THE KILLING SPIRIT: Indian Territory (23)

CHAPTER SIX
INDIAN TERRITORY



According to legend, Crazy Horse went to the mountain and cried for a vision seven times; he received seven visions. He cried for a vision and he became the mountain. He cried for a vision and became the shadow. He cried for a vision and became the sun, the badger, the spotted eagle and the wolf. He cried for a vision and became Crazy Horse.

Jerico needed the powers of the spirit world. He needed to cry for a vision in the old way. He needed to cleanse himself in the sacred sweat lodge, to fast and chant in the ancient tongue, to open his mind, heart and body, to lament with all his senses in calling to the spirit world. He wanted to invoke the spirit of Crazy Horse.

He knew the spirits would not enter where fear and darkness had taken root. He needed Inipi, the cleansing ritual that precedes all others. He needed redemption and redemption could only come through the cleansing of Inipi.

He drove through the night, one eye on the rearview mirror, haunted by a sense of running and the feeling that he was being followed. He focused his thoughts on the road ahead where friends and relations awaited. He thought of his cousin, Ina Black Feather, a cherished childhood friend who moved to Indian Territory when she met and married Billy Little Sky.

Before the seven tribes of the Lakota Nation were confined to reservations, many intermarried with other tribes of the northern plains. When these tribes were relocated to Indian Territory, families were divided and tribal relations broken. Billy was a product of the great migration. His mother was Cheyenne and his father Lakota. Ina was twice married before she met Billy, first to a Lakota who pretended he was white and then to a white man who pretended he was Indian.

Jerico smiled at the memory of Billy when he danced the Sun Dance at Wounded Knee. He pretended there was no pain. It seemed there was a lot of pretending in Indian land. He was proud of Billy then and proud of Ina for making him a warrior.

Lala found her stride in the Oklahoma hills where a warm and comfortable feeling allowed him to look back. The brave young Cherokee woman child was named Mary. Her bright eyes cut through the pain and filled his heart with joy. When he confessed to the child’s mother that he hesitated, that he might have saved her great suffering, she embraced him and they comforted one another.

“Our suffering is our history and our strength,” she said. “If you had not been strong enough, my daughter would be dead.”

There was wisdom in her words but there was also a shadow of guilt and Jerico prayed that shadow and not the killing spirit itself, was trailing him on a lonely highway in the Oklahoma hills.

√√√√

Lying on her back in the dark hours of morning, Ina struggled to hold back her tears. She was good at holding back. She was four months pregnant and the desperation had settled into a dull ache.

Light filtered through the trees outside, casting shadows on her bedroom wall, dancing like lost souls, like ghosts without a home. Her soul danced with them. She was past wondering where Billy was or what he was doing. She knew. He was begging drinks at the local bar, playing the fool to his cowboy friends, drinking cheap whiskey until he was too drunk to stand and they threw him out.

It no longer mattered. She no longer had a heart to care. Still, she could not help wondering, in the long hours of the night, how he became the man who would stumble through her bedroom door all too soon. Was it after he lost his job at the white man’s ranch or did he lose his job because he had changed? Was it the booze or was the bottle his refuge? Was it the baby or did it only seem to happen at the moment of conception? Was it her disapproval that made him a lesser man as he claimed, or did her disapproval follow as she believed?

It was only a mental exercise. Still, some part of her held on to the belief that if she found the cause she could find a cure. Like the white man’s medicine, she would take a knife to the wound and cut out the disease that poisoned his spirit.

Ina bit her lip hard and assumed a pantomime of sleep as Billy, the man she loved as deeply as the deepest cave in the sacred mountains, tripped over the gate and cursed the darkness for his drunkenness. His next steps were as predictable as a child’s story: He fumbled with his keys, pushed the door open, turned on the light, kicked the door closed, tiptoed to the kitchen, where he opened the refrigerator, cursed and slammed it shut. Then he walked to the bedroom and cast his shadow on the still body of his wife. Ina heard his labored breathing and wondered if he could hear the beating of her heart.

Sometimes he would wake her, other times he would not. This time he sat on the bed, draped an arm over her side, and began blubbering through drunken tears: “I need you baby. I need you to to to understand to to be with me.”

Ina knew better than to take the bait. What began as self-pity would soon turn bitter until it exploded in rage.

“Damn it,” he yelled, yanking the covers from the bed with a flurry of obscenities.

The pantomime was over and Ina braced herself for the storm. It was going to be one of those days.

√√√√

Jerico pretended he was shooting holes in the roadside signs that seemed to chronicle the genocide and forced migration of all native peoples: Tahlequah, Muskogee, Checotah, Seminole, Shawnee, Tecumseh, Pottawatomie, Kiowa, Chickasha and Comanche. All had made the long walk; all could trace their own trail of tears. They were compelled to give up their tribal lands for lands no white man wanted, only to have those lands stolen in the great Oklahoma land rush at the turn of the century. If any land symbolized the white man’s mendacity and injustice, it was the land of rolling hills and scattered oil wells.

He turned down the road to Anadarko where four crows waited on a telephone line. Three lifted and scattered, leaving one to guide Jerico on his path to becoming. He slowed on the gravel driveway to Ina and Billy’s house and stopped at the sounds of marital discord, cracking through the dust, shattering the peace of a new day. As the dust settled, he saw Ina through the kitchen window, hurling a plate and yelling as a woman does only to her man, with a passion that both loves and hates. The house was a whirlwind of crashing emotions, overturned lamps, dishes, pans and banging doors.

They did not notice the arrival of their Lakota brother from the North Country where the four winds blow cold logic on the flames of rage. They did not notice the crackling gravel, the trail of dust or the hum of Lala’s engine. Jerico considered turning around and moving on but the crow had landed on the gate before him, reminding him that he was here for a reason, that he could not turn his back on destiny.

He waited until the explosion of rage subsided, then he eased Lala in reverse, back down the driveway and few miles down the road. He waited a while longer, then kicked her into gear, kicking up dust with a war cry and horn blaring, announcing his arrival Lakota warrior style.

Ina and Billy stepped from the house with expressions of fear and loathing until they recognized the wild man from the north. They greeted him with warm embrace, Ina wiping away tears as if they were cobwebs of sleep, Billy throwing off his drunkenness for as long as he could stand it. Jerico looked at Ina and he saw Marie. He let the image of her smile wash over him, the morning dew becoming teardrops and the sun on his back her body holding him. In that instant, he understood why he was here. Ina was Marie’s closest friend. Like family members, sharing expressions and mannerisms, Ina still held the spirit of his lost love close to her heart. Marie still lived within them both and this they could share like the grief of a mourning tribe.

Jerico ran from the reservation to escape the ghost of his love but now he sought her comfort and magic to help him escape the ghost that haunted him like a plague of the soul. He was seeking Marie in those she loved. He was seeking her compassion, her warmth, and her forgiveness.

They went inside for morning coffee as Billy’s spirit sagged from the weight of what he had done. He was always sorry in daylight. He excused himself and went to bed. Jerico could not help but empathize. He had walked the path himself, as had so many of his people, and only recovered with the kindness of friends and family.

“Too bad you didn’t get in last night,” said Ina. “You could have slept in a nice warm bed.”

“He didn’t hit you,” replied Jerico. They had known each other too long to continue a charade.

“No,” said Ina. “He’s not that kind of man. He pushes me around but he only beats himself up. He has his reasons.”

Jerico did not ask. He knew the reasons. They belonged to all the Lakota. They belonged to all native peoples. They belonged to him. Like a cancer, they started as one and grew into many. He drank because the red road was lost to him. He drank because he had no vision. He drank because Marie drank. He drank because his love died in a blaze of highway glory. He drank because he did not believe in accidents. He drank because he wanted to kill. He drank because he wanted to die. He drank because he did not have the courage to take his own life.

They were all good reasons but they were not real. The truth was he drank because he wanted to get drunk and he continued drinking because he wanted to stay drunk. He wanted the reasons for being the way he was to belong to the bottle instead of himself.

It was Grandfather who helped him to cleanse his body and purify his spirit so that he could see with clear eyes the unforgiving truth.

“When I saw you drive up,” said Ina, “I thought you came to rescue us.”

Jerico’s eyes fell inward where he found sorrow in knowing that it was not true.

“I came here to ask for help.”

Ina placed her hand on his in kindness. “Maybe we can help each other.”

She apologized as she rose to ready herself for work. With Billy unemployed, she was lucky to have a job as a waitress and she had already missed too many days. She could not afford to take a day off even for a visitor from home. She asked him to stay.

“Billy will be up in a few hours. Make yourself at home.”

Billy was a walking shadow with dark circles around his eyes, false pride in his step and an edge beneath his words. Bravado was a cover for his shame and Billy was not very good at it. Drinking was the answer to his pain. Many reasons. His old truck was broken down. He had no money. His back ached with every step and every movement. He could not work. In a drunken rage, he had run over the sweat lodge and not bothered to rebuild it. He could not heal. He could not work. Ina no longer needed him, no longer trusted him, no longer welcomed him in bed. He was half a man. He could not work.

He offered Jerico a drink. Jerico declined. He understood. It was the only way to ease his suffering but the suffering was not in his back, but in his soul.

Jerico told him what had happened since the day that he left the reservation, the day after Marie was placed in the earth. If he stayed, he would return to the way of the bottle and he knew where that path led. He chose the road. He chose to seek the vision that he believed was the birthright of all Lakota. The road was a harsh master for though it taught many lessons it always exacted a price. He told him about the dark spirit that invaded his dreams and, then, crossed over into his life. Finally, he told him there were things he could not do alone and among them was Inipi. He feared the darkness had entered his being and he could not be rid of it without the sacred rite of cleansing.

Jerico offered to help Billy repair his truck, to clear the land and plant a garden, to do odd jobs and run errands. In exchange, he asked that they rebuild the sweat lodge together so that they both could be cleansed in sweat.

For Jerico, Inipi would be sufficient. For Ina and Billy, it was not enough. The bond between them was weakened, poisoned by cruelty and jealous pride. He told Billy about the Lakota ritual known as Hunka Lowanpi. One of the seven sacred rites given the Lakota people by White Buffalo Woman, it was the ancient means of healing relations. For centuries, it was invoked to rebuild relations between warring tribes as well as individuals. Jerico was familiar with the rite but he knew it as a man who only hears the words. The Hunka rituals were rarely practiced in the days that Jerico walked the earth, even in the land of the Lakota. He was not old enough or wise enough to lead the ceremony. For that, they would need a Spirit Guide. Though he knew of no Spirit Guide in Indian Territory, he was certain there was one. Why else would the spirit of the crow guide him here?

“Looks like a storm,” said Billy as he looked out the window at a wall of dark clouds moving in from the east.

Jerico felt ill and fear clutched at his throat. He stumbled outside, fell to the earth and struggled for air.

“What is it?” asked Billy.

“This darkness,” replied Jerico, still gasping for breath, “belongs to me. I’ve brought evil to your house.”

“It was here before you came,” said Billy.

He helped Jerico to his feet and walked him back inside where they talked, man-to-man, brother-to-brother, with nothing but truth to guide their words. Jerico wanted to get in his car and drive a thousand miles. He wanted to lead the darkness away from a home that already bore too great a burden. Billy was worried. Ina held his child within her and, for all his faults; his first instinct was to protect the unborn child. Still, he knew right from wrong and a brother did not turn from a brother in pain.

“No one can own the darkness of a people,” he said. “If you lead it away, it will fall on someone else.”

Jerico’s heart divided against itself. He remembered the Cherokee girl who became a woman and he recoiled. He knew that he was caught in a trap the wasichu spirit laid for him. He could not run and he could not stay.

The storm unleashed a torrent of rain and thunderbolts that toppled old growth trees, crushed homes and smashed cars. Jerico and Billy waited and wondered but it passed before noon, leaving behind a cover of benevolent clouds, replacing the darkness with shades of gray.

They spent the afternoon working on the truck, enjoying the solitude of hard work, and managed to get it running by the time Ina arrived with a bag of groceries. She spoke little but her bright, radiant eyes conveyed her approval. She was pleased that her Lakota brother had stayed and pleased that Billy, for the first time in memory, had a clear mind.

They shared a meal of chicken, corn and sweet bread, trading stories of old times when they were young and their fathers worked the ranches near the Rez. Most were stories of laughter and joy, riding horses through fields of tall grass, hiking in the sacred mountains, swimming naked and playing tricks, wild parties and first loves. Many were stories that pulled at their memories of Marie.

When the evening grew quiet with fireflies and coyote calls, they smoked a round from Ina’s ceremonial pipe, and Jerico spoke plainly about his hopes and fears.

“If I stay,” he said, “I don’t know what will happen. If we have the sweat, there may be danger. If we have the ceremony…”

He could not finish the thought nor did he need to. Ina filled the pipe and passed it for another round. Billy’s silence was heavy, torn between his own needs and the needs of a brother, between the needs of the one and the needs of a people.

Their thoughts turned to the killing spirit, the spirit that lived within the white man when they tried to exterminate all Indian peoples, to erase forever the memory of their existence. When the white man failed, he killed the buffalo to extinguish a way of life. He rounded them up like spotted cattle and put them on reservations. He commanded them to abandon the old ways and punished them for speaking the old tongue. He warned them never to practice the sacred ceremonies and crushed those who defied him. When the Ghost Dance swept through Indian Nation, he warned them not to dance. Wounded Knee was the legacy of the wasichu killing spirit. He took their children and put them in Indian schools where they learned not to be Indians, where they were whipped for summoning the Great Spirit, for praying to Mother Earth and Father Sky, for wearing moccasins or buffalo skins. Still, the people did not stop believing. The people did not forget who they were. They did not allow the Lakota spirit to die. Even when they turned the Hotchkiss guns on the Ghost Dancers of Wounded Knee, they did not stop dancing in their hearts. They waited until the white man turned his back, until the people were so beaten down by poverty, hunger and disease they were no longer considered a threat, and then they went back to the old ways.

Now the struggle remained, poverty and disease remained, the white man’s poisons remained, but the buffalo had returned and the sacred ceremonies survived to be practiced under open skies. Even the Ghost Dance rose from the ashes of Wounded Knee and the image of Crazy Horse rose above the Great White Fathers in the Black Hills. The Lakota were never defeated in battle and the Lakota spirit was never broken. The ties that bound the people to the earth and the earth to the heavens were never cut.

They would not be severed now. Before the smoke of Ina’s sacred pipe lifted, Jerico knew he would run no further. He had run long enough.

“Remember Indian School?” asked Ina. “Remember when Marie spit in the white father’s face?”

He remembered. Marie had worn the moccasins her grandmother had given her for her birthday. The Holy Father called her to the front of the class and demanded that she place her hand on the desk for punishment. Marie did as she was told. She took the blows until blood was drawn. Her eyes held back tears of fire but she refused to cry. She bit down on her lip so hard it bled. Then she had her revenge.

Jerico remembered. It was the moment he fell in love. He swore then to the savage God, to Mother Earth, Father Sky and the Great Spirit, that he would never give in.

Never.