THE KILLING SPIRIT: Between Worlds (79)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN
BETWEEN WORLDS



The bullet should have killed him. It entered just below the left nostril and lodged between the magdulla oblongata and the cerebellum. It was a miracle it did not kill him. Instead, it left him unconscious, wandering between worlds, the worlds of the living and the dead, the world of space, time, mother earth and father sky, and an overworld of spirit.

Media gather like wolves around a fallen buffalo. The story was irresistible. A little boy’s savior, legend of the Apache, descendent of Crazy Horse, a man of courage, strength and mythological stature, shot down by a common criminal and left for dead.

He laid in a Casper, Wyoming hospital unaware of the masses that prayed for him and the many who gathered on the streets below, waiting for their moments on camera.

What is it in the human soul that is drawn to tragedy, eyes that cannot turn away from horror, blood and gore, hearts that hunger to observe the suffering of others as if it can ease the pain within? What is it that desires ones voice to be heard, ones face to be shown, ones name to be known, regardless of the context or its meaning?

The family of the little boy lost and found paid for all the medical care, the best Wyoming could offer. People of the Lakota, Cheyenne, Shoshone, Paiute, Blackfoot and Crow gathered with the throngs and chanted in the old way for Jerico’s recovery or, failing that, his safe passage to the overworld. Spirit guides and healers were allowed to enter his room and performed sacred ceremonies. His mother stood vigil at his bedside while grandfather led prayers in the hospital waiting room.

Somewhere on the outer edges of his consciousness, Jerico sensed their presence but he could not answer their voices nor take their hands. They were beyond his reach, hovering like distant voices in a vast canyon.

As the days and nights drifted by, his condition unchanged, his body still, his mind far away, the media and their followers departed, leaving only a circle of friends and family to stand the daily vigil. Soon they would confront the decision that faces all whose loved one has slipped beyond the world of light. They spoke among themselves and knew what their decision would be: They would keep his soul in the sacred way and allow his body to return to the earth. In the sacred way, they would release his soul to the overworld where his ancestors would welcome him to new life.

If Jerico could have, he would have given them comfort. He had already been to the overworld and it was a place he longed to rest. He would have told them he was resting there now, laying his head in the bosom of the one he loved.

“Did I die well?” he asked.

Marie smiled as his eyes found the light. She stroked his hair and ran her finger over the scar that marked his face.

“You have not died,” she said. “You are between worlds.”

Jerico was home. Everywhere he looked, he found a familiar sight, a meadow of tall grass, wild flowers of every color, a clearing in the sacred mountains. It was the place that he and Marie had discovered together. It was where they went to be alone. It was where they found their love and shared it beneath golden skies and moonlit nights. It was where Jerico had gone to mourn when Marie died. He had not returned until now.

Marie tasted her lover’s lips awake and all his questions dissolved. He was home in the arms of his love, his center, his balance, his earth to her sky. In a field of tall grass and wild flowers, they made love as if they had never been apart, their bodies, real and sensual, melded into one, blending as waves in an endless sea. She was his eyes, his ears, his every sense and every moment of their lives and every particle of their being were reborn in a love that was only here and now.

He felt her body let go and his followed, rumbling like the aftershock of a quake. They rolled to their backs and listened to a gentle breeze, robins singing, and water flowing over smooth rocks in a mountain stream. They watched clouds dance over hills and stars come out to serenade their bond. They folded into each other’s limbs and took pleasure through the night.

It was the Moon of Cherries Reddening, a morning as bright and clear as a martyr’s heart. They climbed aboard their waiting horses, a red bay and a white appaloosa, and rode like a cool breeze through the hills and trees until they came to the open plains. Beneath endless skies, they saw the white buffalo, surrounded by her children in a vast field of fresh green grass. Behind them, in the rich forest, they saw the wolf, the coyote, the eagle and the hawk in a land untouched by the wasichu’s progress.

Jerico had lived in this place for as long as he possessed awareness. It was his vision, his dream, the place where he belonged, the world beneath the world, and home to his soul. It was where his senses matured. He could taste the sky and feel the heartbeat of the land. It was his home and his spirit soared each moment he was here.

They rode across the plains until they came to a camp of many teepees. Theirs was near the center of the camp, bearing the mark of lightning pointing upward. Inside were the sacred objects of his life on earth: a ceremonial red clay pipe, a war club, bow and arrows, a feather of the red tailed hawk, and a stone with the imprint of a buffalo hoof.

Marie remained inside as Jerico was summoned to a fire circle of elders, who carried word from the Great Spirit for his ears only. The day had given way to a star filled night. The fire burning low textured the darkness with dancing light and a warmth of the soul radiated within the circle, where three men and three women were seated.

Jerico was seated in a place that was his by right of birth. No words were spoken as a pipe was passed from person to person until the circle was complete. Drums pounded though none were present and the voices of many people, across many generations, chanted a prayer as old as the Lakota. Jerico understood in perfect clarity: It was a prayer of unity and perseverance across great folds of time and trials beyond the comprehension of any one being. It was a prayer for the people and all their relations on the earth and in the overworld: Earth abides and the people survive.

The elders began to speak, one by one, from left to right, following the path of the sacred directions. Though each spoke in turn, they spoke with one voice, as if the words had already been written. One voice, one mind, one spirit born of a collective consciousness, the hub of a wheel connecting all things of the earth, connecting the earth to the universe, connecting past to present to future, sprang forth in the words of the fire circle, in the vision of the chosen.

We are the people of the universe, the stars and planets, and our home is here beyond the world of the knowing. Here there is balance without darkness and light, without good and evil, without angels and demons. Here there are many buffalo, many bear, deer, elk, beaver but there is no hunt. We have everything we need and enough to share with all our kin. Here there are many tribes but there is no war. Here there is love but the heart is never broken.

It is the place to which we always return yet few remain here long. Only those that have found purpose in stillness. Only those who know the voice of silence. Only those that have discovered the journey within.

Most return to their lives as warriors, survivors, leaders and followers in the world below. Most return to continue the journey of suffering and hardship.

Some are chosen to travel between worlds with eyes open. Some are chosen to right great wrongs. Some are chosen to sacrifice.

You are chosen yet you must choose.

The pipe was passed in a silence heavy with solemnity. When Jerico completed the circle, it signified that he had accepted the challenge. It was an honor and he did not fear.

The elders spoke again in one voice:

The earth is in grave danger. The forces that held the planet in balance now threaten imbalance.

Once a great evil was unleashed upon the earth in order to challenge its inhabitants. The human species cannot stand still and survive.

The one you call the wasichu was planted in the hearts of men to set the balance and spur humankind to move forward. It was needed then but now its time has past. Now the killing spirit grows, thrives and threatens all of humankind.

The earth survives but her children may not.

It falls to you to close the door that was once opened. It falls to you to kill the killing spirit even if it costs your life.

With every spoke of the great wheel, new powers are yours. With every cycle, your knowledge grows. Complete the circle and you will have the strength to defeat your enemy.

The killing spirit cannot harm you but by the hand of your own kind.

The killing spirit will not stop until it kills or is killed.

The ancestors go with you. We will guide and protect you but in the final battle, you must succeed or fail by your own choices.

The piped was passed for a third round and Jerico felt a calm that visits the soul when love is given freely. A woman with eyes of deep compassion spoke with her own voice.

“I am White Buffalo Woman,” she said. “The words we have given you were given to us. Now we give you our ears.”

“In a dream,” he said at length, “I have had a vision of people from the stars. I believe White Buffalo Woman walks among them. Is it so?”

“We are spirit beings as you are,” she replied. “There are those among us who are not of the earth.”

“We are earth’s guardians,” said a man whom Jerico recognized as Sitting Bull. “We are here to guide and protect earth’s children.”

“In my heart,” said Jerico, “I am home. I have lived here all my life. As my vision clears, I know you. You are Sitting Bull. You are Joseph of the Nez Perce. You are Geronimo. You are Sacagawea. You are Pocahontas.”

“It is as you believe,” said Geronimo. “The dream is real.”

“And you, my friend,” said Joseph, “are Crazy Horse.”

Jerico’s heart filled with pride at knowing what he had always known. He choked back tears and struggled to find his balance.

“You are right to be proud,” said Sitting Bull. “Without the spirit of Crazy Horse, the Lakota would not have survived.”

“You were a great warrior,” said Sacagawea, “but the time for war has passed like ice in the warmth of spring.”

“How will I know what to do?” Jerico asked.

“Complete the circle,” said Pocahontas. “Then you will know.”

“Will I return?” he asked.

“That is up to you,” said White Buffalo Woman.

“Will I remember this?” he asked.

“You will remember the dream,” answered Sitting Bull.

They passed the pipe one last time, each leaving the circle until Jerico was alone. He sat until the embers lost their glow and soft footsteps approached him from behind. He rose to greet his beloved and found her cradling a baby in her arms.

“This is your son,” she said.

He held the child in his arms, no longer holding back his tears, and carried him back to their lodge. In the morning, as bright and clear as the day before, the child was now a fully-grown boy, strong and thoughtful. He often rode his pony into the sacred mountains to be alone and to cry for a vision in the old way, the way his father had taught him. He was the image of Crazy Horse in every way but one: He was not a warrior. Jerico would be the last of his kind.

It is a good thing, he reflected, for the time of war must end before the age of peace can begin.