THE KILLING SPIRIT: Path of the Soul Keeper (132-137)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
PATH OF THE SOUL KEEPER



When the Moon of the Scarlet Plums was high in the evening sky and the meadowlark sang his night song, grandfather breathed his last breath, squeezed his grandson’s hand goodbye, and closed his eyes on the sentient earth for the last time in this life.

There is a time when the soul is neither here nor departed. It lingers in the enduring mystery between the earthbound life of a physical being and a spiritual life in the beyond. Grandfather lingered in that mystery space now, waiting for the vision to find expression, waiting for a sign that would confirm all that he believed and all that he had passed to the children of the Lakota nation.

Strikes Lightning, whose eyes shed no tears but whose manner was the soul of reverence, cut a lock of grandfather’s hair and placed it in the sacred bundle, a plain deerskin pouch that Jerico would protect and shelter for twelve moons. The bundle would become home to grandfather’s soul. Hands that were soiled with guilt or tainted with blood would never be allowed to touch it. Jerico would keep the bundle with him wherever he went. When he remained at his tipi, he would place it on a three-legged pedestal always within sight.

It was the way of Nagi Uhapi and Jerico would hold it close to his heart. His was the path of the soul keeper.

Grandfather’s body was cleansed and dressed in burial robes. The dreamers carried him to a secret place where a scaffold was erected though it stood against the laws of the white man. In the manner of the ancestors, he would remain on the scaffold for seven days. His body would be delivered back to the mother and the father, scattered by the winds and the animals of the forest to the four corners of the earth. After seven days, they would take his body down and bury it where none would ever find it.

So it was for Crazy Horse and the father of Crazy Horse, who was Crazy Horse before him, and so it would be for the grandfather of Jerico Whitehorse, the wise man of the seven tribes.

In a deep, soulful voice, Strikes Lightning summoned the spirit world with a song of unity, bringing together the forces of the universe beneath a star filled sky, uniting the forces of opposition: darkness and light, infinite and finite, abundance and the void, death and life. The words belonged to the ancient ones and spoke of grandfather’s life journey, a joining of the old with the new to transform a world in need.

“It is time,” said Strikes Lightning as he smoked the circle of dreamers with sage, its pungent scent linking the dreamers to the dream and the dream to the solid earth and the earth to the infinite heavens. Drums pounding and seven fires dancing hot and frenzied, all eyes were wide with expectation and wonder.

“Give us your red and blue days!” implored Strikes Lightning. “Help us oh spirits of the beginning time, oh spirits of the end time, oh spirits of the all seeing universe in all your shapes and forms!”

He spread the dust of the earth in the seven directions and opened his eyes, his hands, his heart to the celestial home of the ancestors. The dreamers bowed and prayed in humility, echoing the cry, absorbing the powers of the spirit world.

“Help us oh wise ones of the fire circle! Guide us and protect us as we take this step! Spirit of the Thunderbirds and the four winds, help this chosen one to take the soul of his grandfather, to keep it as he would the soul of the Lakota and all Indian nations! In the name of the mother and the grandmother, in the name of the father and the grandfather, in the name of the Great Spirit, who sees and knows and senses all, let it be so!”

The fire reached to the stars and grandfather’s soul leaped like a stone into Jerico’s heart. Like a pounding fist, it crashed into his chest, knocking him to the earth, where he lost all bearing and struggled to keep from being swept away, scattered to the four corners of the universe. As he held steady, he heard a familiar voice, faint at first, then clear and strong.

“Hear me, my grandson! Listen to my words!

“For these many years, I have held within my soul the name that was given me by my grandfather, a name that is sacred to all Lakota and to all Indian nations, a name that is revered for it is the name of one who gave himself to the people always.

“He will walk the earth again, I was told. You will know him, I was told, as a mother knows her child. You will know him as he proves himself worthy, as a warrior and a man of the spirits. You will know him and you will give him his rightful name.

“I give it to you now. May it lend you strength and give you comfort. May it guide you on the red road! You are the Strange Man of the Oglala! You are Crazy Horse.”

Jerico wept and where his tears fell, a spring would form in years to come and future generations would gather on pilgrimage, to bathe in sacred waters, to cleanse their spirits and hear the voice of their ancestors.

The dreamers rushed to him and helped him to his feet. Grandfather was dead yet his soul lived on in the spirit of his grandson. He would go on teaching, consoling, counseling as he always had, yet he would no longer walk the earth. No arms to enfold, no voice to sing, no beating heart, grandfather was dead. His was a spirit being now, a shadow, a ghost, a memory, yet as strong as the man he once was.

Jerico felt a darkness within his thoughts, a shadow in his spirit, a spirit within a spirit, and he sensed danger. He felt the presence of the killing spirit, hiding, lingering, and preparing for the battle to come.

Instinctively, he summoned the spirit of Crazy Horse and then he wondered: Was it so? When he called upon Crazy Horse, was he calling upon himself?

“Believe!” said grandfather. “Search your heart and you will know the truth!”

Jerico searched his heart, recalling all that he had learned, retracing the lessons of his journey, reliving his sorrows and triumphs, replaying the wonders he had witnessed, and slowly, gradually came to believe.

It was a truth he would hold close to his heart for it was an honor he could not accept. The lesson of Crazy Horse, above all others, was to accept no honors but to live in humble service to the people. He would accept it as Crazy Horse would, knowing, believing, and yet not speaking. Knowing was enough.

For the next twelve moons, he would walk softly upon the earth. His path was now the gentle road, the calm breeze and the slow moving stream. Enclosed in the protective circle of the dreamers, he did not seek the company of others. He sought the wisdom that comes from long hours of reflection.

Silence was his company and solace yet the people came to his fire seeking his counsel. He refused no one yet he spoke quietly with few words, always seeking the middle path, the road of compromise and peace.

When the first winds of winter arrived, those who had gathered at Wounded Knee, Pine Ridge and Rosebud began to go home. They did not understand their chosen leader. They wanted a warrior but they found a man of peace. They did not understand that when he became a soul keeper, he left behind his warrior ways to become a healer and spirit guide. They wanted him to lead a great rebellion; instead, he offered quiet wisdom and lived in solitude.

What his followers could not see was the battle that raged within him for his spirit now sheltered not only grandfather’s soul but the shadow of the killing spirit as well. Even the dreamers, in times of darkness, questioned his hold upon the earth.

Late at night, beneath the winter moon, he sat alone by the fire, a world away from the surrounding forest, oblivious to the wild animal eyes that often gazed at him in wonder. Streams of indecipherable sounds emerged from him, internal conversations with the spirit world, guardian spirits and dark spirits wrestling for the soul of the chosen.

The killing spirit was among them, emerging when he sensed weakness, appealing to Jerico’s compassion, pulling at his logic and his sense of justice.

“I am an agent of god,” he said. “I am his will on earth. By what right do you oppose god’s will on earth?”

“What is there that is not the creation of the Great Spirit?” Jerico countered. “The microbe that extinguishes an entire species, quakes and fires that destroy whole cities, weapons of mass destruction, droughts, plagues, floods, disasters beyond comprehension, and the human will to oppose them. Should we not put out the fire because it is god’s creation?”

“If not for me,” said the killing spirit, “the human race would still be wallowing in the cosmic mud. Is this evil or is it the harsh hand of evolution, survival of the fittest?”

“I have lived a thousand years,” said Jerico. “I have seen your face in many times and places. I have heard your name whispered in terror and hailed by preachers of hatred: the power merchants, the money seekers, the worst of human kind. I have seen your hands bathed in the blood of millions and I have learned this lesson: Without you there would be no evil upon the earth. There would be greed. There would be pride, injustice, hatred and discrimination but there would be no evil.”

“If this is true,” said the killing spirit, “they why did your merciful god unleash me on this earth?”

“There was a need for you once. There is no longer.”

“If there is no need, why does the all powerful, all seeing god sit idly by? With a silent thought he could whisk me away, scatter my spirit in a trillion places, yet he does nothing. He will not stop me. He cannot stop me. You are only a man. How can you do what your four winds, your thunderbirds, your ancestors and your Great Spirit cannot do?”

“I am the sum of all my people. I do what I can. That is all.”

Bitter waves of laughter resounded in the caverns of Jerico’s mind. Hatred, scorn and sarcasm swept through him like stones through air, none taking hold. He knew what the killing spirit intended. Grandfather taught him well. He had seen the face of death on the ones he loved. He had planted the staff and fought a thousand warriors. He had survived. He would not cry out for vengeance. He would not allow hatred to claim his soul.

“It is a world of opposites,” said the killing spirit. “Its very existence depends on the balance of light and darkness. What becomes of the world if the darkness is no more? What is desire without temptation? What is pleasure without suffering?

“You have been to the overworld. Is harmony so highly valued? Humans need the darkness! You thrive on it. You relish it. You create great works of art because of it. Without the darkness, there are no white knights, no acts of heroism, no great accomplishments, no wonder, no adventure, no heart and no soul.

“Search your heart, Jerico Whitehorse. You do not wish to defeat me. You pretend that I secretly wish to fail but it is you. Not even your Great Spirit wishes it.”

Jerico focused on the darkness before him and saw the truth in the eyes of the crow, come to visit his fire in a moment of need. The killing spirit mixed truth with illusion, altering the senses, confusing the mind and toying with human frailties.

“Humans are very good at creating problems,” said Jerico. “We need no spirits to create injustice. We wage war for greed, we imprison the poor and powerless, we poison our own air and water. We will always have our own crises, our mountains to climb, our wounds to heal, and our enemies to oppose. We do not need the priest of vengeance. When we break free, we will seek new adventures. We will reach new heights. At last, we will be worthy of our mother and our father.”

“Join me and I will make you king.”

“It is an honor I do not desire.”

The killing spirit went silent, as Jerico sat still and watched the moon walk slowly across the sky. At last, the winter gave way to spring and spring gave way to summer. Almost all of those who joined the march on Wounded Knee had long gone home but a strange little white man remained in the woods at a distance from the camp of the dreamers. He was a skilled hunter and sometimes approached them to offer food, skins and labor.

The dreamers spoke of him at counsel around the fire. There was a vague sense of discomfort, even danger, but it was a time of harmony and good will. When they asked Jerico for guidance, he acknowledged their misgivings but instructed them to treat him as a friend.

“Welcome him,” said Jerico. “Teach him our ways. Let him hunt with the bow and arrow. Let him eat by our fire and bathe in our streams. Welcome him in all ways but one: He must never be allowed in the circle.”

The old ones nodded their understanding. It was the only way. They would bring this strange white man into the light where he could be watched. They would speak to him of the ancient ways and beliefs. They would teach him their love of the land and the sacred mountains. They would teach him to hunt the Indian way. They would open their minds and show him their hearts but they would block his way to the circle of trust. They would watch him and they would learn his secrets.

It was the ninth moon, the Moon when the Plums are Scarlet, when the dreamers began preparations for the release of grandfather’s soul. The white man understood without telling that he could have no part. They chanted by night to screaming winds and prayed by windswept days. They summoned the animal spirits, practiced enchantment, gathered and purified ceremonial objects.

Finally, when the vision was passed from one to the next, completing the circle of understanding, they fell into a profound silence, watching and listening for the signs that would bless their mission.

For a time, they all but forgot about the strange little white man who remained in the shadows on the outskirts of camp. When he visited their fire in the final days, he was greeted with probing eyes.

“What is your name?” asked Mary White Cloud.

It was strange that none had asked before and stranger still that he had not offered it until now.

“Jeb,” he mumbled. “Jeb Morgan.”