THE KILLING SPIRIT: The Stone Dreamers (39)

CHAPTER NINE
THE STONE DREAMERS



A man on the road, even a vision seeker, needs money for food and fuel and Jerico was broke. He faced a choice. He could sell what was saleable of his modest possessions but the best he could expect would be another hundred miles or two. He could sell Lala and stick out his thumb, but Lala was more than a machine. She was a spirit being and it would not go well with the spirit world to sell her for anything less than desperate necessity.

HELP WANTED! the sign said. So Jerico Whitehorse, descended of Crazy Horse, became a dishwasher-slash-busboy at a roadside café called Apache Jack’s.

“Mind your own business,” said the chiseled, pot-bellied old timer who ran the place for an absent owner, “and you’ll be alright.”

For five days of ten-hour shifts, sleeping in Lala and taking long walks in the desert, Jerico spoke to no one but the crow, the coyote and the stone. He soon realized that he did not need a cave to hide from the world. He discovered the secret of writers and other peculiar beings, the ability to separate himself from those around him. He could be alone on a crowded street, in a bar, at a concert, anywhere.

The manager, the waitresses, the cooks, the customers and his fellow workers at the bottom end of the café hierarchy all assumed he was a dumb Indian. They liked it that way and Jerico needed nothing more than he needed peace and quiet. For five days, his ghosts let him be and the darkness was no longer his adversary. He found a place within himself that was like a pool of still water and he was content to remain there until he had enough money to travel on.

Johnny Raven had another idea. The first thing Jerico noticed about him was his wild dark eyes. Like the eyes of a crow, they darted here and there as if observing events that were not visible to lesser beings. The second thing he noticed was the gap in Johnny’s smile. He was missing a front tooth but he was always smiling a smile as broad as the South Dakota sky. It reminded some people of Chief Yahoo, the Cleveland Indians mascot, and he was known to the locals by that name. He pretended to wave it off like a persistent insect but it bothered him and Jerico knew it.

Johnny worked with Jerico every other day and drew him out gradually. He was a mestizo, half Mexican and half Chiricahua Apache. “That’s why I’m so confused,” he said. “I’m always at war with myself.” He laughed like a jackal. There was something strange about Johnny Raven, something not of this world, something that made people take a second look. Jerico did not mind his company. He made no demands. He was happy to do all the talking. Born with the name Juan Martinez, he embraced his Apache side and legally changed it.

He told Jerico the story of Geronimo’s baseball game. Geronimo was at Warm Springs when a team of wasichu ball players came west to show off their new game. The Apaches were playing stickball for a thousand years before Columbus arrived, so Geronimo and his ragtag team of warriors kicked their asses good. They never played Indians again.

“That’s why they name their teams after us,” said Johnny.

He told Jerico about the baseball team the local Indians had organized in honor of Geronimo’s victory. They called themselves the Stone Dreamers and played against the soldiers at White Sands every year. They held their own but this year they were in a bind. The game was approaching and their third baseman was injured in an accident. They needed a player and they needed him now. Jerico gave it a moment’s thought and accepted.

“I like your stone,” said Johnny.

“It was a gift,” said Jerico.

“I know,” said Johnny, smiling.

It was a long ride on game day, Jerico and eight Apache Stone Dreamers in an old Dodge van that cruised along at a comfortable 45 miles per hour. Jerico listened quietly as they argued over who was the greatest of the Apache warriors. Johnny was for Victorio, the mestizo. The largest of them, who went by the call of Little Big Man, argued for Mangas Coloradas, himself a beast of a man. One suggested Old Nana and the others were split between Geronimo, Cochise, Marcos and Gomez. The Mescalero Chief Gomez never surrendered and when the territorial governor of Texas offered a thousand pesos for his scalp, Gomez offered a thousand for the governor’s head – ten pesos more if it came with a hat.

It was a spirited discussion and one that they had had many times, probably on this same journey. Like a ritual, they worked out all the kinks until they found the essential words, the archetypal arguments in favor of each of the legendary leaders. This time they were performing for him.

“What do you think, Lakota?” asked Johnny. “Who is the greatest of your people?”

Jerico did not hesitate. “Crazy Horse.”

They all nodded in ascent as if Jerico had affirmed a fundamental truth. Crazy Horse, given to the world a blonde, curly haired, light skinned baby from pure Lakota blood, was transformed in time from a lone vision seeker to a fierce warrior, from a spirit guide to a leader of his people. To all Indian peoples, he would always be the epitome of the untamed spirit, the one who never compromised, who never sold his soul, who remained true to the old ways though it cost him his life.

The spirit of Crazy Horse transcended all separations of tribe, philosophy and culture. Even the Apache, fierce defenders of a proud heritage of warriors, yielded to the near mystical greatness of the Black Hills dreamer, the strange man of the Lakota.

For the first time Jerico realized that this more than a baseball game. It was a battle of the old against the new, the red man against the white, the dominant race and society against those who still held the faith. To the Stone Dreamers, Jerico was not just a drifter. He wore the Buffalo Stone. He was a living symbol of the spirit of Crazy Horse.

After a period of solemnity, the dreamers resumed the ritual of chatter, recalling plays, hits, victories and defeats, moments of glory and humility. Everyone but Jerico had a story and every story ended with relief, satisfaction or humor. By the time they reached the White Sands playing field, they were relaxed, loose and ready to play.

The soldiers were a good ball team, led by a pitcher who threw hard enough to attract major league attention. The Stone Dreamers were also a good team. They took pride in the way they played the game and Johnny Raven, with a package of junk to back up a sneaky fastball, was as hard to hit as a country song in Seattle.

Like all good ball games, this one came down to the bottom of the ninth, two down and a man on third, with Jerico at the plate. He put down a drag bunt and hustled it out, hitting the bag a split second before the throw, while the winning run scored.

Jerico was an instant hero who would forever be remembered in the chronicle of the Stone Dreamers. They awarded him the game ball, shook his hand, slapped his back, and told him he had earned the name Geronimo for one year.

As a part of their bargain, the losing team offered up two cases of beer and the use of a bunkhouse in a remote corner of the White Sands reserve.

Johnny pulled Jerico aside and leveled with him. They intended to hold a Stone Ceremony and they wanted him to serve as spirit guide. Jerico protested. It took years of training to become a spirit guide. It was not a game. It was dangerous to perform a sacred ritual without a true spirit guide. The spirits danced in a stone ceremony, good spirits and evil spirits. If they invited the spirits in, they could not know which spirits would take hold.

“I can’t do it, Johnny.”

“You wear the Buffalo Stone,” Johnny replied.

Jerico pulled it from his neck. “You want it, it’s yours.”

Johnny refused to take it and his smile dissolved.

“Johnny,” said Jerico. “There is a killing spirit on my trail. An old man, wiser and stronger than you or I will ever be, is already dead. I can’t do it.”

Johnny’s smile returned. “It is a good day to die,” he said. He spoke for all the Stone Dreamers in this. They were Apache warriors and this was their moment. The door that opened would never be open again. They shared the dream of the Buffalo Stone. They had been at Sand Creek. They had seen Jerico receive the stone. When he arrived at the café, they recognized him. They had studied and prepared for years and now was their time.

“We will do this with you or without you, brother, but we believe the Great Spirit meant for you to lead us.”

Jerico was cornered, tied and bound to a fate he could neither accept nor escape. When Johnny gripped his shoulders and told him that all that could be said had already been, he believed him. Their decision was made. They were warriors of the sacred mountains, warriors of the desert and the plains, warriors of Warm Springs and Pinos Altos, and survivors of San Carlos, a place where Geronimo said only scorpions and snakes could survive. They were not afraid of any man, any spirit, or any fate beyond their reckoning. They were the descendants of Cochise, Geronimo, Victorio and Mangas Coloradas and they would not be denied.

They prepared a special tea over a small fire in the snow-white sand and asked Jerico to give his blessing before the drinking. He lit a bundle of sage, smoked the tea and the dreamers, and joined them in a circle as each drank in turn.

Soon they were sitting motionless, watching an ocean of pure white sand, its waves flowing in endless cycles, washing over and through everything on earth, cleansing and purifying. The sky became a revolving wheel of blue and white with swimming thunderbirds and screaming ravens. Crow dogs chased the moon and the white buffalo appeared on a purple mountain.

When Johnny shook his arm and announced that it was time, Jerico had fully accepted his role as Yuwipi Wichasa. They went inside where candles were lit and all sources of light were covered with blankets and sealed with tape in the way of the Stone Ceremony. Jerico sang a ceremonial song pulled from the distant past, from the memory of the stone, and the dreamers pounded drums and shook stone rattles.

At the moment of christening, they bound his hands behind his back, tied his fingers, wrapped him in a blanket adorned with stars, and tied him from head to toes with rawhide thongs in seven knots.

Wrapped like an Egyptian mummy, with barely an opening to breathe, Jerico continued singing and chanting, summoning the spirits, praying for protective guidance, saluting the father of all beings, the mother of all life, and the spirit surrounding us all. He felt the Buffalo Stone glowing with warmth and rising over his heart. He heard the mounting rhythm of the rattles and drums, felt the motion of the dreamers, and saw the spirits dancing between this world and the world beyond.

The dreamers were witnessing an explosion of sight and sound like a whirlwind or tornado, sparks of light and incomprehensible sounds flushed by the fevered pitch of rattles.

In a flash, they were no longer confined to the dark space of the barracks. They were riding glorious mounts in a place that was neither here nor there. They met in a circle, horses snorting and tapping hooves, exchanging smiles and knowing glances, as each in turn departed for a predetermined destiny, leaving Jerico alone.

It was then that Jerico understood. He had returned to the ridge overlooking Sand Creek, where the massacre had not yet occurred. He rode down to camp and approached the tipi of Black Kettle, where the American flag was tied to a staff. The old man was waiting for him.

“Are you a ghost?” he asked.

“No,” replied Jerico. “I am a vision seeker. I have traveled far to deliver a warning.”

He relayed the story of massacre as he had seen it with his own eyes. He told of Chivington’s betrayal, how the soldiers would ignore the white flag of peace, how they would divide into two parties and attack from the east and west. He said that they would shoot to kill and they would kill everything that moved. He told how they would have no mercy, that they would cut open the bodies of the dead, that they would sever scalps, ears, noses and the private parts of both men and women. He said that they would cut from the bodies of pregnant women their unborn children and hang them on posts.

He held forth the Buffalo Stone as proof of his vision.

Black Kettle nodded with such sorrow that tears flowed from Jerico’s eyes.

“There are few warriors among us,” Black Kettle said. “We have camped in the open where the white chiefs instructed us. We cannot run. We cannot hide.”

He held the stone in his hands, pressed it to his head and heart, and examined Jerico with eyes of dark wonder.

“I will tell you what my grandfather told me,” he said. “The past is powerful. It can reach out to the future but the future cannot reach back. It can be seen in visions but it has no power over the past.”

They emerged from the tipi where the sun was just rising. To the north, they could make out a feint trail of dust as it split in two directions. Black Kettle roused a handful of warriors and instructed them to take up positions on both sides of the camp. They awakened the women, the old and the young, and told them to hide along the creek or take flight.

An old man, whom Black Kettle called White Antelope, came to confer. It was decided that they would stay. White Antelope would sing his death song and Black Kettle would carry his flag of peace. “It is written,’ he told Jerico. “It is the story we wish to be told.”

“Tell them what happened here,” he continued. “Maybe there are white people who can still feel shame. Maybe they will tell the chiefs in Washington that this killing must stop.”

He turned to Jerico with eyes of steel. “I knew you would come but it is not for you to die with my people. You must live to fight another battle. Go!”

He spoke with such certainty and conviction that Jerico could not challenge him. He mounted his horse and rode away to the south, as the sounds of gunfire, of deadly massacre, rose like a thunderclap behind him.

The soldiers of White Sands found him the next day, still wrapped and bound from head to toe inside the barracks. The Stone Dreamers were nowhere to be found though the van was still there. Jerico told them exactly what had happened. The soldiers did not believe him but they believed his sincerity and, in the end, wrote it off as an Indian prank.

Jerico drove back to the café, quit his job and drove on to Albuquerque, where he found the public library and read everything he could find about Sand Creek and Black Kettle. All accounts agreed on the basic facts: The Cheyenne camp was peaceful. Black Kettle had negotiated a peace agreement with the governor of the Colorado Territory only days before the massacre. They were told where to camp.

On the morning of November 29, 1864, a militia of 700 Colorado volunteers, led by the minister turned Indian killer, Colonel John Chivington, attacked without provocation and with no other intent but to kill as many Indians as they could find. White Antelope sang his death song before he was shot down and mutilated. Black Kettle carried a staff with the American flag given to him by Abraham Lincoln. He was shot but survived. Four years later, while camped by the Washita River in Indian Territory, he was killed in a massacre led by Colonel George Armstrong Custer.

Jerico could not bring himself to read further. It was as if history had sought its own revenge. Those who cheated death at Sand Creek were destined to relive the nightmare at the Washita. It was a cruel fate, the fate of an uncaring god, made crueler by having to suffer it twice.

Having learned all he cared to about Sand Creek and Black Kettle, he began mindlessly leafing through a photographic history of the North American Indians when he came upon a startling image in the background of a picture depicting General Crook’s counsel with Geronimo in the Sierra Madres. He was older but his smile was still there. It was the man Jerico knew as Johnny Raven, the Stone Dreamer.

It seemed his Apache brothers had found what they were looking for. They wanted to bring back the old ways and, in a way, they succeeded. They became a part of the past they revered. Had they changed the course of events by their actions? No human would ever know. Jerico only knew that the big picture had not been altered. The wasichu came and conquered his people. They killed many and confined those who survived to the most undesirable pieces of land they could find.

Still, the people had survived and through the generations, some held on to their ancient knowledge, culture and beliefs. Jerico reflected that the white man would not be pleased until the last of their kind was buried. He would not be satisfied until none remembered that there was a race of people here long before the Europeans came.

Jerico drove out to the desert and walked until he was sure no one could follow. He lit sage and gave his blessings to the seven directions. He built a fire and sang in the old tongue until the stars fell from the sky. He then laid down the Buffalo Stone on the sandy soil and covered it with earth.

His was the lesson of Black Kettle. The past was to be honored but it could not be altered. The Stone Dreamers chose the past. Jerico chose the future.