my brother. The shaman, Burnt Belly, would show me how to make medicine and listen to plants and animals talk.But now you think you are listening to the fanciful ramblings of a senile old fool, for I have tried to tell too much at once. Bear with me. Hear my tale. It is strange, and so am I. Yet, my story is like yours--or his--or hers--or theirs. I have lived and seen and done the strange, the unusual. Haven't you? Think. Could you not amaze me with some memory of your own? Of course you could. Perhaps you shall. Let me share with you what I have experienced. My peculiar fate. My singular destiny. Give me time. I will try not to disappoint.Shall I make you laugh? I hope I will. I welcome your laughter. My ego can withstand even your ridicule. Will you make me laugh? You can. Think. You can make me laugh. And I will. I will laugh well. I have earned it. You need to know my laughter as much as I need to know yours.But that is only the beginning. After we have laughed together, with genuine mirth and tearful eyes, then we willhave only started, each to know the other. As I tell you these things about my life that will test your utmost credulity, you must stop and think. I will wait, even though you may ponder silently at length. I will wait. Think. You possess the selfsame humanity as do I. With what true tale from your own experience could you arouse my suspicion and disbelief? My story, though strange to you, is no stranger than yours. Only different. I will begin at the beginning. But first, I want to tell you about the adobes. The ones I watched this morning in the rain.I made these last remaining bricks by hand, eighty-two years ago, when I was a lad of seventeen. These were the first I used in building the fort. They have lasted the longest. They possess parts of my soul. When the grass roots finally split them, and when the rain melts the last of the old mud bricks back into the earth, and when the wind turns them to dust, I will die; for my life intertwines with all that is left of Fort Adobe. But this morning, standing there in the rain, I saw that there were still a few adobes left. There is time yet, and I will make it precious. If you wish, I will spend some of my remaining moments with you, telling my tale. That would please me.Anyway, when the rain began to chill me this morning, I turned away from the crumbling adobes and hiked back toward my sod house. On the way, an airplane flew over me. It flew lower than usual. Because of the rain, I suppose. Some fellow carries the mail in that airplane, I have been told, and apparently likes to follow the Canadian River as a landmark. He always flies right over my sod house. The noise doesn't last long, but it irritates me. One day, having calculated his schedule through observation, I waited for him to fly over. I sent a warning shot across his propeller with my old Sharps buffalo gun. I don't suppose he ever knew.This morning, I watched him fly over and disappear into the mist, and said to him, "Godspeed, lad," for I harbor no real resentment toward him. I read in the newspapers that men are attempting to fly the Atlantic in one of those machines.I crossed the ocean on a square-rigger once. A man would need to possess courage in amplitude to fly where I sailed.After the drone of the airplane faded up the river valley, I went into my sod house and made a good fire in the woodstove. It was forty-nine degrees outside. Oh, pshaw! I won't catch cold! That doesn't happen. Germs cause colds. The Indians knew this generations before anyone knew what a germ was. Comanches make themselves go out in the cold. They swim in icy streams. I am part Comanche. Not by blood, by heart. A good walk in the cold rain braces the body and the spirit.So, I dried off, got dressed, warmed up, and played a bit of Chopin's trio on my left-handed Stradivarius violin. I ate some pemmican I prepared just last week from dried venison and tallow and fruit from the native plum trees over on Bent's Creek. Now I am cozy and content and since you have come to visit I want to tell you the things I have seen here in this place that called my name far across the ocean a lifetime ago. I want to tell you about the buffalo. About the Indians. About Snakehead Jackson, the whiskey trader. The black-powder days. I want to tell you about the wilderness.First, I must tell you about myself. Have I mentioned that I am a genius? The question is rhetorical. I know I haven't mentioned it because my memory is and always has been perfect. I'm not boasting. I simply am a genius. It's nothing to brag about, really.I am also a liar, but I'm not lying about being a genius. I am also a murderer and a thief. That is the truth. But now I have tried to tell too much at once again. Allow me to begin at the beginning. If you don't mind, I will wash and cut some dogbane root while we talk. I keep it on hand to chew. It helps me sleep and wards off night terrors. I am afflicted with an almost intolerable sense of efficiency. I can't just sit here and talk. I have to be doing something with my hands while I talk lest I should toss and turn all night over the time I have wasted.There. Now I can begin. Let me tell you a story. This is the truth, so you will find it difficult to swallow. Should I lie, you should believe every word, but I will suffer your incredulity and hold to the truth. The Gospel, as they say. Yes, I knew Kit Carson, but I cannot just start there. I will begin ... well, at the beginning ... .Copyright © 2001 by Mike Blakely
Product details
- ASIN : B008846UFY
- Publisher : Forge Books; 1st edition (February 17, 2003)
- Publication date : February 17, 2003
- Language : English
- File size : 583 KB
- Text-to-Speech : Enabled
- Screen Reader : Supported
- Enhanced typesetting : Enabled
- X-Ray : Not Enabled
- Word Wise : Enabled
- Sticky notes : On Kindle Scribe
- Print length : 433 pages
- Best Sellers Rank: #2,218,814 in Kindle Store (See Top 100 in Kindle Store)
- #19,476 in Westerns (Kindle Store)
- #33,182 in Westerns (Books)
- #225,706 in Literature & Fiction (Kindle Store)
- Customer Reviews:
About the author
Author Mike Blakely has published 18 books released by major New York City publishers. His most recent release "A Song to Die For," is receiving great reviews. Two of his latest books were co-writes, one with Willie Nelson, the other with Kenny Rogers.
As a singer/songwriter, Mike has released 11 CDs, performed all over the U.S., and has made 16 tours to Europe. His songs have been recorded by Gary P. Nunn, Red Steagall, Flaco Jimenez and Raul Malo, john Arthur martinez, Randy Brown, Geronimo Trevino III and Johnny Rodriguez, Johnny Bush, Pauline Reese, and others. He is currently at work on his next CD with planned release for Fall 2015.
View Mike's schedule of appearances and learn more about him by visiting www.mikeblakely.com or 'like' Mike Blakely's Official Fan Page on Facebook.
A native Texan, Mike served in the U.S. Air Force and later earned a bachelors degree in journalism from the University of Texas at Austin. He released his first novel 1988 and his first CD in 1995. One of his co-written tunes landed on a Grammy Award-winning album by Flaco Jimenez in 1995. Another was played on the orbiting International Space Station in 2007.
Mike is a two-time winner of Western Writers of America's Spur Award - once for best western novel of the year, and once for best western song of the year.
Mike spent many years touring with his dancehall band, but now plays more shows as a solo artist, or in a duo or trio configuration at listening rooms, house concerts, festivals, and private parties. His career as a novelist leads to many non-traditional concerts at book stores, libraries, writers conferences, and book clubs.
"Having celebrated our house concert anniversary with the seventh show by Mike, we can only attest that it just keeps getting better and better! I'll personally guarantee it to be one of the musical highlights of your life!" ~ Paula Reynolds, Hilltop House Concerts, Kerrville, TX.
"Blakely is a consummate artist whose superb ability to capture an audience only serves to highlight his songwriting skills... which approach brilliance." - Buddy Case, "The Loft," Enola, AK
"Mike helped us establish our restaurant as a major music venue in the Hill Country of Texas. He has produced a weekly concert series for us for over eight years, consistently packing the house show after show. We have been named "Best Live Music Venue" four years in a row thanks to his efforts. He is an established talent, a huge asset to our business and a real pro." Paul Brady, owner/mgr. River City Grille, Marble Falls, TX.
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It is this era that author Michael Blakely brings to life with his story of Jean-Guy, a young exile from a quality French school fleeing his native land after an unfortunate incident at home. Arriving in America at the port of New Orleans, the youthful Frenchman renames himself, Honore Dumant (later renamed Honore Greenwood and then "Plenty Man") and heads west to the place where his dreams have summoned him. There is an abundance of mysticism here and we're repeatedly informed by our narrator that he is a genius with a remarkable facility for languages, mathematics and a deeply sophisticated education, all of which young Honore hides through much of the book so he can blend in with the men he encounters. Honore also suffers from a condition which makes him unusually active during times of the full moon and highly susceptible to binge sleeps when the moon is new, presenting him with certain challenges and advantages in the Old West he finds beyond the Mississippi as well as a gateway into the mysticism of the Indian shaman.
Also an accomplished classical violinist, he plays fiddle for those he finds and delights them all while seeking out and eventually winning a place among the wild Comanche who rule the plains and who other men fear. Honore manages to win the respect and friendship of most of the mountain and plains men he comes across, falling in with the trading company of Bent and St. Vrain which runs a series of forts across the prairie and deserts of what was then still Mexico (though not for long as the Mexican War is soon fought during the events of this book, bringing New Mexico, Arizona, Colorado and California into the American orbit and changing forever the tone and texture of the Old West of Honore's day).
If there are weaknesses here, and there are, they are to be found in the self-conscious narration (provided by a 99 year old Honore living alone at the remains of an old fort in 1927 somewhere in the Texas panhandle) which consistently flips into a second person mode, addressing the reader as if he or she were there, listening to the old man talk. The old man is verbose, as old men sometimes are, but seemingly too articulate for the kind of tale he has to tell. And he knows too much of the goings on around him, even when placed in the era he is describing, producing an artificial sense of history instead of a more natural one. Honore seems to know everything and everyone as we're treated to a veritable who's who of frontier rogues and legends from the Bent brothers to Kit Carson and Jim Bridger. At times it's as though Blakely had a list of famous names he wanted to cover and so has his narrator simply call off the people he sees as his interlocutors in the tale respond with a bit of historical background for each. It's a little hard to stomach because it shows Blakely here wearing his research on his sleeve.
On the other hand, the research is strong and we do get a vivid sense of the era and the land itself right down to Honore's stint as an adobe brick maker and builder of forts. Honore's encounter with Indians, especially the Comanche, does feel honest and well portrayed though the Indians tend to be a little stereotypical. Nevertheless the cultural information rings true. I got a little tired of Honore's self-descriptions of himself as a genius, but it did serve to enable him to plausibly know things an ordinary person in his position would not have been expected to. On the other hand, he seems remarkably naive and obtuse at times when his brilliance would have been expected to serve him better.
All in all though, this was an enjoyable if not totally absorbing tale, given that so much of it consists of a string of incidents wherein Honore moves back and forth around the Great Plains, the Southwest and the Sierras seeking out, trading with and hunting down various Indians and tribes. There is, at times, a lack of a strong central narrative engine impelling the story forward. On the other hand, Honore's final encounter with the Apache (who have become his blood enemies) and the brutal, nefarious whiskey dealer, Snakehead Jackson, is exciting and fast moving if not entirely credible. But the end of the tale, as we slide back to 1927, is sort of a letdown. Yet, overall, the book was an enjoyable window into a now largely forgotten past, one that is too often overlooked even by the mythmakers of the Old West.
SWM
Author of The King of Vinland's Saga
Come to think of it I'll even add that the book can give any best selling novel out there a run for its money. Blakely's a talented writer and could probably do well in any genre. As I said it's 'a good read.' No, make that a very good read, and easy to see why he's a Spur Award winner and easy to see why I just ordered the sequel. Five stars for a better look at the real old west.
You'll encounter many historical figures, ranging from mountain men to Comanche warriors. Greenwood moves comfortably between the Comanche and the whites such as Kit Carson. You'll get a strong and sympathetic view of the Comanche (not unlike Jack Crabb's movement between the Cheyenne and the whites in Little Big Man). McMurtry's view of the Comanche is more neutral, and Comb's view is much darker. If you've read McMurtry or Combs, you'll get a very different flavor for the True Humans here. This is a thoroughly enjoyable read!