THE KILLING SPIRIT: Blood Sacrifice (58)

CHAPTER TWELVE
BLOOD SACRIFICE



In the tradition of Hanblecheya, at sunrise of the fifth day, the seeker’s assistants came to his camp to escort him back to the tribal gathering. There he would again undergo the cleansing of Inipi before the telling.

Jerico’s body was weak and stumbling yet he refused assistance in walking. He embraced Ramona as he reached the fire circle and saw in her tear-stained eyes, felt in the trembling of her embrace that she knew and understood his pain.

In the preparations for Inipi, as with all sacred ceremonies, great care must be taken. Reeds for the lodge must be strong yet bending. Skins covering the lodge must be sewn in such a manner that no light will enter and no steam will escape. Stones must be large, round and dry. River stones, filled with water, when exposed to the intense heat of the Inipi fire, would expand and explode like the white man’s cluster bomb, sending shrapnel in all directions. Everything must be put in its proper place for the Inipi to serve its sacred function.

They entered the lodge and took their places as the fire man brought in the white-hot stones. The old one summoned the ancestors in song and gave his blessings to the four elements and the six directions.

“Give us your red and blue days!”

All the powers of the earth, the moon, the stars and eternal time were pulled together in the Inipi lodge so that the dreamer could see more clearly the vision of his lament and deliver it to the people of the waking world for the elders and wise ones to read and interpret.

Water was poured on the stones and a white cloud of steam filled the Inipi lodge. Jerico spoke, in the space between waves of steam, of the animal spirits who came to his fire and the old one spoke of their medicines: The shape shifter crow, the coyote trickster, the messenger hawk, the sorcerer owl and the dragonfly of illusions.

“It speaks well,” said the old one, “to have such powerful allies.”

As soon as he began describing the vision of the black robes, he sensed that few words were necessary. The vision was shared by all. He closed his eyes and painted: Song of the dead, rivers of fire, groans of the dying, blood-filled eyes, acid rain, rotting corpses and charred remains, death, fear and rage, tears of mourning, white crosses and hell fire, smoke on the eastern horizon.

He had chosen the path of Crazy Horse and he would not look back.

It was the end of the third wave. The others welcomed relief in the cool air outside the lodge but the old one signaled for Jerico and Ramona to stay. He asked Ramona to inform the others that the last wave was for the dreamer and his guide alone. Her eyes filled with tears but she yielded to his wisdom, clasping Jerico’s hand before she left the lodge.

“A shadow has entered our lodge,” said the old one quietly. “I believe it is the darkness of the black robe.”

He passed water and Jerico drank. He lit sage and again gave it to the six directions. He lit the ceremonial pipe and they smoked.

“Your vision challenges us to be strong, to hold on to who we are and who we have always been. Now we must prove ourselves worthy. Once again, we must face the dark spirit with many faces.”

He poured water on the stones and in the explosion of steam the form of the white man’s Jesus, not the real Jesus but an echo of the killing spirit appeared.

“This spirit is brave,” said the old one. “When it visits our lodge, its powers are scattered to the four corners of the universe.”

He began to chant in an ancient tongue and Jerico understood it was a native rite of calling in the spirits. He was offering himself and challenging the killing spirit to take hold. He would sacrifice himself to protect Jerico and the others within the circle of the Inipi.

The spirit held to the now weakening clouds of steam, without motion or expression. Jerico realized it was only an illusion. It was not meant to attack within the Inipi lodge but rather to distract them.

He broke from the lodge but it was too late. An explosion rocked the camp and rolling thunder echoed through the nearby hills. Fragments of stone from the Inipi fire pounded the lodge like a thousand angry drums.

All that gives life drained from his body as Jerico saw what had happened. Before his burning eyes lay the scene of a massacre, a blood sacrifice that cut deeper than the old one intended. Everything was still and the only sound was the moan and crackle of fire.

Jerico went to where Ramona’s body lay motionless, her eyes open and filled with horror. Jerico’s tears mingled with her blood. He saw Marie. Gently he closed her eyes and visions of Marie, her bruised and broken body on a lonely highway, swept over him, pressing him to his knees, pushing his head to Ramona’s no longer beating heart.

Somewhere in the shadows of his mind, he heard a man running through the woods and the almost inaudible moan of the old one in the Inipi lodge but he was no longer in possession of his body. It was not that he could not move; it was that he could not think to move.

Soon the camp would be filled with the haunting and familiar sounds of sirens, rescue workers and police. As the only man standing, untouched by the hailstorm of stone fragments, he was arrested on suspicion of murder.

He did not speak and offered no defense but the old one would live long enough to set him free. Later, they would find the fire man hanging from the limb of a cottonwood tree and they put the pieces in order.

He had placed river stones along with dry stones in the Inipi fire. He had waited for the end of the third wave when all would be gathered outside the lodge. When the stones exploded, he was hiding in the woods. Overcome by guilt and the horror of what he had done, he hanged himself.

The police were baffled as to his motive. There was nothing in his background to suggest that he was capable of such a crime. Jerico only shook his head, unable and unwilling to explain that the man was not himself, that he was possessed by the killing spirit. Like the friendly Indians who gathered by the white man’s fort in the days when the Lakota were free, whose services were bought by a bottle of whiskey, he had given himself to darkness. His weakness made him vulnerable but he was not the killer. He was the rifle but he was not the one who pulled the trigger.

The old one summoned him to his side in the remaining moments of his life. He begged Jerico not to take the burden upon himself. He said that they had both failed the circle but they had not failed the test. It was now more important than ever for Jerico to carry on, to plant the staff and fight. He needed the people and the people needed him.

Jerico loved the old man. He wanted to honor him in death. He wanted to give his promise but he could not. His eyes had witnessed too much suffering and his tears ran dry. He remembered Marie in every breath and every heartbeat.

He could only promise to keep the old one’s words in his heart until his spirit warmed and his mourning thawed like mountain snow in springtime. He could promise no more.

“It is enough,” said the old one with his dying breath.