THE KILLING SPIRIT: The Omen (4)

CHAPTER ONE
THE OMEN



Where the great river makes its way to the endless forest, it begins to wind like a snake climbing and the road following its path winds with it. Jerico walked Lala on this path. They were in no hurry. Though the river runs swiftly, it remains in the same place.

They watched the metal of the white man’s discarded industry, tractors, sheds, motorized vehicles, ploughs, stoves and dishwashers, rust in the places they were discarded. Jerico camped in near darkness down river from St. Louis. He climbed a fence with barbed wire to find his way to the riverbank. He labored for hours clearing a campground littered with plastic bags, aluminum cans, old radios, the shells of cigarette cartons, milk cartons, detergent boxes, plastic wrap and containers of every size and description. He reflected that the white man lives as if his is the last generation to walk the earth, as if his children and grandchildren did not exist, and maybe he was right. Maybe there is no future, there is only today. It was anathema to everything he believed. He reflected that the white man is the only creature on earth that spoils its own habitat.

He avoided shards of glass and jagged concrete to sit where he could wade his feet in the muddy waters of the great river, where he sat motionless, releasing the smell of oil and gasoline, releasing the sight of floating fish and the skeletons of poisoned wildlife, egrets and gulls, possums and raccoons that relied on these waters for survival. He sat for hours, legs folded, eyes shut to the world, hands open to Father Sky, releasing his rage at the white man’s ignorance and mendacity, discarding his toxic waste into the waters that gave him birth, releasing his poisons where it will do most harm.

When at length he found a quiet space within, he dove into the muddy waters and allowed its powers to cleanse his body, mind and spirit. He let the current take him, watching the stars float by in a sky of darkness above. His mind traveled back to the sweat lodge back home. He remembered the waves of white heat, the smell of sweet grass, the passing of the pipe. He remembered ancient faces emerging from pitch darkness, the glowing stones, the explosions of steam as sacred waters were poured on them, and the waves of sweat flowing from his body. He remembered the deep, solemn satisfaction that entered his soul upon completing the four cycles.

“If you are going to do Inipi,” Grandfather said, “do it right.”

Together they walked into the hills, far from the village of shantytown cabins and shacks where most of his people lived. For two days, they fasted. “When you are older,” Grandfather said, “you will fast four days.” Jerico protested that he would fast four days now but Grandfather only smiled. They gathered willows, logs, sticks and smooth, round stones. They built the lodge, the fire pit, and lined the sacred path, working in the old ways, side by side, in the ways that were handed down by the ancestors.

“If you are going to do Inipi, do it right.”

On the hike back to camp, the river came alive with creatures shuffling in the brush, bright eyes in the black forest, with the haunting hoot of an owl and the yip of coyotes far from their native land, with fish jumping and wild dogs scavenging, howling and yapping, with cicada and tree frogs in their nocturnal serenade. Even the bright lights of a floating casino, a paddleboat steamer with its Dixieland jazz and costumed revelers seemed natural and right.

Jerico’s thoughts turned to his ancestors and the one all Lakota remember first. Crazy Horse cast aside tradition and the ritual of Inipi when he first went to the mountain to cry for a vision. His father, who was Crazy Horse before him, was displeased. Together they would relive the spiritual journey in the sacred and prescribed manner but the vision would remain the same. He would not be killed in battle. Neither bullet nor knife nor arrow would harm him as long as his people remained true. He would be humble, he would take nothing from his many victories, and he would always help his people, yet he would live with the knowledge that one day a trusted brother would hold his arms and mark his passing to the other world.

Crazy Horse kept his promise to the people and Jerico swore that he would keep his own. He would remember the old ways. He would wear plain clothes. He would seek no rewards for his victories. He would always hold the people in his heart.

Only once did Crazy Horse betray his vision. Only once did he allow pride to bend his judgment, accepting the honor of becoming a shirt bearer and desiring a woman forbidden to him. He paid for that transgression with a bullet to his face. That he survived was nothing less than a miracle.

Jerico was only beginning to recognize the greater truth of Crazy Horse: that the liquid world of dreams was as real, as rich and palpable as the world we call life, a world ironically dominated by death.

He built a fire and let his eyes join the dance of flames before he settled into a deep sleep where he dreamed the dream of the old ways, the dream of hunting and counting coup, the dream of raiding enemy camps and migrating with the seasons, the dream of the buffalo and the greasy grass, the dream of freedom before the white man came.

He had this dream many times before but this time there was a darkness, a heavy shadow, just beyond his senses. He awoke to the caw of the crow but did not stir until certain he was alone.

In the light of day, he could see he had been guided to this place for a reason. His camp could not be seen from the road and the view from the river was obscured by overgrowth and a weeping willow. It was a good place for Inipi. He cut reeds of willow, gathered logs and sticks, hunted down Inipi stones, dug the pit, laid the sacred path, and built a sweat lodge in the way of the ancestors, the way Grandfather had taught him.

Despite his sacred manner and countenance, he was only one man and could not perform all the roles of Inipi: Fire keeper, Drummer, Water Man and Spirit Guide. In a world less than perfect, it was the best he could do and for three cycles of the sweat, he prayed that the Great Spirit would take pity on him and hear his cry. On the fourth cycle, he heard the chant of ancient voices. He saw their ancient faces, marked with worry and wisdom, and looked into their eyes. He perceived something beyond the ancient sorrow and sensed that the darkness of his dreams was here as well, in the folds of steam, in the sacred lodge, in the glowing stones, and in the eyes of the ancient ones. He burned sage and prayed until the darkness seemed to fade.

Jerico was relieved to get back on the road. Coasting along the banks of the Mississippi, it felt good to be back at Lala’s reins. He allowed the waters of the great river to once again wash over him, to cleanse his spirit and give him new birth. He let go his ghosts, his nightmares, his dark thoughts and heavy shadows. He let the past recede in the rear view mirror as he watched the vines, kudzu and brush of an eternal forest creep over the ruins of the white man’s waste. He watched the awesome power of Mother Earth in constant motion, reclaiming the land from the discards of industry. He felt the air, itself, grow heavy and alive as sweat layered his skin and tall trees of magnolia, oak and dogwood, threw shadows on the blue pavement.

A woman with wild red hair in a blue convertible passed him on the narrow road in a blaze of glory. A chill crawled up his spine as three doves flew over the tree line to the west – west where the flame is extinguished, west where the spirit is swallowed, and west where the soul of all beings is laid to rest. A raven’s cry and dead silence.

He saw Marie in the mirror of his mind. He watched her smile turn to lifeless form. He saw her body dancing turn to unformed clay. He saw blood on the pavement of a lost highway. He saw her tears run dry as he tasted his own. He saw Marie behind and Marie ahead as he rounded a curve where an old pickup lay overturned in the brush alongside the road. A man knelt in the scattered debris, coughing blood and bleeding from his forehead. He pulled off his shirt and held it to the man’s head, guiding him away from the smell of spilt gas in the dry brush, coaxing him to lie down at the roadside.

“Screw me!” the man choked through the blurred vision of his blood-soaked eyes. “Help her!” He pointed to where the wild woman in a blue convertible went over the edge into the river. There was a trail of burnt rubber, a splintered guardrail, and a path of fresh destruction. Jerico followed the trail, skidding down a steep embankment, where he dove into the waters just as the overturned car went under.

There was life in her eyes when he pulled her from the car and carried her to the riverbank. There was life in her body when he pushed the water from her lungs and pressed his mouth to hers to refill them with air. Her lips were cold, her body numb, and he knew as he gazed once more into her eyes that her struggle had passed. He saw Marie.

The woman was dead. Nothing he did could save her or bring her back. He heard a distant and wicked laughter in the river running, laughter in the wind through the trees, laughter beneath the wail of sirens and the whirl of lights and emergency personnel barking orders and asking questions.

“What happened? What did you see?”

A woman died. He watched her spirit leave her body behind her. He saw Marie. He sat down in the shade of magnolia, oak and dogwood, and wiped the water from his face.

“Just an accident,” someone said. “Nothing you could do.”

Jerico did not believe in accidents. It was an omen, a clear and powerful warning meant to move him away from his chosen path. In a few hours, he would move on but a part of him would always remain here, at the side of a winding road, desperate, alone and afraid.

He drove on in a mindless haze, winding along the great river, until he feared he would follow the ghost of his past to a muddy grave. He pulled off the road, found a cheap motel, ate, showered and slept, praying that a new day would breathe new life into his weary bones.