THE KILLING SPIRIT: Releasing the Soul (138-142)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
RELEASING THE SOUL



There was something in the woods. It began in the early morning hours as a faint, pulsating beat, like the first heartbeat of life, a sound so delicate it fell beyond the range of human perception.

The animal spirits were alarmed. Deer, wolves, mountain cats, rabbits, possums, raccoons and squirrels stopped in their tracks, sniffed the air, scratched the earth, and let their eyes drift over their surroundings. Owls, hawks, eagle and ravens took flight, deer bolted, and four legs moved to higher ground, sounding a warning in retreat.

There was something in the woods and it tasted dark and unnatural. It bred fear, promised death and grew with every passing minute. Soon the forest itself grew silent in waiting, too frightened to run, too horrified even to move. There was something monstrous in their homeland yet it had no point of origin, no beginning and no end. It was everywhere at once, from the darkest cave to the highest sunlit peak.

In the camp of the dreamers, they had each awakened from the dream of the firebirds as they crashed into the towers, as the towers crumbled to the ground, as they continued on to the home of the great white fathers – the Pentagon and the White House – and as the darkness spread across land and sea in expanding waves of horror. The cries of women and men, the smell of toxic air, and the tears of frightened children still lingered in the morning chill.

In hushed tones, they spoke of it around the campfire. Little Crow Woman wondered if there was someone in the government they could inform while there was still time to alter the outcome.

“What should we tell them?” asked Strikes Lightning. “That we have had a vision. They would not listen. Then, when the vision materialized, they would accuse us.”

“In my dreams,” said Jerico, “I have walked the halls of power. I have talked to their leaders. I have placed the truth before them. They smile and shake hands but they have no ears to hear, no eyes to see, no hands to act, no hearts to feel. The shadow of the killing spirit has found a home in the halls of congress, the hall of justice and in the secret halls of power.”

A silence descended upon them though only Jerico heard and felt the pervasive pounding of the forest. He did not know whether it came from within or without but he knew the source. He recalled the first time he encountered the killing spirit, deep in the Mississippi woods, and he prayed that this time it came for him alone. His eyes had already grown old for the suffering he had witnessed. He would gladly give his life if others could be spared.

A thick pall of solemnity fell over the camp in waves of invisible darkness as the pulsing beat, still silent to the dreamers, grew and spread in all directions.

It was the day of the soul’s release and there was still much to do before Inipi. They silently practiced the songs and prayers of the ceremony, as they went about their business, tying bundles of sage and sweet grass, preparing charms and medicines, and making sure that everything was in place.

With all the activity and preoccupation, no one noticed the activities of the strange little white man when he left his camp in the hours before dawn and went into the woods alone. He had heard the call of the killing spirit and it was stronger than he was. His path was chosen and could not be altered.

Jeb Morgan found his way to the place where souls are released without direction, without knowing and without seeking. It was a clearing guarded on all sides by towering walls of stone, a granite cathedral carved by the hand of god. He found his station on the northern wall where he drew a circle of protection, gave offerings of tobacco to the four directions, lit sage, readied his bow and arrow, and waited in silent prayer.

The dreamers taught Jeb well. He had learned to love the earth as his mother. He had learned to cherish all beings as equals. Though they served the great evil, he had grown to respect the savage culture and the men and women who upheld it. He found it difficult to believe that such strong and virtuous people could be so easily deceived. He would pray for their forgiveness. He would ask their redemption before the gates of heaven, before the one true Lord and Savior.

The sun was high in a September sky when Strikes Lightning called the dreamers together. As they bathed in the purifying smoke of burning sage, he spoke of destiny in the moment that would define their lives and direct the future of their people. He reminded them that the strength of the circle was infinitely greater than the strength of the individual: one mind, one heart. He warned them that the killing spirit would create distractions in the form of illusions. They must not yield but remain focused, directed: one heart, one mind.

When the sun began its descent, the circle of dreamers began the long hike to the place where souls are released that would have them arriving at sunset. It was a cool, clear fall day and Jerico walked in silence, each step a prayer of renewal, each breath a remembrance of all that he treasured in life. His thoughts returned, as they always had, to Marie and the joy they shared walking this same sacred ground. He felt her spirit now as palpably as he had when she walked the earth beside him. It was a sensation so powerful he could almost see her, just as he saw the spirits of the ancestors all around him: beings of light, spirits dancing in beams of sunlight splitting the air through tall pines, animal spirits and spirits of starlight. The air was charged with mystical forces, a convergence of the powers of the universe.

He thought no longer of the killing spirit. The dark pulsating beat that before was everywhere at once, pounding, growing, seemed to fade as the moment approached.

The shadows of the setting sun fell long on the clearing when they arrived. The moon was rising and the stars emerged as if to observe what was happening on the earth below.

Strikes Lightning gave an offering to each of the seven directions and marked a circle with red and blue paint, one mark for each in the circle of dreamers. On each mark he place a twice-blessed stone where the dreamers each took their assigned positions.

On Strikes Lightning’s signal, they began to move in a sun wise direction, west to north to east to south, the old one leading with Jerico and Little Hawk close behind. After four revolutions, Jerico and Little Hawk moved to the center, kneeling and bowing. Facing the north, Jerico called out to the terrible thunderbird, hands to heaven, head to earth. Little Hawk stood behind him, poised and alert, scanning the surrounding walls for any sign of danger.

At the caw of a raven, the dreamers began to sing, one song for each direction, for the thunderbirds, for the four winds, for the soil, the air, fire and water. They sang for the earth that is our mother. They sang for the sky that is our father. They sang for the Great Spirit that lives in all things. They sang for the soul of every living being within.

It is the soul that holds eternal knowledge. It is the soul that connects the past to the future. It is the soul that embraces beauty and gives birth to hope. It is the soul that is the essence of life, that makes the individual both one and one with all, and it is the soul that survives.

Strikes Lightning spoke as the sun made its final descent in a burst of fire on the western horizon: “It is time to release the soul of this great and simple man from the ties that bind it to this world of illusions. It is time to set this man free!”

The high, piercing cry of an eagle sounded to the north, followed rapidly in succession by cries to the south, east and west, signaled the presence of the sacred thunderbirds of Lakota lore, like the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Was it a sign or an omen?

The killing spirit raised his ugly head and the darkness of a September night became infinitely darker. In the minds of the dreamers there was a growing storm, a darkness that spread like ink in water, and thunderbolts of deadly lightning, shaking the ground beneath them like a powerful quake.

They held strong as Jerico sang and Little Hawk stood his ground. They would not be moved. The circle would not be broken. They would stand until there was no longer ground to stand upon. They would sing until they had no voice to sing.

The moon broke through the clouds, illuminating the circle with silver light, as Jerico struggled to maintain his sanity and his hold upon sacred ground. He opened as a rose in spring, hands to heaven, and sang through tears of growing terror. He saw the desolate earth, abandoned cities, shattered villages, mountains of waste – the vast ruins of civilization. Like the after days of an endless genocide, nomadic warriors, armed with machetes and pitchforks, wandered a barren landscape: child warriors, women warriors, wounded warriors missing limbs, spirit and souls.

He saw time move backwards to the cause.

He saw people dying on the streets of lawless cities where gangs of scavengers roamed. He saw armies and governments disband, each to his own device, survival of the fittest. He saw chained men, women and children forced to labor and compelled to take up arms. He saw torrential rains, floods and red tides, walls of water, a plague of locusts, pestilence, poison and disease, rivers of flames, rats and scorpions, men strapped to the torturer’s chair, prisons in underground canyons, empty and fallen mosques, cathedrals and temples.

The smell of decay. The smell of burning flesh.

He saw mushroom clouds answered by mushroom clouds. He saw wars among civilizations, wars between religions, wars among nations, and the seed of all wars in the desert sands of ancient Mesopotamia, where a tattered and scorched American flag littered the streets in a land of chaos.

He saw missiles over Baghdad, lighting up the night sky, and bombs strafing a mountainous land of poppies and hooded peasants.

He saw the four firebirds on the eastern horizon and he understood that this was the root and cause of all this destruction.

“Hold my arms!” he cried and Little Hawk complied.

As the towers collapsed, spilling poison and darkness in all directions, as the cries of children ripped at his heart, grandfather’s soul leaped from his chest and an arrow split the night.

Little Hawk held strong, tears streaming down his face, as the man he had grown to love as a brother and a leader collapsed in his arms.

Jerico was dead.

He awakened in the arms of love, where the grass was still green, where the sky was still clear, where the water was pure and the animals of the forest still lived in freedom. As his vision was drawn to the tear-stained eyes of the one he had always loved, he spoke the only word his lips could form: “Marie.”

“I am Marie,” she replied, “and you are Jerico, yet I am also White Buffalo Woman and you are also Crazy Horse.”

She held him in her arms and kissed his burning eyes, his forehead, his cheeks, his lips, and wiped away his tears.

“I am here to greet you, to heal your wounds, to purify your soul, and to prepare you for the next battle.”

“I have failed,” he said and the words crushed his spirit as hailstorm of the white man’s bullets could never do.

“No,” said Marie, “you have shown us the way. You have opened eyes, hearts and minds, and your journey has only begun.”

“The killing spirit survives,” he said.

“Yes,” she replied, choking back the confession. “We were wrong to think that one man could stand against the killing spirit – even one whose light shines as bright as the Dog Star on a summer night. We have lost a battle but we will not lose this war. We are all returning to the mother to resume the struggle. You have planted seeds. When the trees have grown and bear fruit, we will unite the enlightened ones and we will not fail.”

Jerico allowed himself to be comforted yet he understood that this end was only a beginning. He would have to fight again. He would have to become strong again. He had not won the peace. He would not be able to rest in the arms of love.

He was once again a warrior: Strange Man of the Oglala.