THE KILLING SPIRIT: The Buffalo Stone (35)

CHAPTER EIGHT
THE BUFFALO STONE



Driving through the desert night, stars so bright they looked like candles in a dark room, Jerico never felt so alone. Cornered like a desperate animal, the universe was pressing in, bearing down, holding his arms so that it could leave its mark on his forehead. His foot fell heavy on the gas and stars fluttered by like mystic butterflies, as he let the warm night air wash over him and the smell of sage run through him with a sobering effect.

He wanted to disappear. He wanted his place upon the earth wiped clean, as if he had never been born, as if everything that had happened since the day he left the reservation could be wished away, as if it was only a dream or an illusion, a memory best forgotten.

The effect of Red Tail’s dying words was not what the old man intended. It did not free him of a sense of responsibility. Even if those words were the true message of the divine, carried on the backs of the ancestors, there was no absolution. The killing spirit had chosen him. Whatever the reasons, it desired his eyes to witness its wrath. Jerico could not let go of the irrational belief that if he were not there to observe the deed, it would not be consummated. He did not wish to die but if his death would end the killing, he would die gladly.

He had given his word to a dying man, a man whose spirit soared above his brothers and sisters of the earth, a man whose wisdom could not be questioned. His word was his honor and he would not discard it lightly.

Lala took wing and soared along the highway, flying in a desert dream, eyes of the hawk gazing at the Chiricahua mountains, where the Apache war chiefs, Victorio, Mangas Coloradas and Geronimo once roamed, where Cochise still lay in an undiscovered cave and where his spirit still wandered on summer nights such as this. Jerico felt a desire to find that sacred gravesite. He wanted to lose himself on sacred grounds, bury himself in mystery, and wander the nights in the revered mountains the white man still feared.

He had given his word and his word was his honor.

His thoughts came crashing down, returning to a desert highway where a coyote sat dead center in the middle of the road, still and unafraid. He swerved and skidded to a stop off the road, kicking up a cloud of dust. When he regained his bearings, he turned back to see the coyote, still in the middle of the road, gazing back at him.

The coyote is sacred among four legs. Closer to the earth, it possesses knowledge that humans cannot gather, wisdom that only dreamers can approach. Jerico stepped out of Lala and stood before this animal as he would stand before a spirit guide, with humility and wonder. The coyote smiled as coyotes do and scampered into the desert about fifteen or twenty paces, where it stopped and turned back.

Jerico pondered. It would not be unusual for the trickster to lead a two leg into the desert with no cause or reason other than to laugh at the gullibility of humans. Even then, he considered, a lesson in humility is not to be discounted.

In the blue light of a quarter moon, Jerico followed the coyote into a surreal environment of sand, sage, and silent hidden creatures whose presence was carved in the earth and could be felt in every step. The coyote quickened its pace and Jerico began to jog in the Indian way, the Apache way, on the balls of his feet, hands down and swaying to the rhythm of his body’s movement. It was said the Apache could travel fifty miles in a single day, men, women and children. Those who had witnessed their graceful movement across the land swore that their feet never touched the ground. Jerico found that rhythm now, following the coyote through a barren land of rock, brush, skeletal remains and petrified wood, following through a land of strange blue illumination into the great mystery of the unspoiled earth.

He could not tell how far he had gone when the coyote came to a rest at the top of an outcropping of stone, overlooking an expansive swath of land below. Jerico was drawn forward to the precipice, an uneasy feeling gripping his gut, a strange familiarity that circled him in sorrow. A crow took flight from below and Jerico realized that he was alone. The coyote was nowhere in sight, as if melted into the landscape or transformed into another form.

He knelt in the place where he stood and realized that he was on top of a mountain of stone, a mountain that reached into the womb of the earth, whose crown was smooth and flat, as if shaped by centuries of solemn prayer.

He remembered the story of the stone dreamers, who gathered the wisdom and power of the stone. He remembered that Crazy Horse was one of them. They believed, as Jerico believed, that the stone always remembers. From the beginning time to the end time, the memories of the planet are captured in wood, soil, the air and water, but they are stored deep within the stone and those with stone medicine can tap those memories like a well taps a spring.

Jerico gazed out across the mystic desert and felt the power of the stone. He saw the land as it was before the great change, when the desert was a forest teeming with life. He saw the coming of the spirit beings, among them White Buffalo Woman who bestowed the Lakota with the sacred pipe, the seven rituals and the Buffalo Stone. He saw the coming of the Sky Dogs with the first wasichus, the ones that saw only gold. He saw the railroads and barbed wire fences, cutting the land into pieces, and he refused to see any more.

When he opened his eyes, he was riding a white Appaloosa alongside three warriors, leaders of their tribes. He recognized one as Apache by the way he rode. He was a mestizo, mixed blood, part Spaniard and part Indio, like the great Apache warrior, Victorio. As they settled on a ridge, the mestizo pointed below, where a party of blue coats and armed militiamen approached a sleeping camp of tipis. They were led by a man with brash gold stripes and dark, flaring eyes filled with hate. At his side rode a man with long, waving yellow hair and eyes that held no light.

It was dawn and the camp roused to the sound of beating hooves from the west and from the east. An elder walked toward the soldiers carrying a staff with the American flag and the white flag of peace.

“His name is Black Kettle,” said the mestizo. “He leads the Cheyenne in the cause of peace. The blue coat is Colonel Chivington with Custer by his side.”

“This is the place,” said another, “that is known as Sand Creek.”

Jerico knew the story as it unfolded before his eyes. Under orders to take no prisoners, they shot Black Kettle in the chest. They were good soldiers, dog soldiers, soldiers of Dachau and MyLai and Fallujah, and they followed orders well. Men, women and children fell before their thunder, before the lightning of their bayonets, before the torrent of their bullets. “Nits make fleas,” so the Colonel said, and babies grow up to be brave Cheyenne warriors.

The nearly dry creek beside the camp formed a crevice that blocked the Cheyenne from escape. The few warriors might have escaped but they could not sacrifice their defenseless people. They chose certain death and watched the creek become a river of native blood to scar the earth with a memory that would survive the generations. They chose to fight for the honor of the people and their fallen chief. They chose to fight a battle they could not win.

Chivington was a man of the cloth, the Indian’s worst nightmare: Black Robes with guns. The Cheyenne came from peace talks and were told where to camp so that the soldiers had no trouble finding them. The soldiers knew they were peaceful. They did not care.

Jerico pulled at his horse but the others stopped him.

“We have only eyes and ears in this place,” the mestizo said. “We cannot fight the past.”

An old man sang his death song before the soldiers shot him down, removed his scalp, cut off his nose, his ears and testicles. The babes of pregnant women were cut from their wombs. Bodies were carved, mutilated and left on the open ground to rot in the sun. Everywhere was grief. Everywhere was horror.

As the dust settled, they rode down to the battle scene, where Jerico dismounted and went to Black Kettle’s side. He was still alive.

“Remember this,” said Black Kettle. “The white man does not want peace. He wants to take our land – all of it. The wasichu wants our death. He does not want the land until it is made rich with Indian blood.”

Black Kettle pulled a stone from his neck and pressed it into Jerico’s hand.

“It is yours now,” he said. “I have carried it too long.”

Jerico returned to his time upon the earth and found the stone before him in the place where he knelt. It was round and smooth, the size of a silver dollar, and on its face it had an imprint of a buffalo hoof. It was the Buffalo Stone, the sacred gift of White Buffalo Woman.

He held it to his heart and prayed for his people without words.