THE KILLING SPIRIT: The Telling of Jerico Whitehorse (93)

CHAPTER NINETEEN
THE TELLING OF JERICO WHITEHORSE



The Telling in Lakota ritual is as important to the vision as the vision itself. When young Crazy Horse had his defining vision, many moons passed between the dream and its telling, yet it was not until his father heard the telling that the vision was accepted as truth.

So it was with Jerico and the dreamers who had gathered on sacred ground.

Through four waves of Inipi, the dreamers stripped away their waking thoughts and personal bearings, like a snake peeling away its skin, leaving only the senses, raw and exposed, and minds open to the infinite universe.

They took their places around the fire and Jerico began the telling in soft low tones of reflection, his words flowing like summer clouds on a gentle wind. He began in the beginning, with the sign of the crow on a Kansas highway. He recalled his first crude attempt at Inipi on the garbage-strewn bank of the Mississippi. He spoke of the wild woman crashing into the river and how her desire for death overcame his desperate need for redemption. He spoke of Marie in the eyes of the dead and the voice of the killing spirit that shadowed his pilgrimage and cultivated his sorrow into rage.

He recalled the vision of the mound builders, the bitter sweetness of their collective revenge on the Spanish conquistadors, the diseased, pock marked head of De Soto, and the massive retaliation of the killing spirit in endless waves of darkness.

He spoke of the voodoo priestess in New Orleans, her stern warning and his inability to heed it. He was consumed with the need to confront his enemy at any price and he could not deny the raw vengeance that burned within his veins.

Mary White Cloud choked back tears like yesterday’s rain as he recalled her near death, the first attack of the killing spirit. He spoke of the power the darkness held on him, freezing his body in hesitation until the voice of the ancestors and the cry of Crazy Horse released him.

The stars were sparkling in a clear sky and the scent of pine drifted through the camp. The warmth of glowing embers from a low burning fire shielded them from a night chill and gave them comfort. Night spirits moved through the forest with natural grace, assuring the dreamers that nothing was astray. They were not being watched. The killing spirit was not among them.

Jerico retraced his steps on the Trail of Tears, where he discovered the fellowship of all tribes, a commonality of blood, suffering and faith. The dreamers walked with him, giving witness to all that he had seen, heard, thought and felt.

They suffered with the elder wise man of the Cheyenne, whose courage stood above his wisdom, who sacrificed his life willingly so that others might be spared.

They joined the Stone Ceremony of the Apache dreamers and shared Jerico’s wonder at the mystery of their disappearance. They witnessed his burial of the buffalo stone and with it the power to transcend time.

They were with him in the Inipi lodge when an explosion of stones erupted from the sacred fire, splattering the Sangre de Cristo Mountains with the blood of his followers.

They witnessed his years of mourning, wandering the desert alone, capturing the coyote spirit and his long journey to the high Rockies and the cave of the thunderbird, where the greatest of all Lakota spirits appeared to him in the form of his beloved Marie.

They wept in the cool mountain air as the fire calmed and he summoned the vision of the black robes on their march of death across the continent. They were among the gathering of followers when the black robes came to the camp of Crazy Horse, who refused to bow before them and led his people on the trail of the last buffalo into the sacred Black Hills, where now they gathered for The Telling of Jerico Whitehorse.

He went silent and remained so until his own tears of mourning gave way to a swelling of native pride. With the fluttering of an owl, the spirits of the forest came alive as if to demand that the telling continue. The spirits, like the dreamers gathered around a dying fire, understood the danger that confronted them. Like the Indian wars of another time, it was a battle for survival that demanded common cause.

Jerico resumed the telling with the familiar story of the lost little boy in the Rockies, his descent from the high grounds, the betrayal of a Lakota brother, and his journey to the overworld as his body lay near death in a Wyoming hospital.

He described the overworld in detail so that they would understand that it was not a world beyond the senses. It was a world where the senses were ever more acute and where the depth of feeling was as an ocean to this world’s pond. Its mountains, streams and burgeoning life were pure and free of human poisons. The taste of pure water, the smell of clean air, the joy of understanding, the warmth of friendship, and the depth of love were beyond anything he had experienced in his life on earth.

He spoke of his life with Marie, rich and full of all life’s tears and triumphs, and the child they had raised to be a man of the spirit, a man of knowledge, tolerance, pride and forgiveness. He related his deep desire to remain with them always and his comfort in knowing that he would return.

He told them about the fire circle of wise and ancient spirits, who revealed the symbol of the great wheel with seven spokes, and who delivered his calling to complete the cycle of the sacred rites.

Jerico breathed in the sacred air and allowed the scent of burning sage and hardwood to engage his senses. He closed his eyes and the dream was there.

“For the last seven nights,” he said, “I have had a dream of firebirds crashing into twin mountains.”

He opened his eyes and he saw at once that every person in the circle had the same dream. For Jerico, it became an obsession. Each night the dream became more vivid: The firebirds emerging from thick clouds of darkness, one after another, eyes of cold steel, flames bursting from the wings and tail feathers, bearing down on towering mountains of stone.

“In this dream,” he said, “I have only eyes to see, ears to hear, smell and taste. I have no power to move, no voice to cry out. I can only bear witness.”

The dreamers nodded as if to agree they too were powerless to act.

“I saw a third firebird and a fourth and I wondered if there were more. I heard the cry of human voices, I smelled burning flesh, and I saw that the firebirds were not of flesh and blood, and the mountains were not of stone. They were vessels, machines and towers of wasichu invention. I saw the shadow of the killing spirit and I understood this was his promise. This was his revenge.”

As he raised his eyes from the dying embers of the fire, he saw a circle in mourning. Tears traced the lines of sorrow on every face and a sense of foreboding, fate and helplessness gripped every stomach and turned.

Jerico had no words to comfort them.

“We saw you,” said Mary White Cloud, “emerging from the darkness, painted for war, riding your stallion into battle. We saw you and so we came.”

Once again, the weight lowered upon Jerico’s shoulders. Walking away was no longer an option. He looked to the east, where once he saw the black robes in an endless chain of destruction, but now he saw the moment of sunrise. He felt the brilliant glow of earth’s eternal rebirth. It was twilight, a time that bridges two worlds, and a powerful sign from the crow spirit who holds the power to bend the laws of nature.

“I am here,” he said, “to find a way.”

Grandfather led them in a final prayer, a call for humility and giving thanks. The telling was over. The dreamers rebuilt the fire, prepared a meal and ate in silence.

When they were fed and rested, grandfather called them together and spoke to them as the eldest among elders.

“Much has happened in the land of the Lakota since the day my grandson departed. Some have died, some are married, and some are newborn as colts finding their legs. Leaders have fallen and others have taken their places. Some have taken the white man’s money to build gift shops, gas stations, and to pave the way for the white man’s gambling houses.

“I have watched these things with great worry but now I see they are not so important. Now I see that the great wheel is broken and must be mended. Now I understand that a great evil lies before us if we do not prevent it.”

With a face of sorrow, he turned to Jerico and spoke as if they were alone.

“I remember the day you left as if it were yesterday. Only now do I understand why it took so long for you to come home. You have gone as far as your most sacred ancestor could take you. You have completed four spokes of the wheel: Inipi, Hanblecheya, Hunka Kagapi and Ishnati Alowanpi.

“Crazy Horse was a dreamer and a visionary but he never danced the Sun Dance. That you must do. Crazy Horse was visited by many spirits but he never knew the Ghost Dance. That you must know. Crazy Horse mourned the loss of many loved ones but he never kept the soul, as you must do.

“Those gathered in this circle are chosen to help you complete the wheel. We have seen the vision of the overworld. We share the dream of the firebirds. The vision and the dream belong to all of us.”

He pointed to a sky now flooded with stunning orange light, where a hawk cried out on its journey to the southeast.

“Brother Hawk comes,” said grandfather, “to tell us where you must go. He points to a place near the Devil’s Tower known as Coyote Paradise. It is where the Sun Dance ceremony will soon be held. Joey Little Hawk knows this place. He has danced the Sun Dance and he will take you there.”

Grandfather lit the sacred pipe and passed it to his left. When it returned to him, he smoked and spoke to his grandson, once again, as if the others were no longer there.

“We know by this telling that the spirit of Crazy Horse walks with you, behind you and within you. Remember the vision of Crazy Horse for it is yours as well. He could not be killed unless his arms were held by one of his own. That is how the wasichu killer attacked you. It is why he did not attack you before.

“Like a coward, he strikes those around you, tied to you by the sacred rites. He knows now that you will not stop. You have given your most sacred word and you are a man who honors his word above his life. The killing spirit would be foolish to continue this tactic for it divides his powers. It is you he wants. It is your spirit he wishes to claim as his own.

“The killing spirit is angry. He will want his revenge. He was fooled by your years of wandering. He believed he had defeated you. He believed you would never return to your people. He will not be fooled again.”

Grandfather lit the pipe and passed it to his left, allowing all to contemplate his words before resuming. The sun was rising, spreading its warm glow, awakening the creatures of the forest, and allowing them a moment of quiet reflection.

“We know that Crazy Horse had seven visions. There are seven camps in the Lakota family. Seven is the number of the sacred rites and seven is the number of the sacred directions. It is the number most honored by our ancestors and by all Lakota still walking the earth.

“There are seven spokes in the great wheel and, by my count, seven parts to the vision of Jerico Whitehorse: The dream of the mound builders, the vision of the black robes, the Cherokee walk of death, Black Kettle at Sand Creek, White Buffalo Woman in the cave of the thunderbird, the fire circle of the ancient ones, and the dream of the firebirds. By this we know that greatness is promised.”

Songbirds called, wind rustled through pine, trout jumped in a nearby stream, animals great and small moved through a new day, and the dreamers nodded their affirmations.

Grandfather completed his reflections.

“It is a good time to walk the earth. It is a good time to be native born for one who walks among us is chosen to this purpose: When the spokes of the great wheel are finished, when the circle is complete, Crazy Horse will walk with us once more and he will gather all tribes together for the journey ahead. When the vision is fulfilled, we will gather here in this sacred place and we will call him by his rightful name.”