Chapter Ten

 

 

They came upon a small wood-shingled house nestled in the woods. Roy followed as the old man led him inside. In the darkness that embraced him, the only light, other than from the flashlight, came from a single log burning in a fireplace. The essence of cedar wafted through the air. A thin wisp of smoke rose from an incense burner on the mantle.

The old man moved about with ease, leaving him to stand alone near the doorway. Then, to Roy's surprise, instead of flipping on a switch, he struck a match. Within seconds the light from a kerosene lamp brightened the area.

“No electricity.” He blew out the match.

Roy stared at him, astonished. “No? Well, I guess it beats paying the electric companies.”

“No.” The old man answered. “The power line's dead. So with your accident, you must have pulled down the wires.”

“Oh. Right”. How stupid. Just because the old man reminded him of a fictional character from some old time movie, didn't mean that he lived in a bygone era.

“Sit,” his host suggested, pointing to a battered, old leather sofa. “I will get you some good medicine for that headache.”

“No, really. Thanks. I already had an aspirin. Can I use your phone?” Roy glanced around the dimly lit room.

He doubted the old man heard him as he ambled out of the room in silence. Either that, or he chose not to reply. Odd fellow. Seemed to look at him as if he wasn't there. Gave him the creeps.

Roy glanced around. A free standing fireplace was set in the middle of the room. Open and screened in on both sides, he could see straight through to the other side of the room where a lone chair sat facing him. Odd. Except for that chair, all the furniture was arranged along the walls.

Various Native American artifacts, a buffalo horned headdress, a tomahawk and a few odd-shaped instruments he had no knowledge of, lay scattered about.

Roy carefully made his way over to the sofa, sat down and placed his camera on the table before him. A sharp jab of pain stitched his side. He drew in a quick breath and stretched out his arm to relieve the cramp. A cool smoothness, accosted his fingertips. He glanced to his side. His heart jolted. Hidden in the shadows a huge black ceramic bird stared back at him. Yellow eyes blazed at him through the darkness. The bird's extended wings and opened beak instantaneously brought him back moments before his crash. The hair on his arm prickled. He snatched his hand away. Was it just his imagination, or was that bird haunting him? Damn thing made his skin crawl.

Sitting alone in the dark room with the light from a single lamp casting distorted shadows on the walls, definitely played havoc on his nerves. He sensed a presence beside him. He snapped his head to the left.

Only the darkness filled his vision.

“Good God,” he muttered. What the hell was wrong with him? Perhaps his accident had left him a little more shaken than he thought. Suddenly agitated, Roy stood. His feet sank into the thickness of a bear rug. Picking up the lamp, he walked to the other side of the room. Abstract-styled paintings of varying sizes hung on the wall. He raised the lamp to take a better look.

“So. You like my work?”

Started by the voice beside him, the lamp jostled in his hand. The old man's footsteps had been so silent.

Roy leaned closer, examining the brush strokes. “Interesting.” He placed the lamp on the table.

“All that is life revolves like the earth. So it is with my paintings.” Handing him a cup of what resembled tea, he continued. “This one here is particularly interesting.” His host pointed to a long rectangular portrait. Assorted geometric symbols filled the canvas. “A battle scene,” he explained. “Your father being a military man could relate to this one.”

Roy’s jaw clenched. Even up here, isolated in the middle of the mountains, he couldn’t escape his father.

“So. The white represents the color of snow. These two long green lines indicate the flight of arrows. The points at the end are the wounds made by the arrows.”

If you asked him, they resembled double-sided pitchforks. A sharp jolt pierced his heart. A muscle spasm. Roy arched his shoulders back. “And this?” He pointed to a large green diamond-shaped figure, then brought the cup to his lips. The strong, sweet smell of whiskey filled his nostrils. His hands shook as he pushed the cup away and placed it on the table beside him. “What did you put in there?”

His host studied him with curiosity. “The water from the walnut tree, honey for sweetness and bourbon. It is good medicine for your head.”

“Thanks. I think I'll pass. You know what they say, firewater's bad medicine.” Firewater? That was a first. He'd called his drink of choice many things over the years, but firewater?

“You like honey, correct?”

Roy stared. “Yes, how'd you know?”

“Good guess.” Not explaining further, his host pointed to the painting. “That is the body of a man. So, the dark blue color means the man is dead. The small white rectangle enclosing that red spot near his heart, is the wound that brought him down. And this…” He reached to the top of the painting, to another lighter blue diamond. “So, this means he will live again in the new world.”

Abruptly, his host turned and started walking away. “So come. Let me show you this one.”

“A phone. I didn't see a phone I could use,” Roy quickly followed after him. “I've got

to-”

He stopped short and grabbed a hold of the table beside him for support. It was probably just the dimness of the room and slight pounding in his head that caused the room to blur, but he suddenly felt a little too warm.

He glanced up. The old man stood facing the opposite wall, waiting. “This one here shows what you whites call the Sun Dance.”

Slowly making his way past the battle picture, Roy stopped and stared at the various painted shapes that seemed to resemble bronzed men. He needed to sit down. Once again, a light-headedness overcame him. His chest hurt. And where was the phone? His gaze darted around the room. He needed to call for a tow truck.

“So. Let me explain about this ritual. “Sit.” His host pointed to a carved caned rocker.

Thankful just to get off his feet before he dropped, Roy tried to concentrate on his host's words.

“When a Sioux warrior finds himself in a life threatening situation, he might offer a prayer to his father, the Sun, to save him from death. Not that he feared death mind you, but for the sake of those who love him. So, it is that vow, that gift of life we celebrate.

His host took out a pipe and lit it. “We make lots of preparations. Everything must be prepared just so. Spiritual foods and waters brought, everything facing the west. The tree is cut and carried. It is erected and decorated with carved figures, representing the man who is fulfilling his vow and giving thanks publicly.”

A puff of smoke rose to the ceiling. “So when all is ready - when the steady throbs of drums pounded in song, I looked to the sun. I blew my whistle.” He paused and reached into his pocket.

As Roy stared down at the crude bone whistle handed to him and listened to the old man's staid calming voice, he felt oddly lured into the image of that celebration. He could almost hear the sharp, high-pitched cry of the whistle…

 

****

 

Shrill, high-pitched screeches pierced the air. Dancers pounded their feet to the ground, keeping rhythm with the rawhide drums.

Two Moons stood ready. Soon it would be his time to honor the Spirits. To thank them for the visions they had sent him. To give back what they had given him; his life in times of battle, his family and all that was good and decent around him.

“You have waited many moons for this day to come, hey my brother?” Shadow Elk placed a hand on Two Moons’ shoulder.

He nodded. “It is a good day to celebrate.” He had participated in many dances to the sun, but never before with the knowledge that he finally had his own vision. Many a buffalo skull had been planted in the river as a sign that the great father had granted him no vision. Today would be different.

“Little Wolf will be jealous that our people will come to you to talk on matters of great importance…”

“That is of his own doing. He chose to pay for someone else’s vision. There is no shame to that.”

Shadow Elk dropped his hand. “Honored one,” he jested, “what words of wisdom do you offer?”

Two Moons grinned. “I will be the one to seek your advice. Black Hawks tells me I have much to learn.”

In the distance a group of women sat observing the ceremony. Two Moons noticed Blue Eyes among them. His body craved her. Even now, when his only thoughts should be on his task ahead, she tormented him from afar. He knew Tunkashila, the great father, would be angered. Still, the sight of her made him grow rigid.

He clenched his hand at his side. He should just take her and get it over with. Perhaps then, when he had had his fill of her, would he find the contentment he yearned for. That was how it should be.

“You are restless my friend. Perhaps you have been without a woman for too long.” Shadow Elks’ brows rose.

“Any man would be tempted by her beauty. Your will is stronger than mine, my friend.” Shadow Elk grinned. “I always wondered when that strength would give out.”

Two Moons grunted. For days now, as was their custom before a ceremony such as this, he had been separated from Blue Eyes. He had slept, eaten and sweated with his brothers. And as much as he looked forward to the celebration and all the preparations that went on before it, his thoughts had been with her, from the time the sun was high in the sky till it had set at night. Throughout the days his anxiety about her well-being grew as much as his lingering to see her again. He had wondered if she were safe or causing trouble. Did his mother keep an eye on her as he had asked? And what of Little Wolf? Would he find the two of them together again?

Shadow Elk's expression stilled and grew serious. “We have ridden together into many battles; have watched each other's backs; been to many an enemy's camp and have stolen many horses. Hey, my brother?”

“That we have.”

“The one with the blue eyes steals what I cannot steal back.”

Two Moons' brows drew together. “I do not understand your words.”

“She steals your heart. Let her steal it.”

“That is not so.”

“It is true. Even now, though your words have spoken to me, your eyes seek hers. I see what you are too blind and too stubborn to see. Do not fight what is meant to be. She is a good woman. She will be the half that will make you whole. Besides… “Shadow Elk rapped his arm. “She is better looking than me.”

Two Moons grinned. “At last we agree.”

Dragging his gaze from the woman whose body, he desired above all else he watched his sister walking toward him.

“She is pretty. Her song fills your heart. I can hear it,” Gentle Fawn said softly.

“I know not of whom you speak.”

“I think that my big brother knows too well, if he would only listen to the music. Listen. Can you not hear it? Look. She is singing to you. Look-”

He turned to find Blue Eyes watching him.

Was there a song in her heart for him? Look at me. His silent words floated through the air. Their eyes met. Boldly his gaze clung to hers, searching for an answer. Eyes, as blue as the summer sky, widened. The heaviness in his heart lifted. So his sister was right. This warrior was desired. And so it should be. His mouth twisted wryly. He arched his shoulders back, jutting out his chest with confidence. She had said she found him good to look upon. Perhaps soon she would come to him and then--.

“Do you see the man with the sun in his hair?” Gentle Fawn grabbed Two Moons’ arm. “Do you see him? He is coming.”

He glanced around. “Yellow Hair is far away. Do not worry little one,” he assured her.

“It is not of Yellow Hair that I speak.”

“If not of the white man's general, than of whom does she speak?” questioned Shadow Elk.

Two Moons frowned. Did his sister really see the man who had visited him in his visions, the man who wore a black box around his neck? Or despite her words, did she confuse him with Yellow Hair?

“Perhaps your sister sees more than she wishes us to know,” Shadow Elk whispered.

“Enough. I have already had an earful.” Two Moons grinned. He hid his fisted hand at his side. “Go find our mother and see what words of wisdom you can offer her,” he joked. He gently placed his hand on her arm. “Go find your son-”

He felt her stance tightened. “Curly is a fine boy,” he quickly added, before she had a chance to run from his words. “He is like his mother, independent and courageous for one so small.”

Reflected in his sister's eyes, he saw her horror, knew she thought of the day she had conceived him. A heavy feeling of sadness settled in his chest. He gave Gentle Fawn a soft nudge and watched her hurry to Rattling Blanket’s side.

“I see the scars are not fully healed.” Shadow Elk spoke to Two Moons’ back. “Will you not let me take your place today? For you my brother, I would gladly drag a hundred buffalo skulls across the furthest prairie.”

“That I know you would, my friend. However, this is something I must do. I do not fear the pain.”

“Of that I am sure. There is no one here who would think otherwise. But I say again, the scars left by the white man’s whip still shine red upon your skin and I would gladly take your place.”

“No.”

Shadow Elk nodded and placed his hand on Two Moons’ shoulder. “Come, my friend. The drums are singing to a faster song. We must go.”

Strutting past Blue Eyes and Chahanpi, Two Moons kept his eyes before him. If he looked at her now, his mind would not stay straight on its course ahead. There would be time enough after the ceremonies to think about her.

He stopped before his elders. Their fingers touched his face, striping him with the sacred red color. They painted his chest, his shoulders, his arms. They placed the cedar wreath atop his head, then handed him a whistle.

A strange sensation shot through his hand. It was almost as if another's hand, beside his own, held the bone whistle. Perhaps Tunkashila was guiding him through his task ahead. That was good a sign.

Two Moons turned and started toward the pile of ceremonial buffalo skulls. Beside him, Shadow Elk held the leather thongs in his hands. At the base of the tall ceremonial pole, tethered with colorful strips of cloth, they stopped. Two Moons turned toward his friend. He was ready. He was not afraid of the pain. The tip of his friend's knife pressed into the swell of his chest. Its sharp bite cut his skin. Blood began to trickle-

“No, wait.” Kills Pretty hurried over and stopped before him. “You must stop or the spirits will be angry.”

Enraged by her interruption, Two Moons’ eyes narrowed. Everyone stared at him. He could hear the whispers rising around him. He clenched his teeth to control his anger. The muscle in his jaw twitched.

Before he could address her, Kills Pretty reached inside her bag and pulled out a white cloth stained with blood. “Look, look at what your precious slave does to you. Did you know it was her moon time? She bled while in your lodge. She has defiled you and everything you own.” With a smug look of victory on her face, she held the rag out to him. “See the proof of my words. Here is the white man's cloth she wore when you brought her to our village.”

He stiffened. His gaze riveted on the fabric. Kills Pretty was right. The cloth belonged to Blue eyes. He jerked his gaze away. Blue Eyes had to know women were to stay away from all sacred items during their “bleeds.” Even Crow women spent their days in a separate lodge. Did she wish to make his medicine weak? Why? His expression clouded with anger, he glanced over to Blue Eyes, whose gaze was sealed on his. He inhaled deeply and marched over to her.

“Is it true what Kills Pretty has said? Is it true? Do you wish to destroy the powers of my medicine?”

He watched her gaze dart back and forth. It was true.

“I didn’t-”

He slapped her face, cutting off her words. Her eyes widened. She drew her hand to her cheek.

A deafening silence enveloped him. Everyone watched. Everyone waited on his words, his next course of action.

“Don't you ever do that again.” Her voice, although unsteady, held in it a challenge that made his nostrils flare.

“I will do with you as I wish. You belong to me and this warrior is ordering you to walk behind your owner.”

“I'll do no such thing!”

“You will follow me, with your eyes to the ground as a proper slave should. Now!” If they stayed before all the others, he feared the anger, eating at his gut would take complete control of his actions. Already the stab of guilt he had felt a moment ago when he had hit her was fading as he heard the soft murmuring of those around him.

He swiveled quickly, turning his back on her. He prayed silently that she followed and listened for her footsteps. Hearing nothing, he stopped abruptly and spun on his heels. The look of defiance, he saw in her eyes shot at him like a flaming arrow. “You dare disregard my demands?” He reached her before his words had time to penetrate.

“I belong to no one,” she spat. “I am not your mother's workhorse and I certainly do not belong to you. If you think I'll follow behind you like some disobedient child, you've got another thing coming.”

“You--” He yanked her off her feet and flung her over his shoulder “… belong to me.”

Everyone followed as he carried her to the river. Her blows to his back, everyone saw. Again she had managed to make him lose face in front of his friends.

A light breeze blew his hair against his face. He spit the strands from his mouth. He was glad his elders did not understand her curses of anger. He knew, however, everything that was happening was being explained to them. Now he could not take part in the ceremonies.

 

****

 

A light breeze blew in from the window drawing Roy’s attention back to the man who sat beside him.

Roy handed the whistle back to his host. “Why do you worship the sun?”

“We worship the power behind the sun.”

“You mean, what the sun does for the earth,” Roy said.

“Wi, the sun god, is one of many we give our thanks to; Hanwi, the moon, Maka, the Earth, our mother, are some of the others. So in what you whites call the Sun Dance, we give back one drop of blood and pain to the mother who did for us.”

Maybe it was the accident. Maybe he was getting sick. But it was hard to follow what the old man was saying. Roy ran his finger under his eyes and along his temple, trying to concentrate.

“So. Then the sun turned black and in its center was a hole. A man appeared in that hole. So he spoke to me. He said, ‘Tunkashila heard you. He tells you this land is sacred. Guard it, protect it. You shall live forever as its keeper.” He paused for a moment, and took a quick puff on his pipe. “Reflections of your past lives are all around you; they are mirrors in which you can see into and learn.”

Roy became instantly awake. “You’re talking about reincarnation. Life after death. Is that what you believe? And that hole-a different dimension?”

The old man’s brows arched as if expecting him to know the answer. “I told you my story. So now I ask you.”

Roy thought a moment. “Nay. Well… “What about the strange dreams he was having lately? “Nay. I can’t say that I do.”

“It is late and this old man needs his rest.” He rose. “Think deeply about what I have said.”

Roy watched as he shuffled out of the room and realized he didn’t know his host’s name, or where he should sleep for that matter.

“Sleep on the couch, it is comfortable,” he answered without turning around. “My name is John Raven Wing.”

What? Was the old man a mind reader? Wordlessly Roy stared after him. Had he said Raven Wing? What was it with that bird?