THE KILLING SPIRIT: The Fever (127)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
THE FEVER



In the beginning time, when Nagi Uhapi first came to the Lakota, only the souls of great chiefs with the purest spirits were kept. The soul keeper must also be pure of heart for it fell to him to purify the soul of the departed for its passage to the overworld.

The soul keeper must walk the red road in soft moccasins. His hands must never touch metal or be soiled with blood. He must have no thoughts of war or vengeance. He must live in constant prayer and offer all of his possessions to the people. He must be a man of peace, good will and humble spirit.

The white man, though he professed not to believe in a red man’s soul, banned the sacred rite of soul keeping, demanding that all souls kept should be released at once. Perhaps they were afraid that the soul keepers would steal the souls of their children. Perhaps they were afraid that they were saving souls to inhabit the bodies of white people, whose souls were feeble and unable to resist temptation.

Grandfather lay on a bed of long grass and skins in a traditional seven-pole tipi and he was afraid. It was not death that he feared. Death was only a passage to another world where he would be greeted by his loved ones and welcomed by his ancestors. It was not something to be feared yet he was afraid. The killing spirit that invaded his soul, knocking him to the earth at the Ghost Dance, followed him from Wounded Knee to the place where he now awaited death.

He was covered in the sweat of a fever that ran hot and cold, drifting in and out of consciousness, sensing the ebb and flow of life within his human form. His eyes quivered beneath closed lids and he mumbled words in a constant stream, rarely decipherable, wandering between worlds, struggling to keep his hold on mother earth.

It was not yet time to let go. The vision was incomplete. His mission was not yet finished.

Jerico sat by his side and recalled the story of Wavoka’s vision, received in the dark depths of a fever where grandfather now traveled. Wavoka’s vision gave birth to the Ghost Dance, capturing the hearts and minds of all native peoples only to be crushed at Wounded Knee, only to be reborn a century later.

That which lives in the heart can never die. It may sleep for a thousand years until the spark of a new generation rekindles the flame.

Jerico wiped the sweat from his brow with a clean cloth and a bowl of fresh water. The fever was raging and his face was marked with an ancient sorrow. Jerico held his hand, closed his eyes, and shared grandfather’s grief. He cried grandfather’s tears, heard the voice that spoke in grandfather’s fevered mind, and saw the visitor that walked in his dreams.

The visitor’s face was familiar yet he could not summon his name from the hollow chamber of things too long forgotten. The man wanted to speak about the future but his words came hard, stuck in his throat, like a dolphin in a fisherman’s net.

They walked on a little traveled trail in a forest of tall trees. The wind was crisp and nourishing. The scent of pine and moss covered stone was comforting. The sky was clear, then clouded, then dark, but it was not the moon that glowed behind the darkness; it was the burning sun.

Rising above the trees, above the clouds, above the smoke and haze, they saw deep caverns and whole mountains of poisonous waste, humankind’s gift to the bowels of mother earth. They saw the poisons spread, like bulging rivers finding their way through canyons and crevices of dry land. They saw eruptions of fire, liquid stone and ash from the four corners of the earth. They saw wars in distant lands grow and spread until they found their way back home. They saw flames dancing in the air and clouds of unspeakable terror. They saw monuments to human grandeur, towers of ancient Babylon, crash to the earth.

They heard the cry of mothers cradling lifeless babes in their arms. They saw fathers that would never be, their blood filled eyes crying vengeance. They saw children in arms, joining the armies of their brethren.

They watched glaciers crack, oceans rise, and waves the height of tall buildings encroaching upon the land. They witnessed pestilence and disease choking the forest, sickening wildlife and all living things. They saw the madness of desperation rampage through ghost towns and cities in chaos. They felt the elders’ despair as old, withered white men in smoke filled chambers plotted profits on the fall of human civilization, erecting walls, raising mercenary armies, and building fortresses to protect empires of wealth to ensure their places at the table of almighty power.

They saw the end times and the earth reborn in the image of corruption and greed. They saw the rebirth of slavery, mass genocide to crush rebellion, to stamp out hope, and to erase the memories of those who still remembered a land of liberty.

They saw a burst of light and Jerico’s vision went dark.

Grandfather awakened with awe stricken eyes, still clutching Jerico’s hand.

“Gather the circle,” he cried. “There is little time.”

The dreamers were quickly summoned, entering the tipi in a manner of reverence, bowing and kissing the earth as they circled the dying man in a sun wise direction.

“I have been to the world of light,” he said. “I have seen what must be done.”

Not knowing when the fever would retake him, the ritual of the pipe was forgone. Sage was lit and the dreamers took hold of each other’s hands.

“The circle must hold,” he said. “Let none but those who are gathered here enter it. The vision must be one, passed between us like the sacred pipe, hand to hand, mind to heart, spirit to spirit.

“This vision comes from the circle of ancestors for I will soon join them.”

Tears traveled from sorrow’s eyes as the dreamers began the rite of mourning. Outside the air was still and the night was silent. The moon, the stars and the sacred hills bowed in respect for the dying.

“Know this, my friends: We will be asked to sacrifice and we must not refuse for we will understand that no price is too great.”

Grandfather watched the light of an overhanging lantern dance in tear-filled eyes and was comforted by the warmth of their love.

“When my soul is passed to my grandson, the circle will be complete. The vision will be understood and there will be no room for doubt.

“Little Hawk,” he summoned.

“Yes, grandfather.”

“When my soul is passed you must never leave your brother’s side. You must do as he asks without hesitation. Swear!”

Little Hawk crossed his fisted hands and pressed them to his chest, a promise that could not be broken.

“Strikes Lightning,” grandfather summoned. “You will preside over the ceremonies when I have left the circle.”

The old one nodded, his heart knowing, his eyes seeing. His medicine was still strong. He did not need to be told.

“Soon,” said grandfather, his voice soft and faltering, his eyes glistening with tears, “the Moon when the Plums are Scarlet will be whole. On that day, my soul will pass to my grandson. He will keep it in the sacred manner for twelve moons. When the Moon of the Scarlet Plums returns, he will lead you to a sacred place not far from here. There, beneath the shadow of Bear Butte, you will form a new circle around Jerico to protect him when my soul is passed to the overworld. Little Hawk will be within the circle, always by his side.

“When that day is done and always thereafter, as long as you walk the earth, you shall know him by his true name.

“Go now for I am weak and there are words I must share with Jerico alone.”

Wiping the tears from their eyes, the dreamers cycled out of the tipi, bowing to kiss the earth as they had done before, the weight of grandfather’s words leaning heavily on their souls. Thunder cracked the sky and the heavens poured down on them as they scrambled for cover.

Jerico remained at grandfather’s side, clutching his hand, watching as his eyes faltered and his body slumped; yet he held to Jerico’s hand with the strength of a wolf.

“The killing spirit is here,” he said, his eyes still flickering between worlds. “He took hold at Wounded Knee. He followed us here. He sits with me now.”

He gasped at the air as lightning lit up the tipi and thunder shook the surrounding hills, where animals great and small dashed for safer grounds.

“I see his face,” said grandfather. “I know his heart. It is an old and withered face. It is the heart of a winter night.”

The rain pounded the tipi like the drums of war and a cold breeze swept through the tipi. Jerico held to his grandfather’s hand, denying fear the right of way.

“He speaks to me when we are alone in the darkness of the fever. He tries to convince me that we are one, that I should yield to his power, but he knows he will not succeed.”

Jerico nodded understanding yet he worried that the killing spirit’s power to deceive would overcome him to claim his soul before it could be kept.

“Don’t worry,” said grandfather. “When an old one cannot see the darkness for the light, there is no more cause to lose.”

Jerico wanted to tell him how the killing spirit shifted robes, spoke in riddles and false tones, how he hid behind masks but he sensed there was not enough time. There was pain written on the lines of grandfather’s face, his breath grew shorter and his silence, beneath closed eyes, grew longer.

“The soul is well protected in its shell,” said grandfather, “but when the soul is kept and again when it is released, the gate is open. It is then that we are vulnerable.”

The pounding rain softened and the smell of fresh earth gave them comfort.

“You are young, grandson,” he continued. “You have seen too much injustice. You have known too much sorrow. The killing spirit believes he can tap your soul and keep it.”

“He is wrong,” said Jerico with only a hint of anger.

“I believe he is,” said grandfather, his eyes smiling before they faltered and the fever took hold.

It would not be long before he joined the other world, the world of the spirits and the ancient ones, but he held to Jerico’s hand and pulled him closer, speaking in a whisper.

“There is a white man at the shadows of our camp,” he said. “He is our enemy but we must treat him as friend. Welcome him, teach him, but never allow him inside the circle.”

Jerico nodded and fought back the waves of mourning sorrow that would soon engulf him.

“So many moons ago,” said grandfather, “I said goodbye to a grandson who lost his way. His loved one was dead and he blamed himself. His heart was broken. He did not care if he ever saw his friends, his family or the sacred mountains again. He was crying for a vision but he did not know it. Now, he has found his vision.”

He drew a breath and whispered so softly Jerico could barely make it out: “We must not fail.”

He gripped Jerico’s hand tighter before releasing his hold.

“We will not fail,” replied Jerico. “I swear in the spirit of Crazy Horse, we will not fail.”