Recently, on a spring evening in 1960, six Black Eagle Child Indian hoys—all Weeping Willow Elementary School classmates—reported seeing “tiny unknown beings” in beaded finery, clasping their tiny hands together as they traversed the railroad tracks. As the tribal elders spoke to them about the incident, the boys collectively recalled with amazement how their tiny moccasined feet leapt over the large purple rocks and the iron railings that lay atop splintered wooden ties. Held motionless by their power, the boys could only observe as their tiny moccasined feet crystallized. Suddenly, a bluish light from within set them all ablaze, reducing them in size. Next, the small round blue lights separated and hovered in wait as a train came barreling down the winding river valley. As soon as a boxcar became available, with metal screeching wheels and all, the blue lights, like some kind of supertransients, hopped onto a railroad boxcar, using it as a means of propulsion for a quick ascension to the stars. Showing off.
Among the boys who witnessed this manifestation was Edgar Principal Bear, my sister Clotelde’s son. The other boys’ names are as follows: Theodore Facepaint; Hayward and Kensington Muscatine; Horatio Plain Brown Bear; and Pat Red Hat.
At a predesignated point near Liquid Lake, the group of boys met for an all-night camp-out. Each had agreed to bring food, water, fishing line, sinkers, and hooks, as well as matches, small axes, flashlights, and blankets. These supplies were then stuffed into blue jeans, which were worn over the lower back, making them look like backpacks or parachutes. From Boy Scout meetings they had learned the legs of blue jeans could be tied as the straps. This is how my nephew, Edgar Principal Bear, began his account of what transpired that night, feeling as if he had just cartwheeled from the sky and landed behind enemy lines.
—from Severt Principal Bear’s Diary*
Edgar Principal Bear, with hardly a breath expelled, sat on the largest sandy beach of Liquid Lake, on the north side. With both legs crossed, he leaned against a homemade backpack and peered into the hill looming above. To the west, through the condensation on his glasses, he could see the last strong sunlight reflecting off the oak leaves of Rolling Head Valley. In the mild breeze he could smell the oiled railroad ties. To the east was nightfall itself. With the sun’s glow gradually fading over the darkening waters of Liquid Lake, Edgar began wondering how much time he’d have for a mad dash home in case no one else made the rendezvous. He had been warned by his grandmother repeatedly that the moments before night and day were the most dangerous. Realizing this, Edgar began to breathe rapidly, and his heart thumped loudly underneath his boney chest. He had been here before with his uncle Winston and his friends on a spearfishing expedition. In fact, this was close to the place where they had spotted Carson Two Red Foot holding a conversation with a stringer of resurrected flathead catfish. But it was daylight then, and the only fear was thin ice.
Were there similarities between breaking ice, earth’s darkness, and what lurked within? he asked himself. Spying into the fish’s realm, underwater, was an experience he’d treasure for years. Driven by the pounding of logs over the ice, catfish in multitudes would travel under the half-submerged mossy green trees. Edgar with a long six-pronged spear in his frozen hand would lie by a hole in the ice beside his uncle with a blanket over his head, blocking out daylight. In an effort to calm himself down, Edgar began thinking how this large body of stone-encased water provided good fishing and swimming.
He inhaled the cool fishy odor of the thriving backwaters of the Iowa and Swanroot Rivers and then scared himself with a thought pertaining to Carson Two Red Foot and the secret he possessed: If the Iowa and Swanroot Rivers were forced to reroute themselves, could the doorways of the Supernaturals shift in the landscape and arrive here? Could this also be the reason for the sightings of lights and tiny people?
Edgar thought about the town whites who called this place a “quarry,” which was an error because no one ever dug rocks here for commercial purposes. Amid his racing thoughts of his grandmothers admonitions against coming out and being alone in the woods, he saw a figure roll out unexpectedly from the overhanging maple branches.
“Hey, hey! Who’s there? We ne a tta-i na i-ki wi ta ta?” yelled out Edgar in a quavering voice.
“Ed-Edgar, is-s-s that you? Ki-na a na?” came a stuttered reply. Twigs were being raked and snapped from the limbs. In the sunset-reflecting water, bullfrogs began their loud bellowing, scaring Edgar ever more.
“Ted, is that you? Ki na a na?” cried out Edgar in despair.
“Yes, ha-ha-have you see-seen the others? E a i ke ki tti-ne wa wa ki-ko ta ka ki?”
The figure of Theodore Facepaint that had been crawling toward Edgar stopped mysteriously halfway up the beach and bunched up. Edgar twisted his neck in every direction to look around. Seeing and hearing nothing, he answered Ted’s questions. “No. I haven’t seen anyone. Hey, how come you’re not coming over? Akwi-me i-ne wa ki ni-ko wi ye a. Hey, ke te tta wi-e ba wi-bya wa ni?”
“Sh-h-h-h-h ... I hear something. Listen. Sh-h-h-h-h . . . Ke ko-ne ka ske ta. Be tte tte no.”
As the two quieted down a short distance from each other, the bullfrogs in the pond did the same. Cranes and herons, their large wing-spans in silhouette, glided across the blue and orange iridescent waters of Liquid Lake, landing with minimal noise on the willow branches. To the south, from as far away as the Stonehouse on old Lincoln Highway 30, cackling owls could be heard flying toward them.
“Ther-there’s thr-three of-of them. Ne so wi-ta tti wa ki” said Ted in a fearful voice that began to stutter less. “It-it also seems as-as if they re getting closer. Or is someone talking? Me to tti-ke e i kike tti ni-bye wa ki. I tti ke-ko i ye a-ka na wi ya?”
The dark hunchback-shaped mound that was Ted scuttled across the white sand sideways like a crab. Its pincers were held outward, aiming at the silhouette of Edgar, who was by then standing up, having gathered his parachute-looking apparatus, breathing more heavily. Every time the three owls cackled, the crab stopped its jerky travel and spun its shell-body in a quick circle, like an armed turret with twin machine guns, making sure nothing was thinking of taking advantage.
From the east, along the railroad tracks, the sound of shoes grinding the huge rocks against each other could be heard. Next came the illumination of three bobbing flashlights—and voices! Edgar and Ted held their breath and looked upward toward the elevated tracks, hoping. Gradually, the talking got closer and more distinct. It was Horatio Plain Brown Bear, Hayward Muscatine, and Kensington Muscatine, jabbering away. They were noisy and totally unaware of the three owls who were getting closer.
Edgar and Ted called out to their friends. Above, on the railroad tracks, the three flashlights froze. Just when Horatio was about to shout a question, an explosion shot up from somewhere over the water. Whh-h-oommmp! It sounded like a huge boulder had been lobbed over them from the hills. Around them, the cool water spray fell in huge drops.
“Have you seen Pat?” asked Horatio, while directing a dim beam of light down toward the beach and into cowering Edgar and Ted’s eyes. Hayward and Kensington did the same until strange bubbling sounds echoed over the water. Together the trio swung their flashlight beams across the top of Liquid Lake, searching. Under their combined lights, strong waves were visible. Horatio, this time in a tone of worry, said, “Maybe a beaver, huh?”
“Geez, I don’t know,” answered Hayward, whose flashlight was edging toward Horatio’s. “Maybe a family of beavers or a catfish the size of a man or even a seal, the one named Dam Monster?”
“Whatever, there’s something out there,” said Horatio, as he slid down the railroad tracks and onto the sand. “How come you guys are so quiet?” he asked of Edgar and Ted.
“The owls,” they both replied, pointing downriver.
“What’s this owl business? Don’t you know something just blew up?”
Cautiously, Horatio walked across the pale beach, going past Edgar and Ted. Near the shoreline he knelt on one knee. “But it isn’t what you say, Hayward,” he resumed. “Look, everybody, the waves are building up again!” Horatio, along with Edgar and Ted, trotted to the bottom of the tracks; they then readied themselves to climb back up.
Hayward, who was rarely apart from Horatio, began to panic. “But. . . hey, you guys . . . don’t get scared,” he said in a spurt. With his skinny rear in the air, Hayward slid backward down the embankment, scraping his knuckles.
“Get back to where you were!” commanded Horatio, lighting up Hayward’s butt, but it was too late.
“Ow! Watch it!” cried Hayward upon impact with Horatio’s flashlight.
“Well, geez, be quiet then,” warned Horatio, pushing Hayward away. With that, they lost balance over the discarded railroad ties and fell into some tall thistles. After they picked themselves up, an argument was about to ensue when Kensington began shouting. “Look at the water! Look at the water!” Sure enough, when they redirected their dim flashlight beams, there was another disturbance in the water. This time they saw it. Wh-h-h-oommp! Like the “Old Faithful” geyser they had seen in classroom films, the water shot straight upward and high. And shortly afterward bigger plops of rain fell around them and onto the nearby trees. With that, they all climbed onto the tracks, scurrying away like wary crabs.
As they stood huddled together on the tracks, Kensington whispered in a deep, excited breath and the others listened. “It could also be a bunch of geese! They’re here all the time. They nest on the stone columns where the first Settlement bridge used to be.”
“Hey, that’s where my grandfather captured a witch,” said Edgar.
“Now what’s this witch business?” asked Horatio, complaining. “First, you said there are owls. Which is it? Make up your mind.”
Ted, who was standing next to Edgar, asked in a clear unwavering voice how far the old bridge was. Kensington, with one hand groping and handling something inside his backpack, reiterated that it might be geese.
“The bridge? It isn’t far,” answered Edgar, adjusting his parachute and keeping a cautious eye toward Liquid Lake. “It’s that way.”
Without a single word being stuttered, Ted delivered another swift sentence. “This has to be the same place where Dark Swirling Cloud received the Star-Medicine.”
“Hey, come on now,” implored Horatio to Edgar, “don’t start scaring us!”
Suddenly, behind them, deep in the woods, they heard leaves being parted and twigs being broken. There was movement behind the tall cottontail grass.
“Another noise!” remarked Edgar.
“Yeah, we heard it,” snapped Horatio. “So what?”
“First, the three owls; second, the water; and now this! But my grandmother says that if you don’t dwell on strange occurrences, you decrease their presence.”
“Yeah, there’s a lot of noise here. And if what your grandmother says is true, we should think about something else entirely. Ted, don’t make this any worse by your strange talk. OK? We’re here to look for spaceships. Remember?”
Sounding agitated, Ted defended himself without the slightest misinflection. “No, I’m not talking strange. That’s what my aunt Louise Stabs Back told me. This place is supernatural.”
Kensington, who was standing behind Horatio and Hayward, clutched his backpack like a hand puppet, holding it beside his wide face. He was still convinced it was geese diving from the stone columns; playing around.
In the middle of their discussion, another voice joined in from the darkness. “Geese don’t throw themselves like bombs into the water, you savages!” Startled, the boys jerked their flashlights toward the voice’s direction. It was Pat Red Hat, emerging from the swampy portion of the woods.
“Bombs?” whimpered Hayward. “What are you talking about, Pat?”
“Those spaceships,” Pat said, pointing toward the hillside, “I think they’re doing this, warning us to stay away.”
Pat ambled up to them and told them to turn off the flashlights, saving their batteries for later. Over the starlit railroad tracks the group of boys sat down—three facing south on one rail and three facing north on another, listening.
“Don’t you get it?” Pat said; “we’re not supposed to be here.”
“How many times has the water exploded?” asked Edgar.
Before anyone answered that it was two times, Liquid Lake exploded again. Twice in succession. They could feel vibrations of the natural stone basin undulating under the soles of their shoes.
On their subsequent ascent of the shadowy hills above Liquid Lake the boys were convinced by what Pat Red Hat had said: that whatever force didn’t want them in the area made the water explode. But there were limitations. There had to be. Stuff like that, being harmed through actual interaction with Supernaturals, just didn’t happen. The most they could logically expect was a fearful apparition.
As they got higher up the hill their courage grew. On their first break halfway up they passed around a jar of tea and everyone took long swigs. “Ah, that’s good tasting,” each proclaimed after a healthy sampling. Wiping the excess onto their shirtsleeves, they all sat down, not far from each other. Each of them gazed upward past the thick forest canopy, trying not to think about what had just transpired. They noticed the stars were becoming increasingly brighter and more distinct. Beside them, in the underbrush, even the sounds of small animals or birds became more audible. And then out of nowhere a cool, nearly undetectable breeze materialized; it swirled over their warm, perspiring skin, bouncing from one boy to another, until one of them felt something poking him.
“Hey, did you touch me a little while ago?” someone asked.
“No, did someone touch yoti?” someone answered from the shadowy foliage. They could hear the capricious breeze swirling around in the brush, making small murmuring sounds, but they ignored it. They had no choice. They had to concentrate on something else. Edgar started talking about how delicious tea tasted after a breakfast of scrambled eggs, fried mushrooms, sticky rice, and frybread. After Pat said he could almost smell the food, inhaling the night air, he talked about how he’d try to outstare the fiery morning sun as it came through the treetops. Hayward said something about not liking being jabbed in the ass with such a hard flashlight. Kensington cradled the backpack and gently rocked it as if it were a child, and Horatio babbled on about tree-gnawing beavers. They were speaking this gibberish until the mysterious hand began touching them.
“Hey, did you touch me again?” someone asked.
“No, did you touch me? Wait. Who is nearest to me?”
“I am,” someone replied.
“No,” someone said from behind a tree’s silhouette, “I’m the closest.”
Only for someone else to say, “Hey, someone just touched me!”
From the foliage, as the boys spoke their nonsense to no avail, the lights of a dozen fireflies began to assemble and flicker. Like the crickets they, too, were coming out, lighting up the fine stalks and leaves of ground-level plants. With that, the boys sprang to their feet. Once the weight of the backpacks over their boney shoulders was secured, they were ready to continue their climb. Beside them the fireflies began making an elaborate kaleidoscope-shaped design with their flickering green and yellow body-lights. Without a word the boys took a few steps up the incline and then paused to listen, looking backward. Far below, Liquid Lake was a shrill cacophony of frogs, and to the east and west toward O’Ryan’s Cemetery and Rolling Head Valley, the whippoorwills were calling. Before, except for the watery explosions and an occasional mosquito or two, it had been disturbingly quiet. It was now different under a deluge of pleasant night sounds.
As the boys started walking up the terrain, the fireflies broke from their geometric design, following closely behind. When the boys stopped for a breather, the fireflies stopped also, lifting and then dropping repeatedly in one spot with their slow but intermittent body lights. The boys began to realize this particular batch of fireflies had probably been with them—two fireflies per person—from the time each of them entered the wooded domain at sundown. Everyone was aware of that fact but no one wanted to point it out, for fear of triggering another mystery. No one dared to look. Again, out of fear, they had no choice but to ignore the pestiferous fireflies.
Upon reaching the top of the pine-tree-covered hill, the boys began tramping down the weeds and underbrush. They made a big circle and spoke little, gathering dry twigs and branches for the camp-fire. By then the twelve original fireflies had multiplied into dozens more. On each occasion when they suddenly dropped and flickered their lights in flight, other identical fireflies would appear. In turn, the new fireflies would generate others until the boys, who were sitting around the gathered firewood, were surrounded by a large circular mass that was a bright hazy green in color and pulsating.
“Start the fire,” Pat said in a weak voice. “Who’s got the matches?”
“I do.” Ted’s hands shook violently as he attempted to open the paper box of matches. The matchsticks could be heard as they were being rattled. To help him out, the flashlights were turned on again. With all eyes and concentration on Ted’s hands, his shaking calmed down. He struck a single match and lit the crumpled Why Cheer News-Herald, which set everything else ablaze under the iron grill. The dry twigs crackled and hissed as the flames rose to the cool night air.
In the orange-red firelight they could see each other. Mostly they saw frightened faces. Behind them, aligned horizontally with their ears, was the circle of green light. They saw they were connected in this blinding, luminescent configuration. They couldn’t ignore it; it was there pulsating and growing brighter.
Horatio, as he sat on bent feet, shot his hands upward, covered his face, and began sniffing. His partners, Hayward and Kensington, both wearing frowns that made them look like fish, kneeled beside him, wide-eyed and struggling to breathe. And Ted was still holding on to the box of matches and couldn’t let go; he shook them like a ceremonial rattle. Pat, with his eyes staring fearlessly at the green circle, stood up, shaking his fists. Edgar, near tears, reached over with a branch and stoked the fire. Sparks from the campfire leapt out to the treetops, stopped, and then floated back down. Soon the boys found themselves encompassed by a fiery green waterfall. Pat began singing, or he tried to, before a clogged nasal system shut him up.
When the boys regained their sight, there were two overlapping beams of light, green and red, being projected by a tiny yellow light that was itself connected with shiny threads to a giant silver craft. By some mechanism the spaceship was being lifted from the sandy earth. The fine grains of sand could be heard scraping against the metallic surface.
Suspended in the air between the packed trees, the silver disk-shaped craft and its occupants, small in size, could be seen silhouetted against the opaque windows, moving about. The boys sensed collectively that these occupants were seeing to it that whatever had to be done was accomplished in precise order. A whirring sound then erupted in their ears, and just when they were about to be levitated toward the ascending spaceship, a leather pouch belonging to Luciano Bearchild was thrown into the campfire. It burned rapidly and the contents began to boil as if something was about to be deep-fried in grease. As the red, glowing coals came into contact with the antiwitch compound of cedar, wool, and fine boughs of tender clusterberries, the blue smoke rose in the boys’ place and traveled to the spaceship’s designated point of entry. Suddenly, the green, burning waterfall reverted back to normal fireflies until all that remained was a phantom domelike impression in the boys’ vision.