Through the watchful, transforming fireflies of Liquid Lake to the nightmarish experience with the supernatural disguised as a child traditional dancer, and through the animistic personification of all living, moving and unmoving, seen and unseen, known and unknown entities through my grandmothers stories, I hegan to develop an inordinate, premature sense of regard for air, water, fire, the four seasons, plant growth, and wildlife.
From a star I had seen explode above me as I stood in my plastic imitation cowboy chaps and hoots with tin spurs, teeter-tottering on a small mound on the path where I thought I saw my late grandfather change into a winged being, along with my two uncles and their cousin, I equated myself to the sparks that slowly fell to earth. Parts of me were therefore scattered over the forest floor that was covered with a glistening blanket of umbrella-shaped plants.
Being afraid and cautious of nonordinary things and happenings was a natural part of being Black Eagle Child. Realizing this took a long time, though. I was consumed for the most with naïveté, my euphemism for having no direction. It was only when I saw these supernatural manifestations in person that I began paying attention. The strength that could make household furniture gasp and come to life or the strength to make fireflies fly in V formation before expanding into a bus-sized fluorescent craft was an ancient night-enemy secret. That or something else entirely.
It was Grandmother who brought this awareness about early on. Clothed in a tight flannel shirt, perforated jeans, and church-donated shoes, my cherubic innocence did not sit well with Grandmother. Through the Six Grandfathers’ Journals she wanted to expedite the maturing process. Through something no normal human could fathom, she introduced me to invisible forces. I was so young, though, that a bulk of her wisdom and wizardry—real or imagined—went unappreciated.
Because of the enormity of what I was expected to digest, compromises were made. There are indications, even now in adulthood, that I was spoiled. But that in itself, in a variety of ways, was to my advantage. I could at least look forward to gifts in the form of candies, toys, movies, and trips to the local carnival and circus. The downside was that if I had tirelessly recorded Grandmother’s entries for half a day and my overtures for a movie were not taken kindly, I had tantrums.
But even they were made into lessons.
Without anyone really saying point-blank that my Grandmother was responsible, tree branches at night were made to whip about by themselves, making my demanded walk to the Why Cheer Theater more frightening. At first sign of a tree’s tremors I learned to bow my head unflinchingly toward the gravel. But about a mile from home, as we sat on the bridge by the Barber Shop and Pool Hall, my small, shivering legs convinced me the cinema and the enchanting fragrance of popcorn wasn’t to be. (Later I learned how to prevent the unnerving “whipping tree branch” phenomena from taking hold. It was a matter of herbal “persuasion” concoctions—and mental control.)
While the image of swaying eerie van Gogh-like trees silhouetted by the stars is easily revisited, the undetected presence of upper-level wind and a wild, unbounded imagination deserve equal consideration. Nevertheless, without answer or reason, unusual things would occur in my childhood, like the green ball of fire that danced in the yard one evening at the height of a fever: in my delirium I was told that the same person who had touched my infant face, leaving a trail of chicken pox scars, was responsible. Anything that was glowing green at night was a sign of evil. Somehow I understood that the dancing ball of fire had manipulated the Spanish galleon’s green mass to pass right through the kerosene-darkened cardboard ceiling. Inundated with gravity, the scratched-in image of a sad-faced baseball player and the name “EMILY” came down, forcing my liquified meal out into a bucket.
The women who had been summoned to my aid—all of them knowledgeable in good medicine—took alarm, but that was it. My symptoms were accepted as a sign that either I had broken free of the spell or the worst was forthcoming. My mother and grandmother were present that night. Like doting mother hummingbirds they flitted in and out and in between the cluster of helpers—their neighborhood friends and their daughters: Betty and Sarah Anne Red Boy, Sophia Ribbon and Rose Grassleggings, Mary Ellen MacAloon and Alice August. Nothing could be done with the green dancing light except to keep it at bay with the cedar incense that was being sprinkled over the red-hot embers inside the iron skillet.
Rendered speechless, I saw the sails and flags of the galleon dissipate amid the gentle-smelling wisps of purifying smoke. The anchor at last broke free from my chest. No longer was I being dragged along the rim of a bottomless chasm where tunnels had been bored in the side by the shiny tan pincers of giant crabs.
I was relieved but I still couldn’t communicate. I lapsed into a half dream.
On the exact grassy spot in the yard where a light green hall of fire danced the night previously . . . ;
With the window curtains closed, the women were back in their chairs. Without anyone saying it there was a sense of resignation that extraneous factors were involved and nothing could be done. When they say I “almost died,” I believe it wholeheartedly. Foremost in my recollections were the washcloths presoaked in boiled herbs being wrung over my palpitating belly. After that, this:
On the exact grassy spot in the yard where a light green hall of fire had danced the night previously—an omen of imminent death—I saw the shape of a large, muscular man standing absolutely still in the shadow of a thick thorn tree. At first, he appeared very normal as he came forward along the clothesline, walking a few steps whenever the wind whipped the colorful clothes into the air. But when he got to a distance where I could see his face, I saw a grotesque heing who was part-human and part-fish. He came out into the bright windy daylight and returned my gaze with shiny demon eyes. Without a neck of any kind, the fish-headed being in a dark gray suit, vest, and slacks was a grotesque rendering of someone’s nightmare.
“Has your illness subsided any?” questioned the suited demon.
I elected to close my unbelieving eyes and ...
“Did you hear my question?” repeated the demon more loudly.
I kept my eyelids shut but almost opened them when I heard sloshing footsteps come to the moldy edge of the window. My own cries for help through clenched teeth were drowned out by the women and their daughters who chatted idly over coffee and day-old sweet rolls in the next room.
“Listen to me, then,” he said. “That Spanish galleon, that loathsome ship that hovers above you like a buzzard is more of a threat than me.”
The mere thought of this wooden ship, especially its compressed night-enemy power and mass, floating just below the ceiling, caused nausea. It could roar like a revved-up tractor engine, and the black smoky afterburn clogged my nostrils.
Upon my opening of one crusty eye, the physical enigma that stood near the window shook my body with such intensity that my once-limp arms flopped about and accidentally spilled the two basins of boiled medicine extract onto the blankets and floor.
The chatting of the woman and their daughters stopped.
“I have nothing to do with the galleon,” stated the demon in a necktie hanging askew. “Nor do I have anything to do with the green, dancing light.”
My tongue watered and the putrid odor of a long night’s worth of throwing up made my stomach muscles cramp in pain. I was able to grab and dam up my mouth before it filled with bitter-tasting fluid. As I adjusted my rigid body over the bed’s edge, I emptied myself of the galleon’s strength.
“I’m not the one to blame for its choice to be with you,” continued the demon.
When my stomach and mind finally had no more to give, I sat upright and groped desperately under the mattress for my knife. It was the knife I had received as a prize at the carnival downtown. Surely, I thought, such a balanced sharp Made will whistle and find its mark through the slimy gills of the demon-fish. But shortly after I released the knife from my fingers, I saw my uncle Winston dodge the airborne weapon. He had been there at the foot of the bed all the time. And my weapon, a spoon, careened off the woodstove and exited through the door’s window. Exhilarated, I could feel the small house’s stale air rush out. As I laid back down, I sensed the departure of an unwanted boat and an inquisitive fish-faced being. My uncle, with a smirk on his large brown face, swept up the fine pieces of glass with a broom and dustpan. . . .
Long before I saw oceanic vessels on film, I dreamt about them. The Spanish galleon, in spite of its horrific overtones, along with Grandmothers stories and awesome demonstrations, established in me a clear understanding of animism. I could see the intricate and subtle interrelationships of the prairie and woodland life-forms as they materialized from a pool of clear water. Underneath the sky was the wintry earth and its long blades of dry grass, pale twigs, and smooth pieces of multicolored stone. Held still as if in a photograph, this was the serene reflection of Grandmother Earth herself, the universal microcosm of the person I loved the most. “She was the earth herself. ...”
With a five-foot, three-inch frame, Ada Principal Bear was a small Black Eagle Child woman. Her attire consisted of loose blouses and long skirts she made by hand or with an antique Singer sewing machine. Her color preferences were simple: black, dark green, and purple. She also wore scarves around her neck or over her head. Black ones. Silk in the summer and wool in the winter. For Earthlodge clan ceremonies or the tribal field days, she was adorned with German silver jewelry on her thin wrists and fingers, including her neck and earlobes. For these special occasions she wore traditional-style skirts and blouses that were designed with beadwork or ribbon appliqué in floral patterns. These would come out from storage in suitcases and trunks. Here, the colors were dazzling and loud. We knew when a dance was in the offing by the regalia that swung from the clothesline. On windless days we walked up to them and studied their traditional Woodlands designs. Depicted on the skirt panels were medicinal plants and their stems, vines, and leaf formations; these were meticulously outlined with either beads or silk material in a liberal array of colors.
When I became conscious of my surroundings, at around five to seven years of age, Grandmother, No ko me sa, was nearing her sixties. Accustomed to walking, she would leave early in the morning for work downtown. In color and black-and-white 35 mm photographs I took between the ages of ten and sixteen, Grandmother is often shown squinting through her glasses. On the picnic table in front of her is a plastic dish containing beads* and her hands are caught in midair as they prepare to scoop up the beads one by one. Matching her physique was her small wrinkled face with friendly eyes and a faint smile.
And she loved to talk and reminisce. She recited stories that made one think of what lurked outside the house at nightfall. Sorcery cannot exist without human suffering, Grandmother used to say. Enemies with “daylight-seeing vision at night” were summoned and they took their evil services seriously. Just as a vulture spots a potential meal, the gradual dying of someone could be seen from afar, and the methodical wait and timing of a nourishing, life-prolonging meal became an art. Among the abilities and assets of these enemies were night-seeing, flying through thick brush with short wings, and prying open windows with their sharp talons.
Ancient accipiters?
The fact that the practice could thrive for centuries without depleting the entire pool of potential victims was never contemplated.
Was the life-taking craft ever expertly controlled, like the taking of bounty?
Was there a quota for the number of people who could be executed from a rival clan or family?
Was there a silent agreement, a code, a course taken that determined a boundary?
Was it four avenged deaths from the beloved family of a rival sorcerer in a lifetime, or was it anyone from the namesake?
If the spell ricocheted and came back to its source,” did the spellshooter know his or her family was in jeopardy?
Did a self-destructive shot bring remorse?
Or were lives taken in vengeance without care and emotion?
“Listen to this, No tti se ma, Grandson,” Grandmother once said to me. “I want to tell you a story. This is about apparel used and worn by ne nyi ka si a ki, sorcerers: Once when your grandfather, Jack Principal Bear, was walking home along the Sandhill Road, above the Indian Dam, he met an old woman and a young girl. If it had not been too late, like sundown, it would have been a chance meeting like any other. People anxious to get home before nightfall. Except at that particular time, as he had spent much of the night fishing, it wasn’t right for such a couple to travel on a desolate moonlit road. As soon as they realized he was right in front of them, close enough to hear their conversation about ‘travel made easy,’ they stopped with emotionless faces before turning around in a levitating manner to flee. The old woman, who was wrapped in a dark, long-fringed shawl, grabbed the girl’s hand. Apparently, he surprised them, for they took off in the opposite direction. Your grandfather, sensing the two were not ordinary people, ran after them. He never knew what prompted him to do so. At the point where he thought he was almost upon them, they bolted and disappeared from the forest road. Until that mystical act occurred, he had been unaware that their legs had been motionless. Instead of an outright run they floated and skimmed over the rounded contours of the landscape in amazing hummingbird speed. He never forgot how they seemed to skate down and above the hill. Effortlessly.”
Grandmother indicated there had been a series of sightings of this old woman and her long-fringed shawl. My grandfather suspected the young girl was a night-enemy apprentice, for there was absolutely no way a human could keep up with the old woman’s speed. Had she been a regular girl, she would have been dragged along violently over the cinder rocks and tree stumps.
Because young people liked to venture out at night, seeking to romance each other, more sightings were soon reported. Everyone who saw the fleeting shawl rarely went out alone into the warm nights thereafter. Night-enemies were responsible for amputation and even death.
The story continued.
From the village located near the confluence of the Iowa and Swanroot River bottoms, where ceremonial feasts were held, word came that the old woman often made a predawn crossing of what was then the first steel and concrete bridge.
“Through his curiosity and lack of fear as a young man, your grandfather spoke to a close friend, A se no ta ka (the One Who Understands Stone’s Talk, or Alfred Pretty-Boy-in-the-Woods in English), about this and proceeded to make plans to intercept her. That night they sat hidden on the western side over the railing and they chewed bits of root, mi ka ti a sqwi, a medicine that repels the paralysis effect sorcerers emanated in their outings. If your senses heard, saw, felt, and smelled a sorcerer, you were rendered helpless. Especially if you were in the condition of being most vulnerable—in half sleep or ill health or even after an overdose of alcohol. Several nights passed without seeing her, but they were suspicious of anyone who crossed the bridge moments before sunrise. On the fourth morning, they spotted a hunchback figure draped in the dark shawl. Your grandfather gave the signal Inhaling air through almost-closed lips and over the top row of his teeth, he made short, mouse-squeaking noises. Pretty-Boy-in-the-Woods knew this was it. She stood for a while on the other side, checking, before making the flight across. She had traveled down along the Iowa River, coming from the north, hidden by tall grass. A swooshing sound, like that of a small, dusty whirlwind, gathered at the end of the bridge. She floated across with the long fringes of her shawl waving. Just when she was parallel with their positions, they leapt out, surprising her to the point that she forgot to accelerate. They held her with their combined might. Twice, because of her power, she almost escaped. ‘Ba ki se ni ko, ha ki se ni kol Ke he tta wi ba ma! Let me go, let me go! You have made a mistake!’ she implored. After a while they began to think this could turn out to be an embarrassing mistake, holding a respectable woman by force. They equated her with a child who had been caught stealing and took pity. Were it not for the Earthlodge clan warrior songs they sang, she might have prevailed. As the sun began to rise through the cottonwood trees, she slowly sank back to the ground. The counterattacking medicine they chewed weakened the barriers, yes, but the blessings given them through their fasting made them invincible. Stunned, the old woman could not readily transform into an owl, wolf, or panther.”
Knowing it took a spiritally, ethnobotany, and fasting-blessings to subdue evil in its purest form, I could never be like my grandfather. (In one of the most memorable encounters with the paranormal, Selene Buffalo Husband and Ijwere chased away from our river-bottoms residence by an entity we call the “Supernatural Strobe Light.” It wore many masks: that of three owls, fireflies flying in V formation like distant military jets, a floating ball of pale light, a red fluorescent rectangular mass the size of a school bus, and, of course, the strobe light that became a small, pulsating star. Education left me wounded back then and thus vulnerable. . . .)
With a refilled cup of coffee and a plate of cinnamon rolls next to her, Grandmother took the artificial sweetener and stared at it as if the pink paper package was nonhuman.
We were back on the bridge.
“When the subject at last straightened up and looked directly at your grandfather and his associate, they promptly recognized her. The old woman’ was not really old at all; in fact, she was outgoing and middle-aged. She was active in nearly every aspect of Settlement life—cooking for feasts, dancing, and doing elaborate floral ribbon-work on dresses. Why she should even carry on with this evil subterfuge annoyed Jack. He released his grip and shoved her away. There!’ he said, while pointing accusingly to her face. ‘We know who you are. You won’t be able to do as you’ve been doing.’ The woman stared at her excited captors, swung her shawl back over her head, and strolled nonchalantly into the sleeping village. Shortly after this episode, the woman had a strange affliction on her right leg. The tips of her toes deteriorated from rot. Her foot and ankle had to be surgically amputated. Which most residents believed was payment for her floating carelessness.”
From then on, as Grandmother explained, she was greatly feared. Yet there were a few who dared to entrust their needs with her, for she was skilled with both good and bad medicine—the kind that healed and the kind that made others commit suicide or murder. It depended largely upon one’s needs, the amount and nature of compensation. Any gratuity certainly helped.
Grandmother also said one had to be in good standing.
“Life, as you will undoubtedly come to realize, is that way: a delicate and unpredictable balance between what is humanly good and what is sinister. It’s much like one ancient force gaining an upper hand, laying down the rules by which people should live on earth. According to this foundation, and by that alone, we are here. This existence is a privilege. Watching over us are elements of nature who took their respective places as sky, water, fire, thunder eons ago with some reluctance. Those underground, underwater, and above, we venerate them as we venerate the Creator and His Twin Sons. They have been appointed to relay our prayers. ...”
Our main purpose, the way I finally perceived it, aside from maintaining ceremonies, was to keep prophecies of world demise from occurring or at least make note of them. But it all became so damned obvious. The sparks of distant wars on the bottom side of a cooking skillet kept us well informed. The Northern Lights appeared to warn us of pending flag wars. We kept a vigil one year when President Kennedy had a showdown with Cuba. Fortunately, the Northern Lights didn’t reach the southern horizon. If they had, the horizon would have been bloodred.
We were here, after all, as a reflection of other events and past lives. We merely reenacted this constant battle of right and wrong, a promise kept and transgressions committed. We who are but Remnants of the First Earth.
Grandmother’s discourse resumed.
“When the woman finally came to the point where she was debilitated by old age, she was near the family. My family. There was no house where she was welcome; she was without relatives. Of course, she was also quite feeble. It is strange how a person deemed evil and dangerous could interact with people who feared her the most. Years and years after her capture on the bridge, when she could no longer support herself and her elderly companion, they lived with us. This was before I met your grandfather. On occasion we’d all sell beadwork on Lincoln Highway 30.1 recall making her last days peaceful by providing her with canned fruit and crushed sausage. These were hard items to come by then, you see. During the days when she was blamed for the birth of crippled infants, missing female adulterers, and a scorching drought, I chose not to say anything because I didn’t see anything that made me believe she was involved. Youngsters here, you know this yourself, are taught not to say anything to anyone. Ka ta-na na tti-ke ko-i tti ye ka ni-ko wi ye a. Ever. That is not your place, we are told. Since her involvement couldn’t be proven, other than the time she was pinned against a metal bridge railing ‘by mistake,’ she took advantage of her alleged innocence and socialized with the tribal community as much as her debilitation would allow. Once she and her elderly companion came up to me and whispered, ‘Bya na yo. Ne ta ka wa ta be na-ni ke ki no a mo na ki-ni o te te na ma wa ni-me tti me ko na ta we ne ta mo wa na ni. Come here. We want to teach you ways for you to obtain anything you want.’”
Grandmother expressed she was interested in their proposal. She followed them into the earthlodge where the two women burned cedar incense to purify the potent medicines that were spread out over the long table-bench on a yellowish deerhide. She then described in lucid detail what her eyes beheld: the, hide itself was set on top of a long-fringed shawl. The brilliant rays of the sun hanging directly overhead stabbed through the smoky interiors and accented the red and black stone figurines holding miniature pipes—six of them. They were held in the center by four wreathlike displays. The braided strips of medicine had been arranged to appear in a swirling circular motion, a frozen moment in a catastrophic event. With blankets and tablecloth they had also taken careful measures to block out the daylight that usually came through the spacing between the boards of the summer earthlodge.
“Be ki ma me ko-ke me nwi to ta wi be na-e bi ti ka tti ya ki-e o wi ki wa ni. You have treated us extremely well by allowing us into your home,” she was told. “I ni ke-ma ni-ebya mi ha ta ki-ke tti ki we ni.
Ma ma ka tti ke nwi tta-ki na-ni o te te na ma ni-mi ska wi ke ki-na ta wi no ni. Old age is presently upon us. It is important that you receive this potent medicine.”
In remembering that particular event, Grandmother meditated out loud: “What they wanted me to keep and pass on was the dreaded knowledge of the medicine called bi na i ka ni or love medicine. I looked at the various kinds of roots and I knew from having seen my own grandmother’s handiwork that what they spoke about was truth. In the smoke-filled interior, the legless woman and her elderly companion were anxious for me to accept and keep the male and female stems and roots of their wa be ski bi na i ka ni white swanroot, which was also the English name of the river nearby. While I initially agreed to care for it, not once have I utilized it for myself or others as it was originally intended—to steal and hurt hearts, to separate and destroy families. If used without caution, I was warned, the person-target can become so overcome with lovesickness that suicide is a serious consideration. Romance can take a frightful turn. I eventually learned that if the medicine was kept in a sealed glass jar away from the main family room, it served as protection against ill-fated travels, malicious thoughts, and night-enemies.
“Of course, I was cognizant then as I am now that the people who employed this root for evil means spent an eternity on their hands and knees along the road to the Black Eagle Child Hereafter digging for a nonexistent root. Never once did I think of pursuing the contrary. My own grandmother said the trees and plants belonged to the Creators Grandmother, and that the very ground we walk on was the top of her head. Her medicinal gifts originate from strands of her lovely hair. Gifts that were meant to help. To employ them solely for the sake of harm is to ask for eternal punishment.
“There is something more you should know. Upon the footless woman’s celebrated death, as her personal belongings were collected in sacks and boxes to be given away to the funeral helpers, a necklace of dried infant fingernails was found. Many believed these fingernails were the token remains of night-enemy victims. It, along with all the morbid items in the small, antique trunk, was buried along the sandy valley of what is today called Lone Ranger Drive.
“Strangely, her death did not mean she was absolutely gone. The knowledge of the black, long-fringed shawl was transferred to someone else. A young female person, perhaps kin. So I would be cautious; she is still here. These carriers ultimately require human lives to extend their own depravity. It is known they can change any object into a bullet or pellet. If a letter is written and personally delivered to you, let’s say, and if it has been annointed with some medicine and ‘spoken to,’ the paper will actually act as the bullet itself, traveling through your bones, heart, and into your fragile consciousness.
“And you will perform as it has been wished. ...”