THE KILLING SPIRIT: The Assassin (117)

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
THE ASSASSIN



Jedidiah Jones was a little man in stature as in character. Life had dealt him a short hand and he played it poorly.

He was born and raised in rural Kentucky. He married young, just as his parents had, and procreated at an alarming rate. In seven years, he gave seed to seven children, four girls and three boys. He sharecropped tobacco on what remained of the family farm, grubbed ginseng roots, and did odd jobs in the community.

For a young man, he was a good old boy. He worked hard, six days a week, ten, twelve hours a day, and only managed to sink deeper in debt. His was the good old boy’s lament and he played it like the through line of a country western song.

Like his father before him, he took his frustrations out on his wife and children. He slapped them around when they were out of line or he had a little too much moonshine. Unlike the good old days when a man was emperor of his fiefdom, the times and the culture were less tolerant of abuse. Life was tough enough. Jedidiah’s wife insisted that he change and, when he only got worse, she left him, moved to Louisville, and took the children with her.

Jedidiah mourned, drinking himself into a constant stupor, wallowing in the cesspool of his wasted life, running mindlessly toward an early and merciful death, until he heard that she had married a man of color. In an instant, it confirmed a worldview that niggers, kikes, Jews and wetbacks were a scourge on the human race. In an instant, he was no longer responsible for his own misfortunes. In an instant, his life had new meaning and purpose. He would wield the hammer of god’s righteous wrath.

He moved to northern Idaho where the Aryan nation provided him with a new identity, enabling him to escape his familial obligations. Jedidiah Jones became Jeb Morgan and quickly established his place on the social ladder. He worked hard, six days a week, long, grueling hours, but only managed to sink deeper in debt. He was more convinced than ever that people of color were somehow to blame for his misery.

Neither Jeb nor Jedidiah was a religious man in the usual sense. He never joined a church for more than six weeks but he read from the Old Testament every night until he fell asleep. He attended monthly meetings of the local Aryan group and spent his free time hunting and caring for his weapons. He collected everything that killed and saw to it that every handgun, rifle, automatic weapon, knife, sword and explosive device was clean, polished, sharpened and ready for action.

Jeb was an excellent marksman and renowned hunter. He bragged that he could take down a buffalo in one shot at a distance of two miles. When the ranchers of Yellowstone needed someone to kill stray wolves or buffalo, they often contacted Jeb. He never failed to find his mark. More than anything else, it kept him going. He had the pride of a killer.

When Jeb Morgan first read about Jerico Whitehorse, he had a revelation that became an obsession that provided a vision of his destiny. He came to perceive himself as a holy crusader. He talked to god and god revealed his role and purpose on earth, an ancient and sacred calling. He was the torturer in the Spanish Inquisition. He was the executioner of witches and heathens. He was the soldier who massacred Muslims in the ancient city of Jerusalem. He was the SS Officer who ushered Jews to their final cleansing. He was the killer of Kings and Kennedy’s. He was the hooded ghost who planted strange fruit on the Sycamore tree. He was the blue coat who plunged his bayonet into the heart of Crazy Horse. He was the man who opened fire on the Ghost Dancers at Wounded Knee.

Jeb was consumed by his nightmarish visions, ripped from the bowels of his subconscious being, his bloodstained dreams, his murderous madness, but he always awakened before he saw himself as the man who nailed Jesus to the cross.

Truth is truth to the end of time. It will reveal itself to anyone, even to one who is ruled by dogma and prejudice, even to one whose heart is poisoned by darkness, but it will not be revealed to one who is not prepared to receive it. Jeb was unprepared to accept the fundamental truth so he pressed on with morsels of lesser truths, those that he could understand and bend to his distorted vision.

When Jeb heard the story of Jerico’s recovery from a near fatal wound, it was all he needed to conclude: Jerico was the antichrist, a child of Satan, and the greatest threat to humankind since the days of Abraham.

He followed Jerico to Pine Ridge, keeping his eyes and ears open for any clues to Jerico’s plans and activities. When he learned of the Sun Dance at Coyote Paradise, he calculated that the return trip would take him to Wounded Knee. He was disappointed that Jerico never showed up. It would have made a good picture: The Indian savior killed on the monument to his ancestors.

He joined the march to Wounded Knee, posing as a believer, dressed as a seasoned survivalist with blue jeans, army boots, plaid work shirt, hunting knife strapped to his side and a blue bandana surrounding his speckled black hair. He carried a canteen and a travel bag, containing clothing, blanket, trail mix, a Gideon’s bible (marked “Property of the Travel Lodge Motel, Louisville KY”), “Crazy Horse” by Larry McMurtry, and a high powered rifle with muzzle and scope, broken down to its component parts.

With a hundred others just like him, it was a perfect disguise. Even the warriors of AIM, now sworn to protect Jerico with their lives, did not notice him. He was a quiet little man who kept to himself. He listened with wide-eyed rapture and sometimes wept when Jerico spoke over his campfire. That Jerico could touch his heart did not dissuade him. In fact, Jeb decided that he was far more dangerous than even he had imagined. If he could move a man prepared for his deceptions, how would he affect the mindless masses?

He was accustomed to being alone but now, amongst a sea of swarming humanity, swimming against the current, he was more isolated than ever. He was the lone possessor of reason in a world gone mad, struggling to contain a rage that demanded action but would expose him and doom his mission to failure.

He took refuge in the shadows of the moonlit night and listened to the voices within, as they promised sweet success and a place in history. It was the voice of an angel carried on the Wisdom of Solomon. It was a message from God.

Each night, as the wind swept amber waves of grain, long after the followers of Jerico were fast asleep, he read by the light of a borrowed lantern, studying the ways of the enemy and making plans. He would not wait until they reached Wounded Knee. It was wide open land. There was no place to hide and no chance of escape amongst thousands of loyal followers. He was not a martyr. He was a soldier in the army of god. He wished to survive if only to fight another battle.

When the march near the Badlands, Jeb felt a chill run up his spine and recognized the mark of destiny. The Badlands is a strange and foreign place, whose layered and crudely drawn mountains of chalk and clay appeared as remnants of an ancient time. The absolute absence of plant life gave him a palpable sense of desolation, a funeral dirge, a dry, lingering lament, a tribute to death and dying.

It was well tuned to Jeb’s disconsolate soul.

It was nighttime when the gathering was settled and fed in a large clearing surrounded on three sides by the haunting mountains of the Badlands. Jerico and his band of dreamers took the high grounds fronting the eastern wall, planting torches to mark a platform for their leader to address the multitudes.

Jeb was still on the low ground when Jerico began his address, his figure silhouetted but his face shining in torchlight, speaking in a firm voice that registered with stunning clarity.

“We welcome you to the march on Wounded Knee! We welcome you as fellow dreamers, as holders of the sacred light, and as believers in the Ghost Dance!”

Jeb slipped quietly through the crowd, noting the spell that Jerico cast over them. They were enthralled, mesmerized, living in a separate reality where only one man reigned. His heart was pounding as he scurried up a roughly marked trail to a place high on the western wall where pillars of chalky stone split, providing cover and opportunity.

“I carry the spirit of Crazy Horse in my soul!” cried Jerico. “He did not wish to be a leader of his people. He wanted a quiet life, surrounded by those he loved, but then the wasichu came and the world of the Lakota was forever altered.

“He watched the white man steal the land. He watched the slaughter of buffalo, the cutting of forests, the poisoning of rivers and the air. He saw the native peoples banished from their own lands, stripped of their pride, their cultures, their tongues cut from their mouths. He watched the whites swarming over the land like locust and he cried for the vision that made him both warrior and a leader of his people.”

Jeb found his position and marveled at the closeness of stars on a clear Dakota night. The air was still and the ground still harbored the warmth of day. He planted himself securely between the pillars and deliberately assembled his deadly weapon.

“We are approaching times not so different from those of Crazy Horse,” Jerico continued. “We are not facing the genocide that our forbearers faced but we are facing destruction on a scale never before seen.”

The words reached across the canyon and pierced Jeb Morgan’s heart. His face streaked with tears, he pulled his knife and slashed his own flesh, blood oozing from his forearm, but it could not stop his tears as he fixed the scope to the rifle.

“More than a century ago,” continued Jerico, “the Lakota gathered at a place not far from here. Because they wanted to remain free, they were called hostiles. Because they wanted to be raised in the native traditions, to love and care for the earth and all her creatures, they were called savages. Because they walked away from the handouts of the wasichu agencies, they were considered a threat.”

Jeb wiped the tears from his eyes and gathered his strength.

“Still they gathered at Wounded Knee to pay tribute to their ancestors and they were not afraid. They gathered for the vision of a Paiute elder. They gathered for the Ghost Dance.”

Jeb zeroed his target on the heart of Jerico Whitehorse.

“The wasichu was afraid. They possessed cannons and repeating rifles that shot a hundred bullets in minutes. Their enemy possessed few guns and less ammunition. War was not in their hearts yet the wasichu was afraid. They were afraid, as they are afraid today, of any people who are proud of their skin and the ways of their ancestors. They were afraid, as they are afraid today, of any people who refuse to bow down before them.”

The voice within Jeb’s head soothed him and dried his tears. His hand steadied on the trigger. There was no sound within his consciousness beyond the voice inside him and the words of Jerico Whitehorse, floating, rising, echoing like the bells of Notre Dame, like messages from the gods. His hands began to shake as he caught a glimpse of Jerico’s eyes, eyes that seemed to uncover his place of hiding, that looked inside his soul, that saw his murderous intent and, worst of all, that seemed to forgive.

“We gather now,” said Jerico, “as they gathered then, to pay tribute to our ancestors and to the spirit of Crazy Horse. We gather now, united against a powerful enemy, proud of who we are and the road we have traveled together. We gather now because we have survived and still we refuse to bow down.”

The assassin shook his head and wiped the sweat from his brow. “Hoka hay,” he whispered. “It is a good day to die.” He took aim again and, in his mind’s eye, he fired but Jerico did not fall. His words still soared like a golden eagle, above all harm, and his message still registered at the depths of his soul, but he did not fall.

“We gather now,” said Jerico, “not because we are angry or afraid. We have no message of war for it is war that we oppose. We gather because we have seen a vision and this vision brings the promise of a new world, a new age, a new life in harmony with our mother, our father and the Great Spirit.

“We gather at Wounded Knee to dance and, when we dance, we must remember why we have gathered. We must understand that the ancestors dance with us. We must remember that we dance not for them and not for ourselves but for those whose footsteps have not yet touched the earth. We dance for our children and for our children’s children.

“When we reach the sacred ground, there will be no words of anger, no talk of war. We will hear the drums and we will know what to do. We will not fear and we will not forget that what we do now will be written on the walls of time, forever marking us for who we are and the people we will become.”

Jeb did not shoot again. There was no reason. He had seen what he had seen and no further proof was needed. Like Crazy Horse, Jerico Whitehorse was not a common man. The white man’s bullets could not pierce his flesh. He was a ghost, a demon, a thing born of shadows, but he was not a common man.

Was it the emergence of conscience that stopped his murderous intent? Was it the guardian spirits of the ancestors? Was it the hand of Crazy Horse? Or was it the killing spirit, himself, unwilling to allow this little man to steal his glory? Not here, not now, now when the great battle of warriors was drawing near?

“Mitakuye Oyasin,” said the dreamers. “Let it be so.”