THE KILLING SPIRIT: The Hawk and the Ravens (61)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE HAWK & THE RAVENS



Nine died in what became known as the Sangre de Cristo Massacre. As the lone survivor, Jerico Whitehorse came to the attention of the American mass media. Reporters descended on him like a pack of rats at an open dump.

At first the tone of their inquiries were tempered with sympathy. The public has a right to know: What was his relationship to the dead? Were they a religious cult? What was the nature of the ritual they were performing? Were they pagans? Did they worship the devil? Was he a member of the American Indian Church? Was he high on peyote that fateful day?

Jerico refused to answer their questions. He refused to make a show of his grief. He refused to attend the funerals staged more for the cameras than for the mourning survivors. Instead, he went to the mountains and delivered his prayers to the Great Spirit.

When the media uncovered his connection to the attack of a Cherokee girl in Mississippi, the death of an elder leader in Oklahoma, and the unexplained disappearance of an Apache baseball team in White Sands, reporters dropped all pretense of civility and went for the kill. They wondered openly whether Jerico was a victim of extraordinary circumstance or a cold-blooded rapist and serial killer who masterfully evaded detection. Given the nature of the crimes, they speculated that he secretly despised his own race.

Somewhere the Killing Spirit was laughing aloud.

In the dead of night, Jerico climbed aboard his mechanical pony and drove into the heart of the great Navaho nation at Third Mesa in Arizona. Though the moon was bright, he did not notice the red rock canyons, the expansive sky, or the ancient stone carvings of the earth. He drove through the night in silent sorrow until the land opened her eyes at daybreak. He drove to the village of Henry Lightfoot, the spiritual healer and stargazer who had given his life so that Jerico would not have to give his. He stopped where he recognized the markings of spiritual beings. Lala purred like the mare of a proud warrior as he parked in front of a modest home, where trinkets were sold to tourists and medicines to the faithful.

Lala knew they had driven their last mile together. If a machine could cry, she would have. They had traveled a long road together and they knew each other as only the road can teach.

“My friend the raven told me you would come.”

He introduced himself as Henry’s brother, Ulysses. Younger than Henry, his face was well traveled and his eyes held the same light that inspired immediate trust.

“Your friend is wise,” said Jerico.

“She tells me you have no more need of your pony.”

Jerico looked inward. He had come to pay his respects but also to find Lala a good home. It was time to walk alone.

Ulysses knew what had happened at Sangre de Cristo. He had no television but some in the village did. He knew before they came to him. He knew as a spiritual brother always knows. He did not wonder if what the reporters on television said was true. He knew.

Ulysses brought him inside where his wife and a visiting daughter from Tuba City greeted him. They shared a light meal while Jerico told the story of his journey and Henry’s death. His eyes could not contain his tears but his chest swelled with pride.

“She is a good pony,” he said. “She has taken me to places no man may travel and rescued me from places no man should. She has strong medicine. She deserves a good home.”

“She shall have one,” said Ulysses.

“Her name is Lala.”

“It is a good name.”

“Short for Lalapalooza.”

“I won’t ask,” he smiled.

“She’s a good pony.”

The family looked to each other and nodded in agreement.

“And she shall have a good home,” said Ulysses.

The accepted his offering not out of pity and not in compensation for their loss, but out of respect. They needed to hear from his tongue how Henry died. They were satisfied it was a worthy death, the death of a great warrior and spiritual being.

Ulysses took Jerico under his wing and gave him some of the things he would need to survive alone in the desert: a sturdy water pouch, a good knife, a bow and quiver of arrows. Over the next two days, he gave him knowledge of the land: where to find flint, water and game. He told him how to dry meat, what plants could be eaten, which would provide medicine, how to make string for a bow, how to shape arrow heads, how to fasten feathers to the shaft, how to choose wood for burning, tool making and weapons, and how to make shelter in the open land.

Jerico was grateful for his patience, wisdom and guidance. With fresh tears, he circled his pony four times, gave his final blessings and walked into the desert to begin his life as a coyote.

For two years, he would never meet another human being. The only words he would hear were those that originated in his mind. The only song he would dance was the song of the wind. The only company he would keep was that of the animal spirits who shared the land in perfect grace.

He survived blinding sand storms and floating waves of heat. He discovered the pulsating earth that marked the wasichu death machine beneath the desert surface. Mile after mile he pressed his ear to the sandy soil and felt in every particle of his body the drum beat of death. He moved away from the death machine. He avoided all things poisoned by the wasichu touch. He cut their wires and marked their trails. He plugged their pipelines and collapsed their holes. He could hear them curse his coyote spirit as he traveled the breaks and canyons northward toward home. He lived beyond their reach, beyond their grasp, beyond their inquiries and beyond their control.

He sought refuge in the cave dwellings of the ancient Anasazi, sensing on first touch that there was not a more sacred place on the planet. He fell to his knees, gave thanks and blessed the earth, the moon, the stars and the living spirits that guided him here. In a circle of stones carved before the wasichu was even a dream, he found peace and felt his blessings returned a thousand fold.

He settled in for many seasons of the sun, eating roots, hunting rabbits and living off the land the coyote way. He sat for hours at a time, looking out over the canyons and monuments of the red rock kingdom.

On a full moon night, on the eve of summer solstice, he had a vision of the four worlds and the people of the stars.

An old voice spoke to him, painting pictures of ancient memories. In the first world, the two legs lived as other animal spirits and there was harmony in the land. No wars, no tribes, only a trace of maternal family, there was only survival. In the second world, the bonds of family reached outward, forming tribes, communities and feudal kingdoms. The people were enslaved and needed battle, raiding and wars to infuse them with pride and purpose. They began to claim the land and gather things they could not use. They wanted treasures to set them above their enemies and neighbors.

In the third world, the black robes and their masters used the false pride and greed of the people to infect their souls. The wasichu had an endless bounty of useless treasures, which it delivered to those who obeyed and served.

In the fourth world, a world not yet born to the living dream, all is set right. The people of the stars, who were there in the beginning time, who are here in the living dream, and who will be there in the end time, restore balance and harmony. The people of the stars, who sent White Buffalo Calf Woman for the Lakota, Jesus for the people of Jerusalem, Mohammed for the people of the pyramids, Lao-tzu for the people of the orient, and the Bohdi Satya for the people of the temples, would reach out again once the killing spirit, the spirit of greed and avarice, no longer ruled.

A new spirit, born of understanding and humility, would give rise to an age of harmony but it could not begin until the killing spirit was defeated.

Jerico sat for a hundred years in silent thought. He realized he would have to return to his people to tell them what he had seen. He prayed for guidance and he received it in the cry of an eagle on its journey west to the high mountains of the Rockies. It was late summer when he began the long walk in desert heat. It was fall when he reached the foothills and climbed a secluded trail to begin his life as a wolf.

When the first snows swept across the high country, a mountain man, chiseled from hard granite (the color of his beard), came to his camp. His name was Deuces and Jerico mistook his shadow for that of a grizzly when it first appeared. His voice was deep and strong and his laughter was rolling thunder. He was on his way down when he happened across Jerico’s fire. He did not know whether to pity his foolishness or admire his courage.

For three days, he taught Jerico everything he could about surviving winter in the Rockies. He taught him how to recognize the signs of a coming storm, how to distinguish a snowstorm from an ice storm, and how to judge its strength. He taught him how to locate caves and how to avoid mountain lions, wolves and grizzlies.

He had once lived among the Mormons, who believed that the savior would return in the body of a Laminite – the Mormon word for Indian. For three nights, sitting by the fire, he spoke of prophecies, from the biblical to Nostradamus, and always his deliberations would end with this strange notion pulled from the Book of Mormon.

Jerico did not know why but he offered his mountain-survival teacher his vision of the four worlds and the grizzly man went silent until the distant call of a wolf broke the spell. They smoked a pipe before they lay down to sleep and in the morning, they gave their farewells and exchanged gifts: a bearskin coat for a sacred medicine bundle.

It was deep winter when he found the cave that would be his home. There was fresh water from a nearby spring and an eagle stood guard from his perch above. He had plenty of dried meat and thoughts to keep him company. It was a good place to cry for a vision and here he would remain until the winter began to thaw.

The cave was large enough for a sweat lodge. It let in the sun but kept out the snow and the sleet. The walls were granite but the floor was layered with soft earth. It was ideal for a grizzly hibernation but there were no fresh signs of animal inhabitants.

Once he had settled in his camp, he sat silently in thought for days, gathering his strength. Then he began a fast, living only on the clear, living waters of a mountain spring. On the seventh day of fasting, a fever took hold of him and a wolf, black as a moonless night, appeared at the entrance of his dwelling.

It did not show its teeth or growl, as a wolf does when it encounters an unwelcome visitor. It remained still, watching as Jerico in his delirium on a bed of skins, made out its form across the fire and wondered if he could even rise in defense. Slowly, as the wolf came into focus and moved forward into the cave, he did not feel threatened. Slowly, as it circled around the fire, its blackness changed to brown and gold and, finally, white.

The wolf was summoning the memory of White Buffalo Calf Woman, who appeared to his people as a black buffalo before the transformation. Had Jerico been in his normal, waking mind, he might have challenged the image as an illusion but his heart was devoid of doubt. He remembered the story of the two warriors who greeted White Buffalo Woman. One greeted her with reverence and was rewarded, while the other desired her sexual treasure and perished in ashes.

The transformation complete, the wolf stood before him as Marie.

Jerico could no more deny his desire for her than a river can flow backwards.

“I took this form,” she said, “because I knew it would please you.”

She lay beside him and pressed her hand to his forehead. His fever vanished and she placed her lips on his: the taste of honey and sweet memories, a warm spring under starlit skies, the first promise of devotion, the first touch of kindness, a dive into pure waters, the dance of enchanted maidens, city lights and thunderstorms, summer rain and the river flows.

She was his eternal partner, his other half, his soul companion, yet she was also his teacher, his master, the voice of his wisdom and he was her humble student.

In a quiet moment, as they lay entwined, Jerico told her the story of the hawk and the ravens. When he was a child, he wandered off to a place by the creek where ravens gathered in the cottonwood trees. It became his place of solitude, where he would skip stones off the water, study the sky and dream.

On a summer day, he noticed that the ravens were active, squawking and darting across the creek from tree to tree, as if something had invaded their space and disturbed their peace. He noticed a hawk in the tallest tree. He had never seen a hawk in this place before. The hawk prefers the high ground where the wind currents are strong and his powerful vision is most useful. This hawk had chosen a different path.

As the days rolled by, the ravens began pushing the unwelcome visitor. One by one, they swooped across the sky, pulling up at the hawk’s perch. If the hawk moved toward one, another would swoop in from a different direction. After a while, the ravens forced the hawk into the air where they nipped at his wings and tail feathers, blocking the hawk from moving higher where the raven cannot follow.

Even as a child, Jerico understood that the ravens were trying to push the hawk from the land they claimed as their own but the hawk was too proud. He circled back when he should have flown west to the mountains.

Finally, the hawk grew tired as the ravens slammed his weakened body harder and harder. It lost its flight and spiraled into the ground, landing hard on the rocky bank of the creek.

The ravens descended, surrounding his almost still body, but they no longer poked or prodded him. They bobbed their heads and it seemed to Jerico that they were praying in the raven way. One nudged the hawk’s wing as if imploring him to rise and fly away but the hawk could not. His spirit had already risen.

So the ravens flew to the trees and returned with leaves and feathers to place on the hawk’s body. They kicked sand and stone over the grave and bobbed their heads in prayer.

The ravens were praying to the spirit that soars above all beings to grant safe passage to the spirit world for a brave and tireless enemy.

“There is much to be learned from this story,” said Marie. “It teaches that pride can lead to folly but it also teaches something about the killing spirit.”

Outside a harsh wind whistled through the pines and the bite of winter was deadly cold but inside the fire glowed and warmth surrounded them with comfort.

“The killing spirit loves his enemy,” she continued. “It loves only those it respects and respects only those who refuse to bow to its power. It kills for love and laments its victim.”

“Is that why it killed Henry Lightfoot?” Jerico asked. “Is that why it killed Ramona and the others? For love?”

“No,” she replied. “They were not the targets of the killing spirit’s game. The black heart thinks nothing of killing those who do not matter. They are pawns that can be used and discarded. You are the one that matters. The killing spirit wants to transform you from a man of the spirits to a warrior.”

“As it did Crazy Horse,” said Jerico.

“They were different times,” reflected Marie. “The people needed a warrior then to give them hope, to lead them in a century of struggle to survive as a people. They have survived. Now the people have a different need. They need a warrior for the truth. They need to share a vision of truth that will reveal the killing spirit for what it is.”

“When we see the truth, when the vision is revealed, will it change our path?”

“When enough people see it and believe it,” replied Marie, “it will change everything.”

They listened to the wind as it railed and grew calm like waves on angry sea. Jerico’s thoughts followed the wind, filling with rage and subsiding, racing to understand and subsiding in hopelessness.

“First,” she said at length, “you must believe. There is no truth in anger and there is no understanding in vengeance.”

“To heal others,” Jerico reflected, “you must first heal yourself.”

They made love in the cool dampness of a mother’s womb. They let the mountain swallow them and carry them to where eagles nest, where the wind and the snow could comfort them. They let the waves ebb and flow: the small of her back, the salt of her wound, the thrust of her hips, the heat of his breath, the smell of surrender and the long ride home.

He would never be alone. Wherever he traveled, whatever he did, whoever crossed his path, he would always find Marie.

In the womb of understanding, in the still of paradise, two visions of the future unfolded:

The first was a vision of the world as it would be if the killing spirit still ruled. The wasichu gambling castles rose from Indian ground but the people still lived in plywood shacks and cinder block homes that could neither block the chill of winter nor the heat of summer. The people had no jobs or jobs that could not pay a living wage. Men and women were living as empty shells, collecting welfare and seeking truth in liquor and drugs. Children were hungry for knowledge and food. Fat white men and their Indian collaborators counted dollars while their souls rotted.

The second vision was a world without the killing spirit. The people celebrated their culture and heritage and white people in vans and buses came to gather knowledge and hope. It was a world where technology did not poison the air and water, harnessing the power of the sun, the wind and human ingenuity. The old ways, the ways of mother earth and White Buffalo Calf Woman, were taught in the schools and churches, and practiced by the people in a sacred way. Even the white man respected the Indian way and sacred lands returned to the people who loved and cared for them.

All nations were united not in war but in strength and pride. Tribes everywhere took back their lands and replaced the white man’s gambling castles with schools, museums and shrines to the living dead.

“The people cannot go back,” said Marie, “but a bridge can be built connecting the old to the new so that both may live in harmony. This cannot be done while the killing spirit is allowed to continue the path it has walked for a thousand years. It can only be done if the darkness yields to light, if the killing spirit is no more.”

Jerico felt the weight of her words, even as he welcomed them, for he understood that his responsibility was not to hide but to step forward in battle.

“Do not believe it is impossible,” said Marie. “The killing spirit has no greater desire than his own defeat. He has chosen you because he believes you can succeed where others have failed.”

In the hours of her departure, a heavy silence descended upon them and, in that silence, their love blossomed and grew. When the time arrived, she drew a circle on the floor of the cave and in that circle, she drew seven lines – seven spokes of the great wheel.

She said that each spoke represented one of the sacred rites. Jerico had completed four parts of his journey: Inipi, Ishnati Alowanpi, Hunka Kagapi and Hanblecheya. To fulfill his vision, he needed to complete the wheel: Wiwanyank Wachipi (Sun Dance), Nagi Wachipi (Ghost Dance) and Nagi Uhapi (Keeping and Releasing the Soul).

“You must follow the path of Crazy Horse,” she said. “Accept no titles, no gifts. You must rise above your pride. You must have no anger when you strike your enemy. Anger gives the killing spirit strength. You must have a quiet tongue so that when you speak, your words will reach out and circle the earth as the earth circles the sun. You must be certain in your step. You will see the path as it falls at your feet.”

They came together one last time before she walked into the night. The sky was clear, a blue moon hovering like a gift from Father Sky. She became the white wolf, the brown, the golden and the black. As she vanished on the trail above, Jerico’s tears burned with sorrow, with wanting what can never be.

Soon winter would break and he would leave the womb forever.