Black Hills
Though a worthy backdrop for the final chase scene in 鈥淣orth by Northwest鈥� and the victim of unfriendly aliens in 鈥�Superman II,鈥� Mount Rushmore looms larger in America鈥檚 cinema than in its cultural consciousness. The granite visages of George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, Abraham Lincoln, and Theodore Roosevelt adorn postcards and bumper stickers and draw millions to South Dakota鈥檚 Black Hills every year, but, unlike the National Mall, serve no purpose beyond patriotic landmarkship. In person, they seem small, insignificant, an artificial asterisk among majestic mountains. As a monument, Mount Rushmore鈥檚 just not that monumental.
Still, as anyone flying a Confederate flag 150 years after the Civil War鈥檚 conclusion knows, cultural gestures create controversy. In Black Hills, Dan Simmons plunges into the imbroglio that surrounds Mount Rushmore, a white sculpture paid for by a white government carved into Six Grandfathers, a mountain sacred to the Sioux. For the Howard Zinns still among us, history is clear: This misguided artwork celebrates Colonial domination of Indians and the eradication of indigenous American culture. Curiously, Simmons鈥檚 overlong book re-revises this revisionist history, grafting a native American ghost story onto American folklore in an epic mash-up that, if unsuccessful as a novel, offers a unique, if offensive, deconstruction of the weirdest bit of Americana east of Las Vegas.
Try to keep up: When we meet Paha Sapa (that鈥檚 鈥淏lack Hills鈥� in the language of the Lakota Sioux) in 1934, he鈥檚 just another old Indian powder man toiling beneath architect Gutzon Borglum at Mount Rushmore, helping carve the faces of four Wasicun (鈥渨hite鈥�) presidents into his forefathers鈥� sacred mountain. But Paha Sapa is no septuagenarian Tonto. 鈥淚t鈥檚 time for Thomas Jefferson鈥檚 head to explode,鈥� he thinks, hatching a plan to seed Borglum鈥檚 monument with dynamite and destroy it during a visit from FDR, reclaiming Six Grandfathers for his people. This mission is political and personal 鈥� as a young brave, Paha Sapa touched the body of George Armstrong Custer after he perished at Little Big Horn, and has carried the soldier鈥檚 ghost with him ever since. Tormented for over half a century by Custer鈥檚 X-rated babble 鈥� the undead officer moans less for his lost cavalry than for his wife 鈥� Paha Sapa is torn between his heritage and the Wasicun world he inhabits, and hopes to reassert his native American identity with one mighty explosion. Rife, symbol-rich material for a page-turning thriller, no?
That鈥檚 before Paha Sapa becomes a fin de si猫cle Sioux Forrest Gump. Simmons, mistaking fetishism for accuracy, thrusts his characters into the past only to show off his formidable talent for research. (If Paha Sapa was a real person, as Simmons claims in an epilogue, he鈥檚 not thanked for the great liberties 鈥淏lack Hills鈥� takes with his life story.) Paha Sapa鈥檚 unlikely repartee with Custer, an Oscar/Felix setup that would make a hilarious Sherman Alexie short story, isn鈥檛 device enough; Paha Sapa also must know Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse personally, perform in Buffalo Bill Cody鈥檚 Wild West Show, and fall in love at the 1893 Chicago World Fair.
Paha Sapa鈥檚 world spins around Simmons鈥檚 mastery of historical minutiae, and the dialogue in 鈥淏lack Hills鈥濃�� suffers accordingly. 鈥淭he revolving Hotchkiss cannon had five thirty-seven-millimeter barrels and was capable of firing forty-three rounds per minute,鈥� Paha Sapa tells his son during one heartfelt exchange. 鈥淗e guesses that the cable rises about 750 to 800 feet from this point to its pass-through notch near the top of the tower about 275 feet above the river,鈥� Simmons writes of Paha Sapa鈥檚 trip to the Brooklyn Bridge 鈥� a visit that tries to reconcile native American wakan (鈥渕agic鈥�) and Wasicun technical marvels, but is more about engineering specs. When 鈥� heaven forbid 鈥� Paha Sapa doesn鈥檛 have every fact and figure at his command, his ability to see other characters鈥� pasts and futures conveniently fills in the blanks, allowing Simmons to riff on events that haven鈥檛 even happened yet.
And, when peering into the future, 鈥淏lack Hills鈥� skates on thin ice. A gifted science fiction author, Simmons gained mainstream recognition by weaving fantastical narratives around real people. 鈥淭he Terror鈥� (2007) imagined Arctic explorer Sir John Franklin pursued by a polar monster; last year鈥檚 鈥淒rood鈥� inserted Charles Dickens into his own final, unfinished novel.
This precious fictive hook can鈥檛 work when applied to native American genocide. Close to death, Paha Sapa envisions the 鈥渞ewilding鈥� of the Great Plains at an unspecified date by the federal government 鈥� that is, the same government that blazed the Trail of Tears, murdered Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse, and commissioned Rushmore in the first place. 鈥淸T]here will be no mass extinctions because of our presence,鈥� Simmons writes. 鈥淎dults may choose to live among jaguars, lions, and grizzly bears ... as long they did so by the rules of the epoch they had come to live in.鈥� Given America鈥檚 questionable management of its natural resources and the sham global warming debate, this Eden isn鈥檛 just an unlikely outcome 鈥� it鈥檚 bad fiction that neither reflects reality nor entertains.
Simmons thinks he can heal Colonial wounds with a good yarn, and his condescension doesn鈥檛 help the dreary final third of this long novel.
鈥淧aha Sapa is a sucker for history,鈥� Simmons writes. 鈥淎lso ... he is a victim of it. (But so is everyone else.)鈥� Surely, this writer cannot think his narrative gifts offer escape from that parenthesis.
Justin Moyer is a freelance writer in Washington, D.C.
