I kept nodding, like a bird pecking at bugs in a tree, but there were no crow instincts in play, I just couldn’t help it. It was the drums, the singers, vibrating through me, setting me alive in ways I didn’t know were possible. I’d never seen anything like it on this side, in this time, it harkened back to the “time before time” that called up words like “ancient” and “mysterious”.
The colour I saw all around me seemed to vibrate with just as much energy. People, hair and clothes befeathered and beribboned, swished and swayed, feeling the beat of the drums pounded on with padded sticks by a circle of men who sang chant-like in that key called “ancient”. It wasn’t anything like I’d imagined when Raven had asked me if I wanted to go to an Osage powwow the day before. I’d bartered with Lenny to give me the day off. It had been an opportunity that was high up on the “not to be missed” list and I was definitely not missing it. But once here, after a long and dusty ride in Raven’s SUV, the experience moved off some trivial list into something much more. That “much more” was in my bones, shouting at me, shaking me, telling me over and over to pay attention.
We were at the Osage County fairgrounds, in a large building that squatted among other buildings on the grounds. It was all flat. As if these feet I was hearing had been pounding this area for so long the earth had flattened with the effort. But not so, according to Raven, for the Osage had only arrived here in the nineteenth century after being shoved from one place to another on a trail of death that had lasted decades. The history, according to Raven, was as complex as the intricate beadwork adorning heads, sashes, moccasins and shirts – and most of it was full of tears and blood.
Now, I saw a pride in their heritage, so evident in the bearing of the dancers who stepped solemnly in front of me, a mixture of men and women, some women carrying shawls, others carrying feathered fans, and some with long fringes on their dresses that swayed to their movements. The bells that jingled on ankles, legs and even dresses sounded like a soft and soothing summer rain, a calming juxtaposition against the thrum of the drum. The men’s dress was no less colourful and was marked by feathers, bells, fringes and even ribbons. All together it was a celebration and marking of who they were, no apologies. Osage people. The Wahzhazhe. And Wahzhazhe people were short, tall, broad and slim. Some wore glasses, some were pale, some bald. It was “Osage now”. Osage that had survived and was still surviving all the onslaught of disease, alcohol, drugs and poverty that had tried to negate them in so many different ways over the centuries. But here they were, celebrating in a manner that said “the best craic is had here” and I wasn’t going anywhere.
My fingers itched for a bodhran, a way to salute and acknowledge who they were with the who I was. My “fadó, fadó, fadó” salute to their ceremonial “ho”. But I didn’t want to do the “where’s the leprechaun” thing equivalent for them, so I stayed quiet and watched. First standing and then sitting. And then standing. It was when I stood again that I realised Raven was gone. That I hadn’t really felt him by my side for a long time. He’d said little to me since we’d arrived. All his explanations had been given on the journey. It was as if the moment he arrived at the fairgrounds he became a shadow, slipping in beside me, only to disappear once I was in the hall.
I rose and headed to the exit, my curiosity aroused along with a tiny bit of unease. A few people nodded to me on the way out, but no one took any real notice of me. From the back of the hall I scanned the seated crowds and those who lined the walls, but I couldn’t see him. The fairgrounds were extensive and for a moment I wondered if I’d find him. Until I heard a voice behind me.
“I’m right here.”
I turned and saw Raven hovering at the door, his hat pulled low across his face.
“Are you wanted by the Osage or something?” I asked.
He paused, then laughed, tipping up his hat a fraction with his finger. “No, I’ve just been outside in the bright sun.”
I raised my brow. “Still cooler inside?” The weather had taken a little break from the heat in the past few days but the fairgrounds could be hot if the sun was out and the sky cloudless.
“Still cooler inside. Though I thought you might want to take a break and have a little walk around.”
I nodded. “Sure”. I’d noticed a few areas had crafts and other artwork that attracted me. I wouldn’t be averse to having an old mooch.
He took my hand and led me outside, where people milled around or ambled in different directions.
We were walking towards the next building when I saw two familiar figures flanked by two strangers.
“Look, Sherman and Skye,” I said.
Raven nodded. “Yes. I need a word with them.”
“Who’s that with them?”
He looked over at me, but he had his sunglasses on now, so I couldn’t read his expression. “Just some more friends.”
“Your friends that could be my friends?”
He laughed then shrugged. “Maybe. That’s up to you.”
As they neared I could see that the two strangers were clearly Indian. Native American, I corrected myself. Or was I right the first time? The more time I spent in Raven’s company, not to mention Sherman and Skye’s, the more I realised that I didn’t know what was right. Or when it was right. Or what term to say to any group that had been called myriad names and descriptions. I’d learned much about my ignorance of all things race, and in my desire not to leprechaun any people who passed my way, in a country that contained so many different kinds of people, I was becoming tongue tied. Raven was Tlingit, he’d told me one time, but at other times he’d called himself Tsimshian, then Haida and more recently, Kwakiutl. When I’d challenged him on it, he finally pronounced that he was all those things. Elusive. Elusive like Sherman, whose backwards forwards inside out styling was hip and cool in a way that was beyond anyone else being hip and cool. He was the Rainbow Warrior in Indian form, making statements and fighting his fight with a bold naiveté that would surely get him into serious trouble. But, as Raven would say, “it’s who he is” and the tone would infer that there was no possible way to change it or safeguard him.
Sherman’s origins were Lakota and Dakota, though that didn’t pin him down in anything but the languages he could speak, since his litany of home places covered Pine Ridge, Rosebud, Wounded Knee and several others that rang bells that meant strong history and hard experiences.
Skye was the most elusive of those elusive three and even before she spoke or explained anything there was an echo of the ancient about her. “Haudenosaunee” was how Raven described her when I’d asked her origins. “But,” he’d added, “she is everything and anything to all beyond them”. That was as clear as the mud he’d said she represented. The metaphors and cryptic mysteriousness stretched even beyond what I could imagine. When I’d asked who the Haudensaunee were, he’d laughed and told me “Iroquois”. Right, so. Everything was clear, now.
Sherman, Skye and the other two came up to us and I gave them a nod and Raven greeted them all.
“How’s things?” I asked.
Sherman looked at Skye and the two men. “What things?”
I wanted to laugh, but I didn’t. Sherman was literal in a manner that was so different to any other literal type of person that I’d met. “Ah, now. I was just asking how you are and if anything was going on with you.”
“Fine, fine,” said Sherman. He grinned. “All that’s going on is talking to you, at the moment.”
The two men snickered and I couldn’t help but smile at them.
Skye glanced over at them. “These are two Osage friends of ours. Jimmy Redcorn and Charles Lone Bear.”
I nodded to them. Behind them a shadow flickered, unattached. I frowned, deciding to ignore it. Beside me Raven muttered “iktomi” and chuckled.
I turned my attention to the men. They were maybe in their thirties with black hair worn in a single plait down their backs. Jimmy was slim and under a beaded and embroidered vest wore a button down shirt tidily tucked in a pair of jeans. Charles, on the other hand, wore a baseball cap, glasses and was heavier set, with a slight paunch under his dark T-shirt and jeans.
“This one here’s a real riot,” said Jimmy, indicating Sherman.
“I know,” I said.
Charles grunted. “He’s just got too much going on in his head.”
Skye smiled benignly at Sherman. “There’s much he has to tell us, if we listen.”
Again with the cryptic. But I decided I liked it. Sure, didn’t it add an extra spice and kept my mind busy with things other than what I was trying to avoid?
“He does, he does,” I said. “I’m still working out exactly what he meant when I first met him. I’ll have to record you, Sherman. So I won’t forget.”
“We don’t remember enough that’s important,” said Charles.
“Isn’t it the truth,” said Raven. He nudged Jimmy. “And there’s a lot of important things going on here, aren’t there? Anything new?”
Jimmy looked at me and cocked his head. “Not especially new, except the vulture is back in his nest.”
Raven gave a shout of laughter. “Oh, that’s good. Vulture. Putting it in language I speak very well.”
Now, I felt as though I was coming in the middle of a conversation in a foreign language where I only understood every third word. And that shadow flickered again, melding to Jimmy’s own shadow.
“Any more evidence found?” asked Raven. “I thought I noticed more wind turbines built, too. That wasn’t Osage approved was it?”
Charles shook his head. “No. There’s someone new now who’s going through the old records to see if there’s more evidence to link the deaths to the vulture and his cronies. But the oil leases may be sidelined. There’s much more at play now.”
I looked at Charles, trying to figure out the implication of what he’d just said and the little flicker of unease that was beginning to grow inside me, an unease triggered by the word “oil”.
A small group of middle aged Native American women came up to us. They touched Skye’s arms tentatively, grabbing her attention.
“Skye,” the tallest one said. “We’re so grateful for your presence here and that you want to help.” She nodded at Raven and Sherman warily, not meeting their eyes. “And both of you too.”
Raven winked at them, his eyes twinkling. I narrowed my eyes. Was he flirting? Seeing him flirt with them hinted that his flirtation with me maybe hadn’t been as personal as I’d thought. That his “I am so handsome” come thither looks and actions weren’t to impress me specifically. It was just Raven being Raven.
I tried to mentally step back, to find a place where I could view a fine specimen of a man and have a fun time with that specimen while only appreciating his assets in the physical sense. Sure, what else would I want? Specimen appreciation was who I was.
Skye patted the hand of the tall woman. “Of course.”
The tall woman gave her a shy smile. “Can we talk with you a moment?”
Skye glanced at the others. Jimmy and Charles shrugged, Sherman gave a puzzled look and Raven just smiled enigmatically.
“They probably want to give you a heaping plate of cookies,” said Jimmy with a laugh.
Raven was the one who would be glad to receive cookies from them, and probably more.
Skye moved off with the women, and began to talk with them, a few of the women casting anxious glances towards Raven.
“How long has the vulture been back?” asked Raven, frowning.
“Not long, but he has some others with him this time,” said Jimmy.
“Others?” asked Sherman, glancing at Raven, with an “I told you so” expression. He did a little hoppity dance with his feet, his arms flapping, his eyes dancing. “Other vultures?”
“What are you doing, man?” asked Jimmy, as I asked the very same question in my head.
“The vulture dance,” said Sherman.
“Vulture dance?” I asked.
“Good,” said Raven. “We need that dance.”
I looked at Raven, his face turned solemn. Charles’s own expression mirrored his and Jimmy’s held a satisfied grin. “Yeah, you’re the biz, man. Vulture dance.”
“Sorry, now,” I said. “Is that a special dance you do here?”
“It could be,” said Raven.
“It should be,” said Charles. He nodded, the solemnity still present in his face.
“Does the vulture dance signify anything?” I asked.
I was doing my damnedest to avoid leprechaun territory, but I was curious. I was trying to make sense of this exchange. The words were English, so they were, but the meaning was beyond me. Or was I fighting the idea, the feeling that was creeping in? That feeling the echoes of “ancient” and “mysterious” were attached to? The drum beat sounded inside me, memories of what I’d heard earlier. Ah, feck off, I thought. Cowgirl bliss, that’s what I wanted.
“It’s intentional,” said Sherman.
“As in it has intention,” said Skye, joining us. The women were walking away now, their manner ebullient, a little bounce to their steps. Had she kept one ear on our conversation while she talked with the women?
“What’s the intention?” I asked, trying not to show my unease.
I could feel Raven beside me, possessing a raw energy that sent my own into overdrive and left me tense, but the tension was a complicated mix of need and want and…fear. It was a tension in which I found no comfort.
“To get rid of the vultures,” said Sherman.
“A good intention,” said Jimmy.
“A noble intention,” said Skye.
“The best intention,” Raven said, grinning. He shook his head. “You should teach us all this dance.”
“Your dance will be good,” said Sherman. “You’re a bird. A very big bird who can feed on the waste.”
Raven shrugged. “It’s one kind of dance.”
“It’s a dance that’s needed here now.”
“But I do like your vulture dance. Any bird dance is a good dance.”
“Are we really talking about dancing?” I asked.
“We’re talking about vultures,” said Raven. “And getting rid of them.”
“These would be the oil vultures,” I said hazarding a guess.
“Exactly,” said Charles.
“We have similar vultures in Ireland. Some of them own energy companies. One of them I particularly loathe. He runs an energy company. Has a headquarters here in America too. You might have heard of his company. Balor Energies.”
I was throwing out guesses everywhere, so many that there was more guessing than anything approaching a solid idea and it was all hazarding. But the stunned looks I received told me they hadn’t fallen into a lake of nothingness. At least one of them had hit a target.
“Yeah,” said Charles. “We’ve heard of Balor Energies.”
“Son of a bitch vulture,” said Jimmy.
“Did you say you knew him?” asked Raven.
Sherman laughed and resumed his hoppity flap dance to ward off vultures.
I popped out of the SUV, shutting the door with purpose and a small wave to Raven. He took off into the traffic quickly, heading who knew where. I still knew little about him. The drive back had been quiet only in that no words had been spoken, but the tension had been sky high, I felt that any word or unusual movement would have me transformed and flying before anyone could say boo. All the unease, the desire, the confusion that had filled me at the powwow still swirled around me and clouded my ability to sort through the questions and answers that battled underneath all the rest of my emotions. I needed to be alone so I could manage it all, find the rhythm and beat that was me. I needed my lads. My crows who would know me and how I ticked, how the tune that was me flowed strong and steady. They would get me on my beat, my hum, my rhythm, they would of course.
After I’d mentioned Balor Energies, the group that weren’t my lads had quizzed me about this connection. It was a direction not unexpected and I’d told them who he was in Ireland, but nothing more. They’d nodded and accepted my answers as if that was that. But I knew, with a certainty that was bolstered by my inner tension and confusion, that this wasn’t it. There was more. But any question about Balor Energies here in this area were met with shifting eyes, shrugs, and Raven changing the subject. They knew more. Balor was connected to this place, I was certain. And my certainty made me even more uneasy. About so many things. And the top of the list was why I was here. Why, in my strange desperate flight from my home in County Cork I ended up flying all this way and landing here, or near here on an Osage Reservation in the middle of Oklahoma.
I shook my head and turned from the street, searching my jeans pocket for my room key. Key in hand I walked to the door, my eye catching a poster in the glass window of the florists below my room. It was the shamrocks that I’d first noticed. They danced across the page along with musical notes and a little pot of gold. I read the words on the poster and barked a laugh.
Tuesday Night Music at O’Malley’s
This week:
Irish Trad Group
Daghda’s Warriors
Well, feck, I thought. I didn’t even have to guess at the names of the band members or the instruments they played. There was no confusion, and maybe even more things were clear.