CHAPTER TEN
WHITE SKIN, RED SOUL
She reminded him of Marie. Marie. Marie, who conquered his heart with her indomitable spirit, whose passion and courage mystified him, whose recklessness frightened him, whose fearlessness gave him courage, whose warmth comforted, whose betrayal devastated and whose death embittered his soul. Marie.
“Hi,” she said across the stack of books wherein Jerico searched for signs from the past. “My name is Ramona.”
She reminded him of Marie but it was not her appearance. Marie was a striking Lakota woman, sleek and long limbed like a deer loping through tall grass in the piney woods. Ramona was of stockier build, hair like Medusa, wild and reaching, a fullness of breast and wide, sturdy hips. Marie was the heart of Lakota and Ramona was white, yet her eyes were hard and soft at once and her soul was fire and ice.
She reminded him of Marie and he decided, from the moment he looked into her eyes, he would follow where she led.
“Jerico,” he replied.
She reminded him of Marie and it brought tears to his soul. He recalled in an instant every detail of their lives together, how it began in careless pleasure, how it endured in constant sorrow, and how it ended in sympathy and profound understanding. Marie understood. When she looked at him, she saw him. She saw the history of the Lakota in his eyes. She saw him and she cried. She saw him and she witnessed a thousand years of genocide. She saw him and she saw endless sorrow by his side.
“Would it surprise you if I said we were brethren spirits?” Ramona asked.
Marie asked him if he knew who he was. He did not know how to answer. It frightened him to think that he was not who he appeared to be. It frightened him to see an unknown fear in her eyes. Who was he if not himself?
Ramona asked him if he was traveling and offered her home as shelter from the storm. He smiled, remembering Johnny Raven’s offhand suggestion that they visit the city where white women who loved Indians would take them in, feed them, bed them, and care for their needs just for the chance to unlock the secrets of the native soul. He did not wonder what this woman wanted. He knew that she would give more than she received.
She was an alluring woman. He wondered why he did not feel the rush of desire that a man should feel after so long on the road. His heart still mourned and his loins still yearned for a woman no longer in the flesh. Still, he was a man and he knew he could no more refuse the gift of this woman than a child could refuse the dying request of a beloved elder.
“Do you believe in reincarnation?” Ramona asked.
“Who is to say?” grandfather had answered. “Who is to say that Sitting Bull is not walking the earth today as a white man in Mississippi or a black woman in Zaire?”
Ramona believed she was the reincarnation of a Lakota warrior. She believed that she and Jerico fought side by side in the wars against the white man. She died at the Greasy Grass where Yellow Hair fought his last battle, where her arrow was planted in his heart.
They were greeted at the door by a white man who wore his hair in a single braid and spoke of Leonard Peltier as if he was Abraham Lincoln, a name in a book rather than a man unjustly imprisoned in a Kansas penitentiary. His name was Jason and Jerico felt a strange kinship though he sensed behind his gentle manner a familiar shadow.
Jason and Ramona had an understanding – the kind of understanding that was purely intellectual, that neglected the nature of humanity, a cauldron of emotions that could not be calmed by reason. They were not bound to one another. They were together for as long as they chose to be and they were free to express their desires without restraint. It was the same kind of relationship Jerico had with Marie.
He was a good man but Jerico saw at once that he did not share Ramona’s faith. He gave the words that allowed the freedom she required but he did not hold them in his heart. Crazy Horse faced a similar dilemma when he rose to a position of prestige within the Lakota tribe. Against his vision, he accepted the honor of being a shirt bearer. Against his honor, he accepted the love of Black Buffalo Woman though she did not reject her husband. He paid for his betrayal very nearly with his life.
The sting of jealousy was implanted in Jerico’s soul. The poison seed took root while he was still in his mother’s womb and cast its shadow throughout his life. His father was also a good man but the poison led him to the bottle and the bottle gradually consumed him. Jerico’s mother forgave him but Jerico held on to his sense of betrayal, afraid that the sins of the father were bequeathed to the son, a fear that was fulfilled when Marie chose to love another.
Ramona pulled Jason aside and the white man soon excused himself for the evening with a forced yawn. Jerico was relieved he no longer had to endure the two faces of a jealous man. The tension in his body, his shoulders and spine, began to leave him as Ramona lit candles, incense and smoked the room with sage. He sat on a large floor pillow and realized that he was surrounded by native art and culture, photographs, paintings, medicine wheels, sculpted animal spirits, feathers and pipes. He shared her pipe and began to fill the sacred space of silence with words.
He found it easy to speak to this woman. He saw beyond her pale skin and spoke to her Indian soul. He related his childhood on the reservation and his days in Indian school where he failed to absorb the white man’s ways, the way of the Black Robes, the religion of death. He spoke of his mother, a strong and kind woman who taught him to love the earth and all living things, who protected him from his drunken father. He recalled the Wounded Knee uprising of 1973, when he was only a child. He remembered Leonard Peltier, Dennis Banks and Leonard Crow Dog and wanted nothing more than to join their sacred cause but he was too young and his mother was afraid of Dick Wilson, the crooked tribal chief, and the goons who controlled tribal life with an iron fist. He told her about his grandfather who became his mentor and guide when his father abandoned their home. He told her about Marie and the fire that still burned within his soul.
Ramona listened in heavy silence though it went against her nature. When he was finished and there was no more to be said, she took his hands and looked into his eyes. She told him that there were the spirits of many tribes around him, that he was at the center of a great battle and that his friends were many but his enemy was only one. She spoke the words he most feared: “You are chosen.” Tears sprang from her eyes as she sensed the darkness and realized the death it promised.
“Hanblecheya,” she said. It was the Lakota word for vision quest. “This is why you are here. This is what I am here to tell you. You cannot do what must be done without lamenting, without a vision. It is your destiny. It is what will connect you to your people and your people to the Great Spirit.”
Jerico was shaken. He had witnessed the death of an elder, an attack on a young Cherokee woman, and the strange disappearance of his Apache brothers and every event was clearly connected to a sacred ceremony. Like a warrior who has lost his senses in battle, he was afraid. He had no desire to risk another disaster and he was determined not to risk the lives of those who placed in him their trust.
“Do you know who you are?” she asked.
It was the same question Marie had asked in the same tone and it stirred in him a secret knowledge, a guarded mystery, an unspoken truth that he had never revealed to anyone and that he had not admitted to himself.
“I know,” he said finally.
“Then you will cry for a vision.”
He nodded and she melted into his arms. He let go of all resistance and allowed the waves of passion to sweep them both away into the land of touch and taste and desire. He dove into her private space and swam beneath the sea of moaning pleasure. “Believe,” she said, as she pulled him in and held him in her thighs. Believe in the universe of nature and instinct where every motion is guided by the hand of divine being, where there are no doubts and all is as it must be. Believe in the here and now where there is no judgment and no reflection. Believe in the softness of skin, the hardness of desire, the shape of her kiss, the hold of her breast, the arch of her back, the line of her hips, the taste of her love, his tongue in her ear, her tongue, her taste, her breath.
He looked into her eyes and he saw Marie.
It was summer when Jerico moved into a guest room of Ramona’s home. It was fall when Jason moved out. It all happened as if in a dream, moving slowly through jumps in time. Jason was here and Jason was gone. The long goodbye happened in a day. Sirens and bells and Jason was packed and gone. Jerico received his strange and stuttered blessing as if the words were borrowed and spewed like a foreign object.
Sex became a part of the rhythm of living. Breakfast in the garden, yoga, drums, chanting, meditation, sex. They studied the eastern mystics, explored philosophies, exchanged ideas in an expanding circle of friends, friends who shared an ideology of peace, freedom and enlightenment, friends who desired a higher consciousness, a better world, an image of paradise and a sense that Jerico was the answer to an unknown question.
Jerico consumed their knowledge as if it was manna, as if Crazy Horse himself had blessed them in a sacred rite, as if he was sent here to gather knowledge, to connect with a world beyond his circle of life.
He made love to many women, often without affection, often with no connection but the body in its primitive state. He learned that sex was never shameful but it was a colossal waste of time and energy when it did not engender love. It swallowed the soul.
He made love as well that engendered love, that grew and would have flourished had it not been for Ramona’s love, had it not been for her mother-sister-brother love, had it not been for her confused love that nourished and floundered at stops and starts, had it not been for Marie.
It was all in preparation for Hanblecheya. When he expressed doubt, when he said he needed a spirit guide, Ramona shook her head. When he was ready, he would know.
Finally, he knew. He knew as a man knows when he has conquered fear. He knew and when he told her so, she replied that preparations had already begun.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
THE KILLING SPIRIT: Hanblecheya (50)
CHAPTER ELEVEN
HANBLECHEYA
To the Lakota all things sacred must be made pure. That is why lamenting, crying for a vision, Hanblecheya, begins and ends with Inipi. The lamenter must cleanse his body, his mind and his spirit. His soul must be made pure if he is to receive the blessing, the power, the message and the vision of the spirit world. He must fast four days and four nights. He must overcome the suffering of the body so that his spirit may rise.
It is as though the body must read the signs of death so that it releases its hold on the spirit. Many of the great visions, like the Ghost Dance vision of the Paiute Wavoka, were born when the dreamer lingered in a feverish nether land between life and death.
Ramona made all the arrangements, securing the sweat lodge and the required role players who would serve the ceremony. She found an elder to serve as spirit guide. Henry Lightfoot was an old soul and his people knew him as the one who gazes at the stars.
“You possess the knowledge of the ancestors,” he told Jerico “It was handed down from the generations to you. You have the power of second sight and your lament is heard in the four corners of the sacred wheel. It reaches the ears of the great father and the earth, who is our mother, cries with you. The powers within you can only be revealed in a vision, in the way of your people: Hanblecheya.”
“The powers of the earth and the stars are ready to receive you but you must give your word, which is your honor, that you will never turn back. When you receive your vision, you must follow it. You must promise your life. Do you take this step?”
Jerico nodded.
The old man handed him a very old, red clay pipe, made from a clay found only in one quarry in northern Minnesota, the original home of the Lakota nation. Henry Lightfoot was Navaho but he was wise to the ways of all the tribes of Turtle Island.
“In the over world, there is only one tribe,” he explained. “It is the tribe of the earth and the heavens, of the air and water. It is the tribe of all – red white brown yellow and black – who know the path. There are not many white men there,” he smiled. “There are more white women. Why is that?” he asked Ramona.
“I could write a book,” she replied.
So much in nature comes in fours: The four directions, the stages of life, the seasons of change, the elements of earth, the legs of the buffalo, the limbs of man and bird. Even the tree of life may be counted in four: roots, trunk, branches and leaves. It is for this reason that Inipi is counted in four waves and the lament in four cycles of the sun.
The preparations were complete and they entered the sweat lodge for the first wave. Jerico began the process of letting go the sorrows and worries that block the heart and settle in the soul. The spirit cannot fly if it is weighted down by the burdens of life and it must fly it is to receive a vision.
The sweat poured from his body and Jerico forgot the suffering, the pain, the guilt, the blood spilled in his name and the anger that surged through his veins. The sweat lodge was as a womb and. after four waves, Jerico was reborn.
He stepped out of the lodge and his vision was clearer, clearer than it had ever been, clearer than when he was a child and first laid eyes on the Dog Star, clear than the eyes of innocence and youth when there was no darkness, when all the world was a promise and everything he touched a blessing.
In the stillness of early morning, he went to the place he had chosen to cry for a vision. It was a clearing in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, a place held sacred to the Indians of Taos Pueblo. The white man who sang of “purple mountains majesty” was thinking of the Sangre de Cristos for when the sun rose at dawn and when it fell at dusk, the mountains were bathed in crimson. The sight bent the faithful to their knees, lamenting the blood of the fallen, the loss of the ancestors, or the suffering of Christ.
When Jerico saw the crimson dawn, he saw a river of blood connecting the past to the present. He saw the blood of the circle, the blood of the family, and the blood of the Indian people.
He gave his offering to the four directions and smoked the sacred pipe, holding in his hand the blood offering of Ramona, bits of her flesh in a leather pouch. He had not asked but he could not refuse.
“She chose to make this sacrifice,” the wise one said, “so your vision will be strong.”
He reflected on all the people he had encountered on his journey who sacrificed so willingly. Ramona had suffered so that he might not suffer too much. He closed his eyes and saw her riding a white Appaloosa through a field of knee high grass. He recognized the place. It was the meadows of the Black Hills where he had gone so often as a child.
As she rode, she was transformed. Her pale skin grew darker and tinged with red. Her body and facial features changed from female to male. She was tall and strong and her expression was fierce. She wore the markings of a Minneconjou warrior and she was riding to a gathering of warriors. She joined the party of the bravest and fiercest war chief, the strange man of the Lakota, the one known as Crazy Horse.
Jerico saw her through the eyes of Crazy Horse. He saw her fear and her courage. He saw the promised that passed between them. He would trust her with his life and she would trust Crazy Horse.
Led by the mad man known as Yellow Hair, the blue coats were preparing to attack their camp. They would not flee. Already they had pushed back the blue coats under General Crook at the Rosebud. This was the greatest gathering of Cheyenne and Lakota warriors in history. Crazy Horse worried that there were more blue coats approaching but the soldiers with Yellow Hair were not so many. If they held their ground, if they planted the staff and fought with courage and cunning, they would crush the most notorious Indian killer of them all.
Every warrior in the expansive gathering knew the vision of Sitting Bull: He had seen soldiers falling from the sky. It was a powerful sign and this was the day the vision came to life. They were not afraid to fight. Even if this were the last battle they would ever fight, it would be a great victory. The ancestors would join the celebration.
“Ho-ka hay! It is a good day to fight!”
The spirits were quiet at Jerico’s fire, observing the vision seeker in his stillness, listening to his thoughts, hearing his song, tasting his tears and judging the depth of his suffering.
He was visited by the coyote spirit on a distant ridge. The lizard spirit approached his camp and the dragonfly singed its wings on the flames of his fire. A hawk circled overhead and flew to the north. In the night, as he struggled to remain awake, he heard the call of an owl and its silent fluttering of wings. As his body swayed like reeds in the wind, he sang and lamented. His conscious thoughts returned to Crazy Horse at the Greasy Grass.
A Cheyenne warrior flew into his camp to report that the blue coats were attacking to the south. Crazy Horse ordered his warriors to remain where they were. He had seen the white man fight. He knew they attacked from more than one direction. He also knew that Yellow Hair was across the bluff, waiting to attack their flank.
He led a handful of warriors to the south, where he found that Short Bull’s warriors had already pushed back the attackers. They rushed back to the north, straight through the camp, gathering warriors as they rode. He would outflank Yellow Hair with more than a thousand Cheyenne and Lakota warriors.
Gall’s warriors broke up Yellow Hair’s attack, pushing the blue coats to the high ground in the center of a great clearing, where Yellow Hair met Crazy Horse face to face.
The warriors and the blue coats fought bravely but none fought so bravely as Crazy Horse and Yellow Hair. Crazy Horse rode his pony back and forth, taunting the soldiers, drawing their fire and spurring his warriors on. Yellow Hair stood his ground, bullets and arrows planted in his dying body, fighting to his last bullet, which he discharged into the chest of the warrior who carried the spirit of Ramona.
Yellow Hair laughed as he fell, as all his soldiers had already fallen. He laughed as he spent his last breath.
“Ho-ka hey! It is a good day to die!”
The second day was much the same. The same spirits visited his camp, only now they lingered. The hawk circled twice and flew to the east. The owl swooped down so close to him he could feel the wind of its wings. The coyote approached his circle, tilting his head and gazing at him from across the fire before scampering away. Jerico sensed that there were hidden spirits, eyes in the darkness, watching and waiting.
On the third day, his hunger and thirst became a craving. The hawk chased a vulture away, circled three times and flew to the south. Struggling to remain conscious, he gripped a sharp rock until it drew blood. His sweat was dry and his body was coated with a crusty layer of salt. The world was swirling inside his head, churning in his gut, his balance was lost and his vision distorted.
“Ho-ka hey! It is a good day to die!”
He awakened in the night not knowing how much time had passed. He examined his fire, no longer burning but the embers still glowed. He examined the sky, the stars and the moon, and decided it was early morning. He became aware of the night spirits surrounding his camp and he heard a voice. It told him to remain strong. The ancestors had heard his lament and the spirits judged him worthy.
He gave thanks in song and his tears were tears of joy.
The fourth day passed as a river flows. His strength was renewed, his hunger and thirst abated. He was no longer a man upon the earth. He was a spirit being surrounded by brethren spirits, filled with wonder at the miracle of all living things and all things upon the earth were living. The earth herself was a living being, sentient and feeling, with needs and desires. She blessed those who protected her from harm and condemned those who planted poisons in her womb, in the air and water that nourished her. Global warming was not only real; it was a mother’s angry warning to those who continued to abuse her in the name of progress.
You have known her kindness and mercy; would you know her wrath?
The indigenous peoples were not without flaw but they had suffered too much for their misdeeds and they were always defenders of the earth. They were kin to all creatures of the land, the water and the air. They were the best hope that humankind and countless other species would not perish. Earth abides but those who walk her sacred grounds may not. Extinction is a cruel fate for those creatures whose only crime is to live at the same time as the wasichu, those who see only resources to be exploited, the lovers of money and merchants of death.
The wasichu revels in suffering; he welcomes the death knell; he yearns for destruction as the Lakota yearn for the return of the buffalo and the final reckoning of White Buffalo Calf Woman.
Night came with a profound silence. Jerico recalled the deep caves in the Black Hills where some said Crazy Horse was secretly buried. He remembered a silence that was not the same as the absence of sound. It was magnified like the silence of a full moon, a still wind, the breath of an Oak or the silence of dreams.
With heightened awareness, he looked to the east at the caw of a crow. His friend the crow had guided him on his path but until now had not appeared at his camp. He looked beyond the mountains, beyond the desert, beyond the fields, beyond the great river, beyond the forest to the endless sea, where at last he found his friend the crow.
The crow appeared as a fly on a kitchen wall, a speck of black in a sea of blue, and as he watched he saw that the crow was moving toward him, growing larger with each flap of his wings; and as he watched he saw that the crow was no longer a crow. He was a man wearing a long, flowing black robe, his arms outstretched to resemble wings, his eyes beneath his pointed hood invisible to the light.
As the black robe set foot on the land that the white man christened America, two more black dots appeared in the sea of blue, and behind them four more, and behind them eight, and behind them sixteen and so on until it seemed an endless wheel, and there would be more black robes than any land could bear.
Jerico saw that the land was pure, the forest untouched, the hunting grounds rich, the air and water clean. It was the beginning time – before the wasichu, before the machines, when the two legs bowed to the earth, the stars and the moon. It was a time when no man challenged the sacred majesty of mother earth.
The black robe came and laid waste to the land. With fire and pestilence he cut a trail of destruction through the endless forest so that the black robes behind could see and follow. Two more trails appeared, then four, then eight, like an army of ants devouring a carcass, destroying all until the forest that was, was no more, until only a skeleton remained.
The people of the earth knelt before the black robes and offered their hands in friendship but when the black robes took their hands or crossed their foreheads with holy water, the people fell like lambs at a slaughterhouse and the black robes whispered in their dying ears:
Do you take Jesus as your lord and savior?
The black robes gathered at the great river, turning back to see what they had wrought. Smokestacks sprang from the earth at the wave of their hands and white crosses marked the land. Another wave and armies came forth with guns, cannons and weapons of mass destruction. Wars were fought and the land that was once a forest was made fertile again with the blood of the fallen.
The black robes were pleased but they were not satisfied. They turned to the west and looked out upon the open land, the vast deserts and mountains rich in gold, silver, copper and iron. They looked out upon the Great Plains, the endless waves of grain, herds of buffalo, and the untouched peoples who still worshiped the earth and honored animal spirits as if they were brothers and sisters.
So the black robes continued their march westward and as they crossed the plains, the buffalo fell as stones dropped from the sky. White men followed, stripping them of their skins, leaving their bodies for vultures, coyotes and worms. Soon there were only bones and the black robe followers gathered their skulls and stacked them high as the tallest mountains.
The black robes said to the people:
Behold the power and the glory! Bow down before our holy father or join your buffalo brothers!
The people were frightened for they had seen the railroads, the long guns, the cannons and the guns that shoot many bullets and they knew the heart of the wasichu held no mercy. Many bowed down to the black robes and received their blessings. Others shuffled their feet and looked to their brothers for guidance.
A pale faced Lakota warrior and spirit guide stepped forward and the people looked to him with respect. They saw in his eyes that he would never bow to the black robes or their wasichu God. The people saw this and gathered around him, whispering his name: Crazy Horse. He spoke for all who refused to bow.
“You have killed many buffalo,” he said, “but you have not killed all. They have gone to a place where you cannot follow. When you are banished from our land, they will return. As it is with the buffalo, so it is with the Lakota.”
He climbed on his white Appaloosa and rode into the Black Hills, his people behind him. The black robes fell silent and made no move to follow. They were afraid of this man for he alone knew their secret: a people cannot be conquered without their submission.
As the vision began to fade, he saw a great cloud of smoke rising to the east. He saw a darkness, darker and more deadly than any he had ever seen, spreading to the four corners of the earth. It surrounded his camp, enveloped him, and blocked his vision.
Jerico returned to his fire, where he was greeted by the crow. He sat quietly as the crow became the raven and the raven became a man shrouded in black robes with hidden, invisible eyes. He lowered his hood, revealing the face the white man knows as Jesus, the perfect white Jesus with blue eyes, the likeness that hangs on the walls of the black robe places of worship.
For he so loved the world that he gave his only begotten son.
The black robe warmed his hands by Jerico’s fire and his face began changing, transforming from one to another in rapid succession. Jerico recognized Washington the Indian fighter, Jefferson the slave owner, Jackson the betrayer, Roosevelt the buffalo hunter, Johnson the Vietnamese killer, Hitler, Stalin, Suharto, Pinochet, Pol Pot, Amin, Milosevic, Hussein, Trujillo, Arafat and Sharon, Nixon and Kissinger. He understood that this was the killing spirit. He understood that the wasichu was not always a white man but always he was infected by the same disease: His love of power and greed.
The black robe returned to the face of Jesus and smiled beneficently. “What you call the killing spirit is not the great evil you imagine it to be,” he said. “I prefer the name of progress for it carries the weight of inevitability. You cannot fight manifest destiny any more than you can push back the tides.”
Jerico listened as he would to an elder for there was much to be learned.
“What if the wasichu had been kind and gentle?” the black robe asked. “Would that have stopped them from spreading over the land, killing your people with disease? The white man has built a great nation, the greatest power on earth. They welcome you to their family, to share the wealth, to live in comfort and peace. They give you medicine and technology. They promise you freedom. They only ask that you live as they do, that you give up the old ways, that you lay down your arms and give up your hatred. They ask only that you take their faith, their God, their holy father, the blood and the body of Christ into your hearts. Is that really too much to ask?”
“You have taken our land,” replied Jerico. “You have raped our mother. You have killed the buffalo. You have fed your poisons to our father. In exchange, you have given us sheds to live in, alcohol and gambling. We give, we surrender, but it is never enough. The killing spirit always wants more. When you have stolen our hearts, you will ask for our souls.”
“Your people will follow you,” said the black robe. “If you refuse to bow down, they will suffer. If you agree, if you give yourself over to the power of Christ, they will prosper. This is the choice that you and you alone must take.”
Jerico looked to the sky where the hawk circled four times and flew to the west. In the distant clouds, he saw clearly the white buffalo.
As it is with the buffalo, so it is with the Lakota.
“You are not the one called Jesus,” he said, but as he turned, he saw that the killing spirit was gone. He had already received the answer of Jerico Whitehorse. He would not bow down. He had chosen the red road, the way of the Lakota.
HANBLECHEYA
To the Lakota all things sacred must be made pure. That is why lamenting, crying for a vision, Hanblecheya, begins and ends with Inipi. The lamenter must cleanse his body, his mind and his spirit. His soul must be made pure if he is to receive the blessing, the power, the message and the vision of the spirit world. He must fast four days and four nights. He must overcome the suffering of the body so that his spirit may rise.
It is as though the body must read the signs of death so that it releases its hold on the spirit. Many of the great visions, like the Ghost Dance vision of the Paiute Wavoka, were born when the dreamer lingered in a feverish nether land between life and death.
Ramona made all the arrangements, securing the sweat lodge and the required role players who would serve the ceremony. She found an elder to serve as spirit guide. Henry Lightfoot was an old soul and his people knew him as the one who gazes at the stars.
“You possess the knowledge of the ancestors,” he told Jerico “It was handed down from the generations to you. You have the power of second sight and your lament is heard in the four corners of the sacred wheel. It reaches the ears of the great father and the earth, who is our mother, cries with you. The powers within you can only be revealed in a vision, in the way of your people: Hanblecheya.”
“The powers of the earth and the stars are ready to receive you but you must give your word, which is your honor, that you will never turn back. When you receive your vision, you must follow it. You must promise your life. Do you take this step?”
Jerico nodded.
The old man handed him a very old, red clay pipe, made from a clay found only in one quarry in northern Minnesota, the original home of the Lakota nation. Henry Lightfoot was Navaho but he was wise to the ways of all the tribes of Turtle Island.
“In the over world, there is only one tribe,” he explained. “It is the tribe of the earth and the heavens, of the air and water. It is the tribe of all – red white brown yellow and black – who know the path. There are not many white men there,” he smiled. “There are more white women. Why is that?” he asked Ramona.
“I could write a book,” she replied.
So much in nature comes in fours: The four directions, the stages of life, the seasons of change, the elements of earth, the legs of the buffalo, the limbs of man and bird. Even the tree of life may be counted in four: roots, trunk, branches and leaves. It is for this reason that Inipi is counted in four waves and the lament in four cycles of the sun.
The preparations were complete and they entered the sweat lodge for the first wave. Jerico began the process of letting go the sorrows and worries that block the heart and settle in the soul. The spirit cannot fly if it is weighted down by the burdens of life and it must fly it is to receive a vision.
The sweat poured from his body and Jerico forgot the suffering, the pain, the guilt, the blood spilled in his name and the anger that surged through his veins. The sweat lodge was as a womb and. after four waves, Jerico was reborn.
He stepped out of the lodge and his vision was clearer, clearer than it had ever been, clearer than when he was a child and first laid eyes on the Dog Star, clear than the eyes of innocence and youth when there was no darkness, when all the world was a promise and everything he touched a blessing.
In the stillness of early morning, he went to the place he had chosen to cry for a vision. It was a clearing in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, a place held sacred to the Indians of Taos Pueblo. The white man who sang of “purple mountains majesty” was thinking of the Sangre de Cristos for when the sun rose at dawn and when it fell at dusk, the mountains were bathed in crimson. The sight bent the faithful to their knees, lamenting the blood of the fallen, the loss of the ancestors, or the suffering of Christ.
When Jerico saw the crimson dawn, he saw a river of blood connecting the past to the present. He saw the blood of the circle, the blood of the family, and the blood of the Indian people.
He gave his offering to the four directions and smoked the sacred pipe, holding in his hand the blood offering of Ramona, bits of her flesh in a leather pouch. He had not asked but he could not refuse.
“She chose to make this sacrifice,” the wise one said, “so your vision will be strong.”
He reflected on all the people he had encountered on his journey who sacrificed so willingly. Ramona had suffered so that he might not suffer too much. He closed his eyes and saw her riding a white Appaloosa through a field of knee high grass. He recognized the place. It was the meadows of the Black Hills where he had gone so often as a child.
As she rode, she was transformed. Her pale skin grew darker and tinged with red. Her body and facial features changed from female to male. She was tall and strong and her expression was fierce. She wore the markings of a Minneconjou warrior and she was riding to a gathering of warriors. She joined the party of the bravest and fiercest war chief, the strange man of the Lakota, the one known as Crazy Horse.
Jerico saw her through the eyes of Crazy Horse. He saw her fear and her courage. He saw the promised that passed between them. He would trust her with his life and she would trust Crazy Horse.
Led by the mad man known as Yellow Hair, the blue coats were preparing to attack their camp. They would not flee. Already they had pushed back the blue coats under General Crook at the Rosebud. This was the greatest gathering of Cheyenne and Lakota warriors in history. Crazy Horse worried that there were more blue coats approaching but the soldiers with Yellow Hair were not so many. If they held their ground, if they planted the staff and fought with courage and cunning, they would crush the most notorious Indian killer of them all.
Every warrior in the expansive gathering knew the vision of Sitting Bull: He had seen soldiers falling from the sky. It was a powerful sign and this was the day the vision came to life. They were not afraid to fight. Even if this were the last battle they would ever fight, it would be a great victory. The ancestors would join the celebration.
“Ho-ka hay! It is a good day to fight!”
The spirits were quiet at Jerico’s fire, observing the vision seeker in his stillness, listening to his thoughts, hearing his song, tasting his tears and judging the depth of his suffering.
He was visited by the coyote spirit on a distant ridge. The lizard spirit approached his camp and the dragonfly singed its wings on the flames of his fire. A hawk circled overhead and flew to the north. In the night, as he struggled to remain awake, he heard the call of an owl and its silent fluttering of wings. As his body swayed like reeds in the wind, he sang and lamented. His conscious thoughts returned to Crazy Horse at the Greasy Grass.
A Cheyenne warrior flew into his camp to report that the blue coats were attacking to the south. Crazy Horse ordered his warriors to remain where they were. He had seen the white man fight. He knew they attacked from more than one direction. He also knew that Yellow Hair was across the bluff, waiting to attack their flank.
He led a handful of warriors to the south, where he found that Short Bull’s warriors had already pushed back the attackers. They rushed back to the north, straight through the camp, gathering warriors as they rode. He would outflank Yellow Hair with more than a thousand Cheyenne and Lakota warriors.
Gall’s warriors broke up Yellow Hair’s attack, pushing the blue coats to the high ground in the center of a great clearing, where Yellow Hair met Crazy Horse face to face.
The warriors and the blue coats fought bravely but none fought so bravely as Crazy Horse and Yellow Hair. Crazy Horse rode his pony back and forth, taunting the soldiers, drawing their fire and spurring his warriors on. Yellow Hair stood his ground, bullets and arrows planted in his dying body, fighting to his last bullet, which he discharged into the chest of the warrior who carried the spirit of Ramona.
Yellow Hair laughed as he fell, as all his soldiers had already fallen. He laughed as he spent his last breath.
“Ho-ka hey! It is a good day to die!”
The second day was much the same. The same spirits visited his camp, only now they lingered. The hawk circled twice and flew to the east. The owl swooped down so close to him he could feel the wind of its wings. The coyote approached his circle, tilting his head and gazing at him from across the fire before scampering away. Jerico sensed that there were hidden spirits, eyes in the darkness, watching and waiting.
On the third day, his hunger and thirst became a craving. The hawk chased a vulture away, circled three times and flew to the south. Struggling to remain conscious, he gripped a sharp rock until it drew blood. His sweat was dry and his body was coated with a crusty layer of salt. The world was swirling inside his head, churning in his gut, his balance was lost and his vision distorted.
“Ho-ka hey! It is a good day to die!”
He awakened in the night not knowing how much time had passed. He examined his fire, no longer burning but the embers still glowed. He examined the sky, the stars and the moon, and decided it was early morning. He became aware of the night spirits surrounding his camp and he heard a voice. It told him to remain strong. The ancestors had heard his lament and the spirits judged him worthy.
He gave thanks in song and his tears were tears of joy.
The fourth day passed as a river flows. His strength was renewed, his hunger and thirst abated. He was no longer a man upon the earth. He was a spirit being surrounded by brethren spirits, filled with wonder at the miracle of all living things and all things upon the earth were living. The earth herself was a living being, sentient and feeling, with needs and desires. She blessed those who protected her from harm and condemned those who planted poisons in her womb, in the air and water that nourished her. Global warming was not only real; it was a mother’s angry warning to those who continued to abuse her in the name of progress.
You have known her kindness and mercy; would you know her wrath?
The indigenous peoples were not without flaw but they had suffered too much for their misdeeds and they were always defenders of the earth. They were kin to all creatures of the land, the water and the air. They were the best hope that humankind and countless other species would not perish. Earth abides but those who walk her sacred grounds may not. Extinction is a cruel fate for those creatures whose only crime is to live at the same time as the wasichu, those who see only resources to be exploited, the lovers of money and merchants of death.
The wasichu revels in suffering; he welcomes the death knell; he yearns for destruction as the Lakota yearn for the return of the buffalo and the final reckoning of White Buffalo Calf Woman.
Night came with a profound silence. Jerico recalled the deep caves in the Black Hills where some said Crazy Horse was secretly buried. He remembered a silence that was not the same as the absence of sound. It was magnified like the silence of a full moon, a still wind, the breath of an Oak or the silence of dreams.
With heightened awareness, he looked to the east at the caw of a crow. His friend the crow had guided him on his path but until now had not appeared at his camp. He looked beyond the mountains, beyond the desert, beyond the fields, beyond the great river, beyond the forest to the endless sea, where at last he found his friend the crow.
The crow appeared as a fly on a kitchen wall, a speck of black in a sea of blue, and as he watched he saw that the crow was moving toward him, growing larger with each flap of his wings; and as he watched he saw that the crow was no longer a crow. He was a man wearing a long, flowing black robe, his arms outstretched to resemble wings, his eyes beneath his pointed hood invisible to the light.
As the black robe set foot on the land that the white man christened America, two more black dots appeared in the sea of blue, and behind them four more, and behind them eight, and behind them sixteen and so on until it seemed an endless wheel, and there would be more black robes than any land could bear.
Jerico saw that the land was pure, the forest untouched, the hunting grounds rich, the air and water clean. It was the beginning time – before the wasichu, before the machines, when the two legs bowed to the earth, the stars and the moon. It was a time when no man challenged the sacred majesty of mother earth.
The black robe came and laid waste to the land. With fire and pestilence he cut a trail of destruction through the endless forest so that the black robes behind could see and follow. Two more trails appeared, then four, then eight, like an army of ants devouring a carcass, destroying all until the forest that was, was no more, until only a skeleton remained.
The people of the earth knelt before the black robes and offered their hands in friendship but when the black robes took their hands or crossed their foreheads with holy water, the people fell like lambs at a slaughterhouse and the black robes whispered in their dying ears:
Do you take Jesus as your lord and savior?
The black robes gathered at the great river, turning back to see what they had wrought. Smokestacks sprang from the earth at the wave of their hands and white crosses marked the land. Another wave and armies came forth with guns, cannons and weapons of mass destruction. Wars were fought and the land that was once a forest was made fertile again with the blood of the fallen.
The black robes were pleased but they were not satisfied. They turned to the west and looked out upon the open land, the vast deserts and mountains rich in gold, silver, copper and iron. They looked out upon the Great Plains, the endless waves of grain, herds of buffalo, and the untouched peoples who still worshiped the earth and honored animal spirits as if they were brothers and sisters.
So the black robes continued their march westward and as they crossed the plains, the buffalo fell as stones dropped from the sky. White men followed, stripping them of their skins, leaving their bodies for vultures, coyotes and worms. Soon there were only bones and the black robe followers gathered their skulls and stacked them high as the tallest mountains.
The black robes said to the people:
Behold the power and the glory! Bow down before our holy father or join your buffalo brothers!
The people were frightened for they had seen the railroads, the long guns, the cannons and the guns that shoot many bullets and they knew the heart of the wasichu held no mercy. Many bowed down to the black robes and received their blessings. Others shuffled their feet and looked to their brothers for guidance.
A pale faced Lakota warrior and spirit guide stepped forward and the people looked to him with respect. They saw in his eyes that he would never bow to the black robes or their wasichu God. The people saw this and gathered around him, whispering his name: Crazy Horse. He spoke for all who refused to bow.
“You have killed many buffalo,” he said, “but you have not killed all. They have gone to a place where you cannot follow. When you are banished from our land, they will return. As it is with the buffalo, so it is with the Lakota.”
He climbed on his white Appaloosa and rode into the Black Hills, his people behind him. The black robes fell silent and made no move to follow. They were afraid of this man for he alone knew their secret: a people cannot be conquered without their submission.
As the vision began to fade, he saw a great cloud of smoke rising to the east. He saw a darkness, darker and more deadly than any he had ever seen, spreading to the four corners of the earth. It surrounded his camp, enveloped him, and blocked his vision.
Jerico returned to his fire, where he was greeted by the crow. He sat quietly as the crow became the raven and the raven became a man shrouded in black robes with hidden, invisible eyes. He lowered his hood, revealing the face the white man knows as Jesus, the perfect white Jesus with blue eyes, the likeness that hangs on the walls of the black robe places of worship.
For he so loved the world that he gave his only begotten son.
The black robe warmed his hands by Jerico’s fire and his face began changing, transforming from one to another in rapid succession. Jerico recognized Washington the Indian fighter, Jefferson the slave owner, Jackson the betrayer, Roosevelt the buffalo hunter, Johnson the Vietnamese killer, Hitler, Stalin, Suharto, Pinochet, Pol Pot, Amin, Milosevic, Hussein, Trujillo, Arafat and Sharon, Nixon and Kissinger. He understood that this was the killing spirit. He understood that the wasichu was not always a white man but always he was infected by the same disease: His love of power and greed.
The black robe returned to the face of Jesus and smiled beneficently. “What you call the killing spirit is not the great evil you imagine it to be,” he said. “I prefer the name of progress for it carries the weight of inevitability. You cannot fight manifest destiny any more than you can push back the tides.”
Jerico listened as he would to an elder for there was much to be learned.
“What if the wasichu had been kind and gentle?” the black robe asked. “Would that have stopped them from spreading over the land, killing your people with disease? The white man has built a great nation, the greatest power on earth. They welcome you to their family, to share the wealth, to live in comfort and peace. They give you medicine and technology. They promise you freedom. They only ask that you live as they do, that you give up the old ways, that you lay down your arms and give up your hatred. They ask only that you take their faith, their God, their holy father, the blood and the body of Christ into your hearts. Is that really too much to ask?”
“You have taken our land,” replied Jerico. “You have raped our mother. You have killed the buffalo. You have fed your poisons to our father. In exchange, you have given us sheds to live in, alcohol and gambling. We give, we surrender, but it is never enough. The killing spirit always wants more. When you have stolen our hearts, you will ask for our souls.”
“Your people will follow you,” said the black robe. “If you refuse to bow down, they will suffer. If you agree, if you give yourself over to the power of Christ, they will prosper. This is the choice that you and you alone must take.”
Jerico looked to the sky where the hawk circled four times and flew to the west. In the distant clouds, he saw clearly the white buffalo.
As it is with the buffalo, so it is with the Lakota.
“You are not the one called Jesus,” he said, but as he turned, he saw that the killing spirit was gone. He had already received the answer of Jerico Whitehorse. He would not bow down. He had chosen the red road, the way of the Lakota.
THE KILLING SPIRIT: Blood Sacrifice (58)
CHAPTER TWELVE
BLOOD SACRIFICE
In the tradition of Hanblecheya, at sunrise of the fifth day, the seeker’s assistants came to his camp to escort him back to the tribal gathering. There he would again undergo the cleansing of Inipi before the telling.
Jerico’s body was weak and stumbling yet he refused assistance in walking. He embraced Ramona as he reached the fire circle and saw in her tear-stained eyes, felt in the trembling of her embrace that she knew and understood his pain.
In the preparations for Inipi, as with all sacred ceremonies, great care must be taken. Reeds for the lodge must be strong yet bending. Skins covering the lodge must be sewn in such a manner that no light will enter and no steam will escape. Stones must be large, round and dry. River stones, filled with water, when exposed to the intense heat of the Inipi fire, would expand and explode like the white man’s cluster bomb, sending shrapnel in all directions. Everything must be put in its proper place for the Inipi to serve its sacred function.
They entered the lodge and took their places as the fire man brought in the white-hot stones. The old one summoned the ancestors in song and gave his blessings to the four elements and the six directions.
“Give us your red and blue days!”
All the powers of the earth, the moon, the stars and eternal time were pulled together in the Inipi lodge so that the dreamer could see more clearly the vision of his lament and deliver it to the people of the waking world for the elders and wise ones to read and interpret.
Water was poured on the stones and a white cloud of steam filled the Inipi lodge. Jerico spoke, in the space between waves of steam, of the animal spirits who came to his fire and the old one spoke of their medicines: The shape shifter crow, the coyote trickster, the messenger hawk, the sorcerer owl and the dragonfly of illusions.
“It speaks well,” said the old one, “to have such powerful allies.”
As soon as he began describing the vision of the black robes, he sensed that few words were necessary. The vision was shared by all. He closed his eyes and painted: Song of the dead, rivers of fire, groans of the dying, blood-filled eyes, acid rain, rotting corpses and charred remains, death, fear and rage, tears of mourning, white crosses and hell fire, smoke on the eastern horizon.
He had chosen the path of Crazy Horse and he would not look back.
It was the end of the third wave. The others welcomed relief in the cool air outside the lodge but the old one signaled for Jerico and Ramona to stay. He asked Ramona to inform the others that the last wave was for the dreamer and his guide alone. Her eyes filled with tears but she yielded to his wisdom, clasping Jerico’s hand before she left the lodge.
“A shadow has entered our lodge,” said the old one quietly. “I believe it is the darkness of the black robe.”
He passed water and Jerico drank. He lit sage and again gave it to the six directions. He lit the ceremonial pipe and they smoked.
“Your vision challenges us to be strong, to hold on to who we are and who we have always been. Now we must prove ourselves worthy. Once again, we must face the dark spirit with many faces.”
He poured water on the stones and in the explosion of steam the form of the white man’s Jesus, not the real Jesus but an echo of the killing spirit appeared.
“This spirit is brave,” said the old one. “When it visits our lodge, its powers are scattered to the four corners of the universe.”
He began to chant in an ancient tongue and Jerico understood it was a native rite of calling in the spirits. He was offering himself and challenging the killing spirit to take hold. He would sacrifice himself to protect Jerico and the others within the circle of the Inipi.
The spirit held to the now weakening clouds of steam, without motion or expression. Jerico realized it was only an illusion. It was not meant to attack within the Inipi lodge but rather to distract them.
He broke from the lodge but it was too late. An explosion rocked the camp and rolling thunder echoed through the nearby hills. Fragments of stone from the Inipi fire pounded the lodge like a thousand angry drums.
All that gives life drained from his body as Jerico saw what had happened. Before his burning eyes lay the scene of a massacre, a blood sacrifice that cut deeper than the old one intended. Everything was still and the only sound was the moan and crackle of fire.
Jerico went to where Ramona’s body lay motionless, her eyes open and filled with horror. Jerico’s tears mingled with her blood. He saw Marie. Gently he closed her eyes and visions of Marie, her bruised and broken body on a lonely highway, swept over him, pressing him to his knees, pushing his head to Ramona’s no longer beating heart.
Somewhere in the shadows of his mind, he heard a man running through the woods and the almost inaudible moan of the old one in the Inipi lodge but he was no longer in possession of his body. It was not that he could not move; it was that he could not think to move.
Soon the camp would be filled with the haunting and familiar sounds of sirens, rescue workers and police. As the only man standing, untouched by the hailstorm of stone fragments, he was arrested on suspicion of murder.
He did not speak and offered no defense but the old one would live long enough to set him free. Later, they would find the fire man hanging from the limb of a cottonwood tree and they put the pieces in order.
He had placed river stones along with dry stones in the Inipi fire. He had waited for the end of the third wave when all would be gathered outside the lodge. When the stones exploded, he was hiding in the woods. Overcome by guilt and the horror of what he had done, he hanged himself.
The police were baffled as to his motive. There was nothing in his background to suggest that he was capable of such a crime. Jerico only shook his head, unable and unwilling to explain that the man was not himself, that he was possessed by the killing spirit. Like the friendly Indians who gathered by the white man’s fort in the days when the Lakota were free, whose services were bought by a bottle of whiskey, he had given himself to darkness. His weakness made him vulnerable but he was not the killer. He was the rifle but he was not the one who pulled the trigger.
The old one summoned him to his side in the remaining moments of his life. He begged Jerico not to take the burden upon himself. He said that they had both failed the circle but they had not failed the test. It was now more important than ever for Jerico to carry on, to plant the staff and fight. He needed the people and the people needed him.
Jerico loved the old man. He wanted to honor him in death. He wanted to give his promise but he could not. His eyes had witnessed too much suffering and his tears ran dry. He remembered Marie in every breath and every heartbeat.
He could only promise to keep the old one’s words in his heart until his spirit warmed and his mourning thawed like mountain snow in springtime. He could promise no more.
“It is enough,” said the old one with his dying breath.
BLOOD SACRIFICE
In the tradition of Hanblecheya, at sunrise of the fifth day, the seeker’s assistants came to his camp to escort him back to the tribal gathering. There he would again undergo the cleansing of Inipi before the telling.
Jerico’s body was weak and stumbling yet he refused assistance in walking. He embraced Ramona as he reached the fire circle and saw in her tear-stained eyes, felt in the trembling of her embrace that she knew and understood his pain.
In the preparations for Inipi, as with all sacred ceremonies, great care must be taken. Reeds for the lodge must be strong yet bending. Skins covering the lodge must be sewn in such a manner that no light will enter and no steam will escape. Stones must be large, round and dry. River stones, filled with water, when exposed to the intense heat of the Inipi fire, would expand and explode like the white man’s cluster bomb, sending shrapnel in all directions. Everything must be put in its proper place for the Inipi to serve its sacred function.
They entered the lodge and took their places as the fire man brought in the white-hot stones. The old one summoned the ancestors in song and gave his blessings to the four elements and the six directions.
“Give us your red and blue days!”
All the powers of the earth, the moon, the stars and eternal time were pulled together in the Inipi lodge so that the dreamer could see more clearly the vision of his lament and deliver it to the people of the waking world for the elders and wise ones to read and interpret.
Water was poured on the stones and a white cloud of steam filled the Inipi lodge. Jerico spoke, in the space between waves of steam, of the animal spirits who came to his fire and the old one spoke of their medicines: The shape shifter crow, the coyote trickster, the messenger hawk, the sorcerer owl and the dragonfly of illusions.
“It speaks well,” said the old one, “to have such powerful allies.”
As soon as he began describing the vision of the black robes, he sensed that few words were necessary. The vision was shared by all. He closed his eyes and painted: Song of the dead, rivers of fire, groans of the dying, blood-filled eyes, acid rain, rotting corpses and charred remains, death, fear and rage, tears of mourning, white crosses and hell fire, smoke on the eastern horizon.
He had chosen the path of Crazy Horse and he would not look back.
It was the end of the third wave. The others welcomed relief in the cool air outside the lodge but the old one signaled for Jerico and Ramona to stay. He asked Ramona to inform the others that the last wave was for the dreamer and his guide alone. Her eyes filled with tears but she yielded to his wisdom, clasping Jerico’s hand before she left the lodge.
“A shadow has entered our lodge,” said the old one quietly. “I believe it is the darkness of the black robe.”
He passed water and Jerico drank. He lit sage and again gave it to the six directions. He lit the ceremonial pipe and they smoked.
“Your vision challenges us to be strong, to hold on to who we are and who we have always been. Now we must prove ourselves worthy. Once again, we must face the dark spirit with many faces.”
He poured water on the stones and in the explosion of steam the form of the white man’s Jesus, not the real Jesus but an echo of the killing spirit appeared.
“This spirit is brave,” said the old one. “When it visits our lodge, its powers are scattered to the four corners of the universe.”
He began to chant in an ancient tongue and Jerico understood it was a native rite of calling in the spirits. He was offering himself and challenging the killing spirit to take hold. He would sacrifice himself to protect Jerico and the others within the circle of the Inipi.
The spirit held to the now weakening clouds of steam, without motion or expression. Jerico realized it was only an illusion. It was not meant to attack within the Inipi lodge but rather to distract them.
He broke from the lodge but it was too late. An explosion rocked the camp and rolling thunder echoed through the nearby hills. Fragments of stone from the Inipi fire pounded the lodge like a thousand angry drums.
All that gives life drained from his body as Jerico saw what had happened. Before his burning eyes lay the scene of a massacre, a blood sacrifice that cut deeper than the old one intended. Everything was still and the only sound was the moan and crackle of fire.
Jerico went to where Ramona’s body lay motionless, her eyes open and filled with horror. Jerico’s tears mingled with her blood. He saw Marie. Gently he closed her eyes and visions of Marie, her bruised and broken body on a lonely highway, swept over him, pressing him to his knees, pushing his head to Ramona’s no longer beating heart.
Somewhere in the shadows of his mind, he heard a man running through the woods and the almost inaudible moan of the old one in the Inipi lodge but he was no longer in possession of his body. It was not that he could not move; it was that he could not think to move.
Soon the camp would be filled with the haunting and familiar sounds of sirens, rescue workers and police. As the only man standing, untouched by the hailstorm of stone fragments, he was arrested on suspicion of murder.
He did not speak and offered no defense but the old one would live long enough to set him free. Later, they would find the fire man hanging from the limb of a cottonwood tree and they put the pieces in order.
He had placed river stones along with dry stones in the Inipi fire. He had waited for the end of the third wave when all would be gathered outside the lodge. When the stones exploded, he was hiding in the woods. Overcome by guilt and the horror of what he had done, he hanged himself.
The police were baffled as to his motive. There was nothing in his background to suggest that he was capable of such a crime. Jerico only shook his head, unable and unwilling to explain that the man was not himself, that he was possessed by the killing spirit. Like the friendly Indians who gathered by the white man’s fort in the days when the Lakota were free, whose services were bought by a bottle of whiskey, he had given himself to darkness. His weakness made him vulnerable but he was not the killer. He was the rifle but he was not the one who pulled the trigger.
The old one summoned him to his side in the remaining moments of his life. He begged Jerico not to take the burden upon himself. He said that they had both failed the circle but they had not failed the test. It was now more important than ever for Jerico to carry on, to plant the staff and fight. He needed the people and the people needed him.
Jerico loved the old man. He wanted to honor him in death. He wanted to give his promise but he could not. His eyes had witnessed too much suffering and his tears ran dry. He remembered Marie in every breath and every heartbeat.
He could only promise to keep the old one’s words in his heart until his spirit warmed and his mourning thawed like mountain snow in springtime. He could promise no more.
“It is enough,” said the old one with his dying breath.
THE KILLING SPIRIT: The Hawk and the Ravens (61)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE HAWK & THE RAVENS
Nine died in what became known as the Sangre de Cristo Massacre. As the lone survivor, Jerico Whitehorse came to the attention of the American mass media. Reporters descended on him like a pack of rats at an open dump.
At first the tone of their inquiries were tempered with sympathy. The public has a right to know: What was his relationship to the dead? Were they a religious cult? What was the nature of the ritual they were performing? Were they pagans? Did they worship the devil? Was he a member of the American Indian Church? Was he high on peyote that fateful day?
Jerico refused to answer their questions. He refused to make a show of his grief. He refused to attend the funerals staged more for the cameras than for the mourning survivors. Instead, he went to the mountains and delivered his prayers to the Great Spirit.
When the media uncovered his connection to the attack of a Cherokee girl in Mississippi, the death of an elder leader in Oklahoma, and the unexplained disappearance of an Apache baseball team in White Sands, reporters dropped all pretense of civility and went for the kill. They wondered openly whether Jerico was a victim of extraordinary circumstance or a cold-blooded rapist and serial killer who masterfully evaded detection. Given the nature of the crimes, they speculated that he secretly despised his own race.
Somewhere the Killing Spirit was laughing aloud.
In the dead of night, Jerico climbed aboard his mechanical pony and drove into the heart of the great Navaho nation at Third Mesa in Arizona. Though the moon was bright, he did not notice the red rock canyons, the expansive sky, or the ancient stone carvings of the earth. He drove through the night in silent sorrow until the land opened her eyes at daybreak. He drove to the village of Henry Lightfoot, the spiritual healer and stargazer who had given his life so that Jerico would not have to give his. He stopped where he recognized the markings of spiritual beings. Lala purred like the mare of a proud warrior as he parked in front of a modest home, where trinkets were sold to tourists and medicines to the faithful.
Lala knew they had driven their last mile together. If a machine could cry, she would have. They had traveled a long road together and they knew each other as only the road can teach.
“My friend the raven told me you would come.”
He introduced himself as Henry’s brother, Ulysses. Younger than Henry, his face was well traveled and his eyes held the same light that inspired immediate trust.
“Your friend is wise,” said Jerico.
“She tells me you have no more need of your pony.”
Jerico looked inward. He had come to pay his respects but also to find Lala a good home. It was time to walk alone.
Ulysses knew what had happened at Sangre de Cristo. He had no television but some in the village did. He knew before they came to him. He knew as a spiritual brother always knows. He did not wonder if what the reporters on television said was true. He knew.
Ulysses brought him inside where his wife and a visiting daughter from Tuba City greeted him. They shared a light meal while Jerico told the story of his journey and Henry’s death. His eyes could not contain his tears but his chest swelled with pride.
“She is a good pony,” he said. “She has taken me to places no man may travel and rescued me from places no man should. She has strong medicine. She deserves a good home.”
“She shall have one,” said Ulysses.
“Her name is Lala.”
“It is a good name.”
“Short for Lalapalooza.”
“I won’t ask,” he smiled.
“She’s a good pony.”
The family looked to each other and nodded in agreement.
“And she shall have a good home,” said Ulysses.
The accepted his offering not out of pity and not in compensation for their loss, but out of respect. They needed to hear from his tongue how Henry died. They were satisfied it was a worthy death, the death of a great warrior and spiritual being.
Ulysses took Jerico under his wing and gave him some of the things he would need to survive alone in the desert: a sturdy water pouch, a good knife, a bow and quiver of arrows. Over the next two days, he gave him knowledge of the land: where to find flint, water and game. He told him how to dry meat, what plants could be eaten, which would provide medicine, how to make string for a bow, how to shape arrow heads, how to fasten feathers to the shaft, how to choose wood for burning, tool making and weapons, and how to make shelter in the open land.
Jerico was grateful for his patience, wisdom and guidance. With fresh tears, he circled his pony four times, gave his final blessings and walked into the desert to begin his life as a coyote.
For two years, he would never meet another human being. The only words he would hear were those that originated in his mind. The only song he would dance was the song of the wind. The only company he would keep was that of the animal spirits who shared the land in perfect grace.
He survived blinding sand storms and floating waves of heat. He discovered the pulsating earth that marked the wasichu death machine beneath the desert surface. Mile after mile he pressed his ear to the sandy soil and felt in every particle of his body the drum beat of death. He moved away from the death machine. He avoided all things poisoned by the wasichu touch. He cut their wires and marked their trails. He plugged their pipelines and collapsed their holes. He could hear them curse his coyote spirit as he traveled the breaks and canyons northward toward home. He lived beyond their reach, beyond their grasp, beyond their inquiries and beyond their control.
He sought refuge in the cave dwellings of the ancient Anasazi, sensing on first touch that there was not a more sacred place on the planet. He fell to his knees, gave thanks and blessed the earth, the moon, the stars and the living spirits that guided him here. In a circle of stones carved before the wasichu was even a dream, he found peace and felt his blessings returned a thousand fold.
He settled in for many seasons of the sun, eating roots, hunting rabbits and living off the land the coyote way. He sat for hours at a time, looking out over the canyons and monuments of the red rock kingdom.
On a full moon night, on the eve of summer solstice, he had a vision of the four worlds and the people of the stars.
An old voice spoke to him, painting pictures of ancient memories. In the first world, the two legs lived as other animal spirits and there was harmony in the land. No wars, no tribes, only a trace of maternal family, there was only survival. In the second world, the bonds of family reached outward, forming tribes, communities and feudal kingdoms. The people were enslaved and needed battle, raiding and wars to infuse them with pride and purpose. They began to claim the land and gather things they could not use. They wanted treasures to set them above their enemies and neighbors.
In the third world, the black robes and their masters used the false pride and greed of the people to infect their souls. The wasichu had an endless bounty of useless treasures, which it delivered to those who obeyed and served.
In the fourth world, a world not yet born to the living dream, all is set right. The people of the stars, who were there in the beginning time, who are here in the living dream, and who will be there in the end time, restore balance and harmony. The people of the stars, who sent White Buffalo Calf Woman for the Lakota, Jesus for the people of Jerusalem, Mohammed for the people of the pyramids, Lao-tzu for the people of the orient, and the Bohdi Satya for the people of the temples, would reach out again once the killing spirit, the spirit of greed and avarice, no longer ruled.
A new spirit, born of understanding and humility, would give rise to an age of harmony but it could not begin until the killing spirit was defeated.
Jerico sat for a hundred years in silent thought. He realized he would have to return to his people to tell them what he had seen. He prayed for guidance and he received it in the cry of an eagle on its journey west to the high mountains of the Rockies. It was late summer when he began the long walk in desert heat. It was fall when he reached the foothills and climbed a secluded trail to begin his life as a wolf.
When the first snows swept across the high country, a mountain man, chiseled from hard granite (the color of his beard), came to his camp. His name was Deuces and Jerico mistook his shadow for that of a grizzly when it first appeared. His voice was deep and strong and his laughter was rolling thunder. He was on his way down when he happened across Jerico’s fire. He did not know whether to pity his foolishness or admire his courage.
For three days, he taught Jerico everything he could about surviving winter in the Rockies. He taught him how to recognize the signs of a coming storm, how to distinguish a snowstorm from an ice storm, and how to judge its strength. He taught him how to locate caves and how to avoid mountain lions, wolves and grizzlies.
He had once lived among the Mormons, who believed that the savior would return in the body of a Laminite – the Mormon word for Indian. For three nights, sitting by the fire, he spoke of prophecies, from the biblical to Nostradamus, and always his deliberations would end with this strange notion pulled from the Book of Mormon.
Jerico did not know why but he offered his mountain-survival teacher his vision of the four worlds and the grizzly man went silent until the distant call of a wolf broke the spell. They smoked a pipe before they lay down to sleep and in the morning, they gave their farewells and exchanged gifts: a bearskin coat for a sacred medicine bundle.
It was deep winter when he found the cave that would be his home. There was fresh water from a nearby spring and an eagle stood guard from his perch above. He had plenty of dried meat and thoughts to keep him company. It was a good place to cry for a vision and here he would remain until the winter began to thaw.
The cave was large enough for a sweat lodge. It let in the sun but kept out the snow and the sleet. The walls were granite but the floor was layered with soft earth. It was ideal for a grizzly hibernation but there were no fresh signs of animal inhabitants.
Once he had settled in his camp, he sat silently in thought for days, gathering his strength. Then he began a fast, living only on the clear, living waters of a mountain spring. On the seventh day of fasting, a fever took hold of him and a wolf, black as a moonless night, appeared at the entrance of his dwelling.
It did not show its teeth or growl, as a wolf does when it encounters an unwelcome visitor. It remained still, watching as Jerico in his delirium on a bed of skins, made out its form across the fire and wondered if he could even rise in defense. Slowly, as the wolf came into focus and moved forward into the cave, he did not feel threatened. Slowly, as it circled around the fire, its blackness changed to brown and gold and, finally, white.
The wolf was summoning the memory of White Buffalo Calf Woman, who appeared to his people as a black buffalo before the transformation. Had Jerico been in his normal, waking mind, he might have challenged the image as an illusion but his heart was devoid of doubt. He remembered the story of the two warriors who greeted White Buffalo Woman. One greeted her with reverence and was rewarded, while the other desired her sexual treasure and perished in ashes.
The transformation complete, the wolf stood before him as Marie.
Jerico could no more deny his desire for her than a river can flow backwards.
“I took this form,” she said, “because I knew it would please you.”
She lay beside him and pressed her hand to his forehead. His fever vanished and she placed her lips on his: the taste of honey and sweet memories, a warm spring under starlit skies, the first promise of devotion, the first touch of kindness, a dive into pure waters, the dance of enchanted maidens, city lights and thunderstorms, summer rain and the river flows.
She was his eternal partner, his other half, his soul companion, yet she was also his teacher, his master, the voice of his wisdom and he was her humble student.
In a quiet moment, as they lay entwined, Jerico told her the story of the hawk and the ravens. When he was a child, he wandered off to a place by the creek where ravens gathered in the cottonwood trees. It became his place of solitude, where he would skip stones off the water, study the sky and dream.
On a summer day, he noticed that the ravens were active, squawking and darting across the creek from tree to tree, as if something had invaded their space and disturbed their peace. He noticed a hawk in the tallest tree. He had never seen a hawk in this place before. The hawk prefers the high ground where the wind currents are strong and his powerful vision is most useful. This hawk had chosen a different path.
As the days rolled by, the ravens began pushing the unwelcome visitor. One by one, they swooped across the sky, pulling up at the hawk’s perch. If the hawk moved toward one, another would swoop in from a different direction. After a while, the ravens forced the hawk into the air where they nipped at his wings and tail feathers, blocking the hawk from moving higher where the raven cannot follow.
Even as a child, Jerico understood that the ravens were trying to push the hawk from the land they claimed as their own but the hawk was too proud. He circled back when he should have flown west to the mountains.
Finally, the hawk grew tired as the ravens slammed his weakened body harder and harder. It lost its flight and spiraled into the ground, landing hard on the rocky bank of the creek.
The ravens descended, surrounding his almost still body, but they no longer poked or prodded him. They bobbed their heads and it seemed to Jerico that they were praying in the raven way. One nudged the hawk’s wing as if imploring him to rise and fly away but the hawk could not. His spirit had already risen.
So the ravens flew to the trees and returned with leaves and feathers to place on the hawk’s body. They kicked sand and stone over the grave and bobbed their heads in prayer.
The ravens were praying to the spirit that soars above all beings to grant safe passage to the spirit world for a brave and tireless enemy.
“There is much to be learned from this story,” said Marie. “It teaches that pride can lead to folly but it also teaches something about the killing spirit.”
Outside a harsh wind whistled through the pines and the bite of winter was deadly cold but inside the fire glowed and warmth surrounded them with comfort.
“The killing spirit loves his enemy,” she continued. “It loves only those it respects and respects only those who refuse to bow to its power. It kills for love and laments its victim.”
“Is that why it killed Henry Lightfoot?” Jerico asked. “Is that why it killed Ramona and the others? For love?”
“No,” she replied. “They were not the targets of the killing spirit’s game. The black heart thinks nothing of killing those who do not matter. They are pawns that can be used and discarded. You are the one that matters. The killing spirit wants to transform you from a man of the spirits to a warrior.”
“As it did Crazy Horse,” said Jerico.
“They were different times,” reflected Marie. “The people needed a warrior then to give them hope, to lead them in a century of struggle to survive as a people. They have survived. Now the people have a different need. They need a warrior for the truth. They need to share a vision of truth that will reveal the killing spirit for what it is.”
“When we see the truth, when the vision is revealed, will it change our path?”
“When enough people see it and believe it,” replied Marie, “it will change everything.”
They listened to the wind as it railed and grew calm like waves on angry sea. Jerico’s thoughts followed the wind, filling with rage and subsiding, racing to understand and subsiding in hopelessness.
“First,” she said at length, “you must believe. There is no truth in anger and there is no understanding in vengeance.”
“To heal others,” Jerico reflected, “you must first heal yourself.”
They made love in the cool dampness of a mother’s womb. They let the mountain swallow them and carry them to where eagles nest, where the wind and the snow could comfort them. They let the waves ebb and flow: the small of her back, the salt of her wound, the thrust of her hips, the heat of his breath, the smell of surrender and the long ride home.
He would never be alone. Wherever he traveled, whatever he did, whoever crossed his path, he would always find Marie.
In the womb of understanding, in the still of paradise, two visions of the future unfolded:
The first was a vision of the world as it would be if the killing spirit still ruled. The wasichu gambling castles rose from Indian ground but the people still lived in plywood shacks and cinder block homes that could neither block the chill of winter nor the heat of summer. The people had no jobs or jobs that could not pay a living wage. Men and women were living as empty shells, collecting welfare and seeking truth in liquor and drugs. Children were hungry for knowledge and food. Fat white men and their Indian collaborators counted dollars while their souls rotted.
The second vision was a world without the killing spirit. The people celebrated their culture and heritage and white people in vans and buses came to gather knowledge and hope. It was a world where technology did not poison the air and water, harnessing the power of the sun, the wind and human ingenuity. The old ways, the ways of mother earth and White Buffalo Calf Woman, were taught in the schools and churches, and practiced by the people in a sacred way. Even the white man respected the Indian way and sacred lands returned to the people who loved and cared for them.
All nations were united not in war but in strength and pride. Tribes everywhere took back their lands and replaced the white man’s gambling castles with schools, museums and shrines to the living dead.
“The people cannot go back,” said Marie, “but a bridge can be built connecting the old to the new so that both may live in harmony. This cannot be done while the killing spirit is allowed to continue the path it has walked for a thousand years. It can only be done if the darkness yields to light, if the killing spirit is no more.”
Jerico felt the weight of her words, even as he welcomed them, for he understood that his responsibility was not to hide but to step forward in battle.
“Do not believe it is impossible,” said Marie. “The killing spirit has no greater desire than his own defeat. He has chosen you because he believes you can succeed where others have failed.”
In the hours of her departure, a heavy silence descended upon them and, in that silence, their love blossomed and grew. When the time arrived, she drew a circle on the floor of the cave and in that circle, she drew seven lines – seven spokes of the great wheel.
She said that each spoke represented one of the sacred rites. Jerico had completed four parts of his journey: Inipi, Ishnati Alowanpi, Hunka Kagapi and Hanblecheya. To fulfill his vision, he needed to complete the wheel: Wiwanyank Wachipi (Sun Dance), Nagi Wachipi (Ghost Dance) and Nagi Uhapi (Keeping and Releasing the Soul).
“You must follow the path of Crazy Horse,” she said. “Accept no titles, no gifts. You must rise above your pride. You must have no anger when you strike your enemy. Anger gives the killing spirit strength. You must have a quiet tongue so that when you speak, your words will reach out and circle the earth as the earth circles the sun. You must be certain in your step. You will see the path as it falls at your feet.”
They came together one last time before she walked into the night. The sky was clear, a blue moon hovering like a gift from Father Sky. She became the white wolf, the brown, the golden and the black. As she vanished on the trail above, Jerico’s tears burned with sorrow, with wanting what can never be.
Soon winter would break and he would leave the womb forever.
THE HAWK & THE RAVENS
Nine died in what became known as the Sangre de Cristo Massacre. As the lone survivor, Jerico Whitehorse came to the attention of the American mass media. Reporters descended on him like a pack of rats at an open dump.
At first the tone of their inquiries were tempered with sympathy. The public has a right to know: What was his relationship to the dead? Were they a religious cult? What was the nature of the ritual they were performing? Were they pagans? Did they worship the devil? Was he a member of the American Indian Church? Was he high on peyote that fateful day?
Jerico refused to answer their questions. He refused to make a show of his grief. He refused to attend the funerals staged more for the cameras than for the mourning survivors. Instead, he went to the mountains and delivered his prayers to the Great Spirit.
When the media uncovered his connection to the attack of a Cherokee girl in Mississippi, the death of an elder leader in Oklahoma, and the unexplained disappearance of an Apache baseball team in White Sands, reporters dropped all pretense of civility and went for the kill. They wondered openly whether Jerico was a victim of extraordinary circumstance or a cold-blooded rapist and serial killer who masterfully evaded detection. Given the nature of the crimes, they speculated that he secretly despised his own race.
Somewhere the Killing Spirit was laughing aloud.
In the dead of night, Jerico climbed aboard his mechanical pony and drove into the heart of the great Navaho nation at Third Mesa in Arizona. Though the moon was bright, he did not notice the red rock canyons, the expansive sky, or the ancient stone carvings of the earth. He drove through the night in silent sorrow until the land opened her eyes at daybreak. He drove to the village of Henry Lightfoot, the spiritual healer and stargazer who had given his life so that Jerico would not have to give his. He stopped where he recognized the markings of spiritual beings. Lala purred like the mare of a proud warrior as he parked in front of a modest home, where trinkets were sold to tourists and medicines to the faithful.
Lala knew they had driven their last mile together. If a machine could cry, she would have. They had traveled a long road together and they knew each other as only the road can teach.
“My friend the raven told me you would come.”
He introduced himself as Henry’s brother, Ulysses. Younger than Henry, his face was well traveled and his eyes held the same light that inspired immediate trust.
“Your friend is wise,” said Jerico.
“She tells me you have no more need of your pony.”
Jerico looked inward. He had come to pay his respects but also to find Lala a good home. It was time to walk alone.
Ulysses knew what had happened at Sangre de Cristo. He had no television but some in the village did. He knew before they came to him. He knew as a spiritual brother always knows. He did not wonder if what the reporters on television said was true. He knew.
Ulysses brought him inside where his wife and a visiting daughter from Tuba City greeted him. They shared a light meal while Jerico told the story of his journey and Henry’s death. His eyes could not contain his tears but his chest swelled with pride.
“She is a good pony,” he said. “She has taken me to places no man may travel and rescued me from places no man should. She has strong medicine. She deserves a good home.”
“She shall have one,” said Ulysses.
“Her name is Lala.”
“It is a good name.”
“Short for Lalapalooza.”
“I won’t ask,” he smiled.
“She’s a good pony.”
The family looked to each other and nodded in agreement.
“And she shall have a good home,” said Ulysses.
The accepted his offering not out of pity and not in compensation for their loss, but out of respect. They needed to hear from his tongue how Henry died. They were satisfied it was a worthy death, the death of a great warrior and spiritual being.
Ulysses took Jerico under his wing and gave him some of the things he would need to survive alone in the desert: a sturdy water pouch, a good knife, a bow and quiver of arrows. Over the next two days, he gave him knowledge of the land: where to find flint, water and game. He told him how to dry meat, what plants could be eaten, which would provide medicine, how to make string for a bow, how to shape arrow heads, how to fasten feathers to the shaft, how to choose wood for burning, tool making and weapons, and how to make shelter in the open land.
Jerico was grateful for his patience, wisdom and guidance. With fresh tears, he circled his pony four times, gave his final blessings and walked into the desert to begin his life as a coyote.
For two years, he would never meet another human being. The only words he would hear were those that originated in his mind. The only song he would dance was the song of the wind. The only company he would keep was that of the animal spirits who shared the land in perfect grace.
He survived blinding sand storms and floating waves of heat. He discovered the pulsating earth that marked the wasichu death machine beneath the desert surface. Mile after mile he pressed his ear to the sandy soil and felt in every particle of his body the drum beat of death. He moved away from the death machine. He avoided all things poisoned by the wasichu touch. He cut their wires and marked their trails. He plugged their pipelines and collapsed their holes. He could hear them curse his coyote spirit as he traveled the breaks and canyons northward toward home. He lived beyond their reach, beyond their grasp, beyond their inquiries and beyond their control.
He sought refuge in the cave dwellings of the ancient Anasazi, sensing on first touch that there was not a more sacred place on the planet. He fell to his knees, gave thanks and blessed the earth, the moon, the stars and the living spirits that guided him here. In a circle of stones carved before the wasichu was even a dream, he found peace and felt his blessings returned a thousand fold.
He settled in for many seasons of the sun, eating roots, hunting rabbits and living off the land the coyote way. He sat for hours at a time, looking out over the canyons and monuments of the red rock kingdom.
On a full moon night, on the eve of summer solstice, he had a vision of the four worlds and the people of the stars.
An old voice spoke to him, painting pictures of ancient memories. In the first world, the two legs lived as other animal spirits and there was harmony in the land. No wars, no tribes, only a trace of maternal family, there was only survival. In the second world, the bonds of family reached outward, forming tribes, communities and feudal kingdoms. The people were enslaved and needed battle, raiding and wars to infuse them with pride and purpose. They began to claim the land and gather things they could not use. They wanted treasures to set them above their enemies and neighbors.
In the third world, the black robes and their masters used the false pride and greed of the people to infect their souls. The wasichu had an endless bounty of useless treasures, which it delivered to those who obeyed and served.
In the fourth world, a world not yet born to the living dream, all is set right. The people of the stars, who were there in the beginning time, who are here in the living dream, and who will be there in the end time, restore balance and harmony. The people of the stars, who sent White Buffalo Calf Woman for the Lakota, Jesus for the people of Jerusalem, Mohammed for the people of the pyramids, Lao-tzu for the people of the orient, and the Bohdi Satya for the people of the temples, would reach out again once the killing spirit, the spirit of greed and avarice, no longer ruled.
A new spirit, born of understanding and humility, would give rise to an age of harmony but it could not begin until the killing spirit was defeated.
Jerico sat for a hundred years in silent thought. He realized he would have to return to his people to tell them what he had seen. He prayed for guidance and he received it in the cry of an eagle on its journey west to the high mountains of the Rockies. It was late summer when he began the long walk in desert heat. It was fall when he reached the foothills and climbed a secluded trail to begin his life as a wolf.
When the first snows swept across the high country, a mountain man, chiseled from hard granite (the color of his beard), came to his camp. His name was Deuces and Jerico mistook his shadow for that of a grizzly when it first appeared. His voice was deep and strong and his laughter was rolling thunder. He was on his way down when he happened across Jerico’s fire. He did not know whether to pity his foolishness or admire his courage.
For three days, he taught Jerico everything he could about surviving winter in the Rockies. He taught him how to recognize the signs of a coming storm, how to distinguish a snowstorm from an ice storm, and how to judge its strength. He taught him how to locate caves and how to avoid mountain lions, wolves and grizzlies.
He had once lived among the Mormons, who believed that the savior would return in the body of a Laminite – the Mormon word for Indian. For three nights, sitting by the fire, he spoke of prophecies, from the biblical to Nostradamus, and always his deliberations would end with this strange notion pulled from the Book of Mormon.
Jerico did not know why but he offered his mountain-survival teacher his vision of the four worlds and the grizzly man went silent until the distant call of a wolf broke the spell. They smoked a pipe before they lay down to sleep and in the morning, they gave their farewells and exchanged gifts: a bearskin coat for a sacred medicine bundle.
It was deep winter when he found the cave that would be his home. There was fresh water from a nearby spring and an eagle stood guard from his perch above. He had plenty of dried meat and thoughts to keep him company. It was a good place to cry for a vision and here he would remain until the winter began to thaw.
The cave was large enough for a sweat lodge. It let in the sun but kept out the snow and the sleet. The walls were granite but the floor was layered with soft earth. It was ideal for a grizzly hibernation but there were no fresh signs of animal inhabitants.
Once he had settled in his camp, he sat silently in thought for days, gathering his strength. Then he began a fast, living only on the clear, living waters of a mountain spring. On the seventh day of fasting, a fever took hold of him and a wolf, black as a moonless night, appeared at the entrance of his dwelling.
It did not show its teeth or growl, as a wolf does when it encounters an unwelcome visitor. It remained still, watching as Jerico in his delirium on a bed of skins, made out its form across the fire and wondered if he could even rise in defense. Slowly, as the wolf came into focus and moved forward into the cave, he did not feel threatened. Slowly, as it circled around the fire, its blackness changed to brown and gold and, finally, white.
The wolf was summoning the memory of White Buffalo Calf Woman, who appeared to his people as a black buffalo before the transformation. Had Jerico been in his normal, waking mind, he might have challenged the image as an illusion but his heart was devoid of doubt. He remembered the story of the two warriors who greeted White Buffalo Woman. One greeted her with reverence and was rewarded, while the other desired her sexual treasure and perished in ashes.
The transformation complete, the wolf stood before him as Marie.
Jerico could no more deny his desire for her than a river can flow backwards.
“I took this form,” she said, “because I knew it would please you.”
She lay beside him and pressed her hand to his forehead. His fever vanished and she placed her lips on his: the taste of honey and sweet memories, a warm spring under starlit skies, the first promise of devotion, the first touch of kindness, a dive into pure waters, the dance of enchanted maidens, city lights and thunderstorms, summer rain and the river flows.
She was his eternal partner, his other half, his soul companion, yet she was also his teacher, his master, the voice of his wisdom and he was her humble student.
In a quiet moment, as they lay entwined, Jerico told her the story of the hawk and the ravens. When he was a child, he wandered off to a place by the creek where ravens gathered in the cottonwood trees. It became his place of solitude, where he would skip stones off the water, study the sky and dream.
On a summer day, he noticed that the ravens were active, squawking and darting across the creek from tree to tree, as if something had invaded their space and disturbed their peace. He noticed a hawk in the tallest tree. He had never seen a hawk in this place before. The hawk prefers the high ground where the wind currents are strong and his powerful vision is most useful. This hawk had chosen a different path.
As the days rolled by, the ravens began pushing the unwelcome visitor. One by one, they swooped across the sky, pulling up at the hawk’s perch. If the hawk moved toward one, another would swoop in from a different direction. After a while, the ravens forced the hawk into the air where they nipped at his wings and tail feathers, blocking the hawk from moving higher where the raven cannot follow.
Even as a child, Jerico understood that the ravens were trying to push the hawk from the land they claimed as their own but the hawk was too proud. He circled back when he should have flown west to the mountains.
Finally, the hawk grew tired as the ravens slammed his weakened body harder and harder. It lost its flight and spiraled into the ground, landing hard on the rocky bank of the creek.
The ravens descended, surrounding his almost still body, but they no longer poked or prodded him. They bobbed their heads and it seemed to Jerico that they were praying in the raven way. One nudged the hawk’s wing as if imploring him to rise and fly away but the hawk could not. His spirit had already risen.
So the ravens flew to the trees and returned with leaves and feathers to place on the hawk’s body. They kicked sand and stone over the grave and bobbed their heads in prayer.
The ravens were praying to the spirit that soars above all beings to grant safe passage to the spirit world for a brave and tireless enemy.
“There is much to be learned from this story,” said Marie. “It teaches that pride can lead to folly but it also teaches something about the killing spirit.”
Outside a harsh wind whistled through the pines and the bite of winter was deadly cold but inside the fire glowed and warmth surrounded them with comfort.
“The killing spirit loves his enemy,” she continued. “It loves only those it respects and respects only those who refuse to bow to its power. It kills for love and laments its victim.”
“Is that why it killed Henry Lightfoot?” Jerico asked. “Is that why it killed Ramona and the others? For love?”
“No,” she replied. “They were not the targets of the killing spirit’s game. The black heart thinks nothing of killing those who do not matter. They are pawns that can be used and discarded. You are the one that matters. The killing spirit wants to transform you from a man of the spirits to a warrior.”
“As it did Crazy Horse,” said Jerico.
“They were different times,” reflected Marie. “The people needed a warrior then to give them hope, to lead them in a century of struggle to survive as a people. They have survived. Now the people have a different need. They need a warrior for the truth. They need to share a vision of truth that will reveal the killing spirit for what it is.”
“When we see the truth, when the vision is revealed, will it change our path?”
“When enough people see it and believe it,” replied Marie, “it will change everything.”
They listened to the wind as it railed and grew calm like waves on angry sea. Jerico’s thoughts followed the wind, filling with rage and subsiding, racing to understand and subsiding in hopelessness.
“First,” she said at length, “you must believe. There is no truth in anger and there is no understanding in vengeance.”
“To heal others,” Jerico reflected, “you must first heal yourself.”
They made love in the cool dampness of a mother’s womb. They let the mountain swallow them and carry them to where eagles nest, where the wind and the snow could comfort them. They let the waves ebb and flow: the small of her back, the salt of her wound, the thrust of her hips, the heat of his breath, the smell of surrender and the long ride home.
He would never be alone. Wherever he traveled, whatever he did, whoever crossed his path, he would always find Marie.
In the womb of understanding, in the still of paradise, two visions of the future unfolded:
The first was a vision of the world as it would be if the killing spirit still ruled. The wasichu gambling castles rose from Indian ground but the people still lived in plywood shacks and cinder block homes that could neither block the chill of winter nor the heat of summer. The people had no jobs or jobs that could not pay a living wage. Men and women were living as empty shells, collecting welfare and seeking truth in liquor and drugs. Children were hungry for knowledge and food. Fat white men and their Indian collaborators counted dollars while their souls rotted.
The second vision was a world without the killing spirit. The people celebrated their culture and heritage and white people in vans and buses came to gather knowledge and hope. It was a world where technology did not poison the air and water, harnessing the power of the sun, the wind and human ingenuity. The old ways, the ways of mother earth and White Buffalo Calf Woman, were taught in the schools and churches, and practiced by the people in a sacred way. Even the white man respected the Indian way and sacred lands returned to the people who loved and cared for them.
All nations were united not in war but in strength and pride. Tribes everywhere took back their lands and replaced the white man’s gambling castles with schools, museums and shrines to the living dead.
“The people cannot go back,” said Marie, “but a bridge can be built connecting the old to the new so that both may live in harmony. This cannot be done while the killing spirit is allowed to continue the path it has walked for a thousand years. It can only be done if the darkness yields to light, if the killing spirit is no more.”
Jerico felt the weight of her words, even as he welcomed them, for he understood that his responsibility was not to hide but to step forward in battle.
“Do not believe it is impossible,” said Marie. “The killing spirit has no greater desire than his own defeat. He has chosen you because he believes you can succeed where others have failed.”
In the hours of her departure, a heavy silence descended upon them and, in that silence, their love blossomed and grew. When the time arrived, she drew a circle on the floor of the cave and in that circle, she drew seven lines – seven spokes of the great wheel.
She said that each spoke represented one of the sacred rites. Jerico had completed four parts of his journey: Inipi, Ishnati Alowanpi, Hunka Kagapi and Hanblecheya. To fulfill his vision, he needed to complete the wheel: Wiwanyank Wachipi (Sun Dance), Nagi Wachipi (Ghost Dance) and Nagi Uhapi (Keeping and Releasing the Soul).
“You must follow the path of Crazy Horse,” she said. “Accept no titles, no gifts. You must rise above your pride. You must have no anger when you strike your enemy. Anger gives the killing spirit strength. You must have a quiet tongue so that when you speak, your words will reach out and circle the earth as the earth circles the sun. You must be certain in your step. You will see the path as it falls at your feet.”
They came together one last time before she walked into the night. The sky was clear, a blue moon hovering like a gift from Father Sky. She became the white wolf, the brown, the golden and the black. As she vanished on the trail above, Jerico’s tears burned with sorrow, with wanting what can never be.
Soon winter would break and he would leave the womb forever.
THE KILLING SPIRIT: A Lost Boy (69)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
A LOST BOY
There is a yearning of the soul that can only be answered by those who belong to the circle of the family. Jerico felt that yearning now and abandoned a long neglect of his two-legged brothers and sisters. So long ago he could not remember why, he had turned his back and walked away, but now he longed for their embrace.
The storms of winter had broken but the snow was deep in the Rockies when he began his descent, setting sight on sacred ground, the homeland, the Badlands, the Black Hills, Pine Ridge and Rosebud Reservations of South Dakota.
It had been a long time and much had happened in the world beyond his view. Strange new diseases with animal names but human origins sprang up and spread like a plague of locusts. Harsh winters and extreme summers brought new hardships around the planet. Ice and snowstorms snapped power lines, triggering brownouts and blackouts along the eastern seaboard. Earthquakes and drought punished the west and southwest. Floods and hurricanes tortured the south and tornados struck the nation’s midsection from the plains to the Mississippi. Elections won and lost amidst corporate and political scandals, mass unemployment and hardship. Many began to wonder if the end times were at hand.
Jerico knew nothing of worldly matters. Life as an animal spirit, apart from the world, made him strong and heightened his senses. He had the eyes of a hawk, the ears and nose of a coyote, and the endurance of a wolf. He understood the language of the land and the creatures that lived within its bounds. He had learned to read the signs, as the ancients must have done, to listen to the stones and the trees, and to taste the wind.
Perhaps because of his heightened senses, he heard the muffled, barely decipherable cry of a child in distress. Even then, if not for the piercing call of a hawk, he might not have recognized the sound for what it was: a boy crying out for help, his voice weak and trembling, calling for his mother and father and for someone named Danny.
Wearing snowshoes the mountain man had helped him to devise, he moved as quickly as he could across fields of snow, aware that the sun was falling from the sky, afraid that he would be too late. The moon was waning and he would not be able to continue long past sundown. A lost boy, hungry, hurt and desperate, would not survive the night.
He had just crossed a clearing, where a column of granite rose like a beacon from a deep gorge in a thicket of pine, when he heard the chopping blades of a helicopter to the west. He tried to signal but it was gone as soon as it appeared. They would not find the boy. A light snow had covered his tracks. They were miles off course without a clue. He glimpsed smoke rising in the same direction and marked it between peeks in the sky.
The boy was silent now. Jerico stood on the precipice and peered into the depths of a rocky gorge. He could not see the bottom for darkness. He tossed a stone and counted seven before it struck the granite wall and bounded still deeper.
The shadows were long in the waning light and Jerico sensed the urgency of time. He felt a strange urge, an urge he felt once before when he first saw Grand Canyon. It was an urge to jump but it was not a death wish. It was founded in a deeply rooted belief that an act of pure faith would enable his spirit to fly like a hawk or float like clouds lingering in still skies.
He dropped to his knees and prayed. He asked the spirit of White Buffalo Calf Woman to guide and protect him that he might save the life of a lost child. When he opened his eyes, he saw a sliver of hope: a crack or crevice in the steep wall of the gorge about the width of a man’s shoulders. He prepared a small pack of things he would need (blanket, dry wood chips, rope, twine, food, water pouch), wrapped his hands in deerskin and lowered himself in the crevice.
He soon found a rhythm of descent and the crack widened enough so that he could drop the length of a man with each bounding stride. He felt protected, as if a cloud surrounded him, and his leaps grew bolder, fifteen, twenty feet, gripping the rocks as if his hands were powerful talons, until the walls lost even their faint silver glow of light and his descent came to an abrupt stop on the floor of the gorge, soft and thick with pine needles and moss.
Before his eyes could adjust, he tuned his ear to his surroundings. He heard a drip of water, a whisper of wind, the shuffling of a small animal and, finally, the shivering breath of a child. He moved to where the boy lay unconscious, covered him with a blanket, and began rubbing his hands and feet until the boy’s eyes struggled open.
“Where am I?”
“You are here and you are safe.”
As their vision cleared, Jerico could see that the boy was in pain. He was not afraid so much as mystified by the sight of a Lakota warrior above him.
“Who are you?”
“My name is Jerico. I am here to take you home.”
“My name is Robby.”
He offered his hand and Jerico shook it. He was a brave boy, strong at heart, and Jerico was determined that his life would not end in this mountain gorge.
“Your spirit is strong,” he said, “but you must rest. I will build a fire to warm you.”
With plenty of dry wood and pine needles, it was not difficult to build a fire and the boy rose up to warm his hands over it. They shared a meal of wasna, dried rabbit meat and water, which the boy consumed in haste. When they had settled, Jerico asked how he came to be at the bottom of a gorge in the high country.
The family was vacationing in an area cabin. Robby and his older brother Danny went off sledding as they had half a dozen times before. They were gone a few hours when they lost control on a steep grade. His brother jumped and yelled for him to do the same but Robby held on, too frightened for his fingers to lose their grip. The last thing he remembered was flying straight into the mountain. When he woke up, he hurt everywhere and could not move for the pain. He called out but no one answer. His brother was gone.
Jerico spotted the sled in a thicket of debris and made out an opening in the wall of the gorge some thirty feet up.
He realized that Robby’s brother had gone for help but could not lead his parents back. He understood that there were two young lives at stake here for if Robby did not survive, Danny would never live at peace. Like a chain of sorrow, this singular event would cast a shadow across generations. Many would suffer for suffering is never alone. Just as Jerico’s remorse touched his circles of friends and family hundreds of miles away, so this boy’s shame and guilt would taint the circles of his life for as long as he walked the earth.
The boy was bruised and his shoulder displaced but his bones were not broken and the organs of his body were intact. He set his shoulder with the hands of a healer and packed his swollen ankle with mud. They talked until they laughed about the predicament they were in, an Indian and a little white boy in the belly of a great stone mountain. Robby asked if he knew the story of Injun Joe. Jerico said that he did but he did not approve. He then brewed a medicinal tea to ease his pain and give him pleasing dreams.
He watched the boy sleep and planned their escape. In the morning, he climbed the granite wall to the opening in the gorge, tied a rope to a tree, and hoisted the sled out. He then told Robby to hang on tight and carried him on his back as he pulled them both to the light of an early morning in the high country.
He tied the rope to the sled, fastened a pack so that Robby could sit comfortably, and they began the hike toward the smoke he had marked the day before. He passed the time telling stories of his people and answering Robby’s questions as honestly as he could. The boy had little knowledge of what had passed between their peoples, no knowledge of the buffalo slaughter, the crooked treaties, the relocations, or the Indian wars that stained the earth with native blood. It was not easy for Jerico to speak of these things with a little boy who had no part in them but it was even harder to realize that the boy knew nothing of them.
“It is good to remember the bad things our people have done,” he explained, “so that we will not do them again.”
Robby seemed satisfied with that explanation though he remained quiet for a long time. He wanted to say he was sorry but he understood that Jerico did not wish him to accept blame. It was not his doing. It was not his parents’ doing. But it was his people and he did feel sorry.
It was a long hike but Jerico kept a good pace and they found the camp well before sundown. As the cabin came into view, he turned to find a little white brother with tears in his eyes and he sensed they were not tears of pain. He knelt beside him and spoke.
“It is good to cry for the sorrows of the world. It is a sign of wisdom.”
Robby nodded and wiped the tears from his eyes. They exchanged a warm hug and the sorrow was replace with joy.
“Goodbye, little one,” said Jerico. “Never forget your Indian brother.”
“I won’t,” said Robby. “I promise.”
Someone spotted them and a handful of people emerged from the cabin, streaking toward them.
“Danny!” yelled Robby.
There were tears, hugs, and expressions of gratitude. Robby’s mother was an emotional being, clinging to her lost son as if the stars were dependent. A mother’s love is like no other. Her tears gave thanks. Her embrace gave thanks. Her words gave thanks. She wanted to give her life and all her worldly possessions to the man who brought back her son.
Jerico declined.
“I have done what anyone would do. I found a lost boy and brought him home.”
The father was solemn and equally grateful. He asked all the questions: How and why? He wore a badge of responsibility to lift it from his elder son.
Danny was an emotional roller coaster. His joy could not be contained. His silence was heavy, palpable, and filled the cabin with shame.
Jerico shared a meal, answered a father’s questions, and pulled Danny aside to simply say, “You did the right thing. You called for help and help came.”
He slept in a bed for the first time in many years. He had returned to the world and it gave him a strange, uneasy feeling. He knew that his journey was only beginning.
He rose before the sun and continued his descent down the mountain.
A LOST BOY
There is a yearning of the soul that can only be answered by those who belong to the circle of the family. Jerico felt that yearning now and abandoned a long neglect of his two-legged brothers and sisters. So long ago he could not remember why, he had turned his back and walked away, but now he longed for their embrace.
The storms of winter had broken but the snow was deep in the Rockies when he began his descent, setting sight on sacred ground, the homeland, the Badlands, the Black Hills, Pine Ridge and Rosebud Reservations of South Dakota.
It had been a long time and much had happened in the world beyond his view. Strange new diseases with animal names but human origins sprang up and spread like a plague of locusts. Harsh winters and extreme summers brought new hardships around the planet. Ice and snowstorms snapped power lines, triggering brownouts and blackouts along the eastern seaboard. Earthquakes and drought punished the west and southwest. Floods and hurricanes tortured the south and tornados struck the nation’s midsection from the plains to the Mississippi. Elections won and lost amidst corporate and political scandals, mass unemployment and hardship. Many began to wonder if the end times were at hand.
Jerico knew nothing of worldly matters. Life as an animal spirit, apart from the world, made him strong and heightened his senses. He had the eyes of a hawk, the ears and nose of a coyote, and the endurance of a wolf. He understood the language of the land and the creatures that lived within its bounds. He had learned to read the signs, as the ancients must have done, to listen to the stones and the trees, and to taste the wind.
Perhaps because of his heightened senses, he heard the muffled, barely decipherable cry of a child in distress. Even then, if not for the piercing call of a hawk, he might not have recognized the sound for what it was: a boy crying out for help, his voice weak and trembling, calling for his mother and father and for someone named Danny.
Wearing snowshoes the mountain man had helped him to devise, he moved as quickly as he could across fields of snow, aware that the sun was falling from the sky, afraid that he would be too late. The moon was waning and he would not be able to continue long past sundown. A lost boy, hungry, hurt and desperate, would not survive the night.
He had just crossed a clearing, where a column of granite rose like a beacon from a deep gorge in a thicket of pine, when he heard the chopping blades of a helicopter to the west. He tried to signal but it was gone as soon as it appeared. They would not find the boy. A light snow had covered his tracks. They were miles off course without a clue. He glimpsed smoke rising in the same direction and marked it between peeks in the sky.
The boy was silent now. Jerico stood on the precipice and peered into the depths of a rocky gorge. He could not see the bottom for darkness. He tossed a stone and counted seven before it struck the granite wall and bounded still deeper.
The shadows were long in the waning light and Jerico sensed the urgency of time. He felt a strange urge, an urge he felt once before when he first saw Grand Canyon. It was an urge to jump but it was not a death wish. It was founded in a deeply rooted belief that an act of pure faith would enable his spirit to fly like a hawk or float like clouds lingering in still skies.
He dropped to his knees and prayed. He asked the spirit of White Buffalo Calf Woman to guide and protect him that he might save the life of a lost child. When he opened his eyes, he saw a sliver of hope: a crack or crevice in the steep wall of the gorge about the width of a man’s shoulders. He prepared a small pack of things he would need (blanket, dry wood chips, rope, twine, food, water pouch), wrapped his hands in deerskin and lowered himself in the crevice.
He soon found a rhythm of descent and the crack widened enough so that he could drop the length of a man with each bounding stride. He felt protected, as if a cloud surrounded him, and his leaps grew bolder, fifteen, twenty feet, gripping the rocks as if his hands were powerful talons, until the walls lost even their faint silver glow of light and his descent came to an abrupt stop on the floor of the gorge, soft and thick with pine needles and moss.
Before his eyes could adjust, he tuned his ear to his surroundings. He heard a drip of water, a whisper of wind, the shuffling of a small animal and, finally, the shivering breath of a child. He moved to where the boy lay unconscious, covered him with a blanket, and began rubbing his hands and feet until the boy’s eyes struggled open.
“Where am I?”
“You are here and you are safe.”
As their vision cleared, Jerico could see that the boy was in pain. He was not afraid so much as mystified by the sight of a Lakota warrior above him.
“Who are you?”
“My name is Jerico. I am here to take you home.”
“My name is Robby.”
He offered his hand and Jerico shook it. He was a brave boy, strong at heart, and Jerico was determined that his life would not end in this mountain gorge.
“Your spirit is strong,” he said, “but you must rest. I will build a fire to warm you.”
With plenty of dry wood and pine needles, it was not difficult to build a fire and the boy rose up to warm his hands over it. They shared a meal of wasna, dried rabbit meat and water, which the boy consumed in haste. When they had settled, Jerico asked how he came to be at the bottom of a gorge in the high country.
The family was vacationing in an area cabin. Robby and his older brother Danny went off sledding as they had half a dozen times before. They were gone a few hours when they lost control on a steep grade. His brother jumped and yelled for him to do the same but Robby held on, too frightened for his fingers to lose their grip. The last thing he remembered was flying straight into the mountain. When he woke up, he hurt everywhere and could not move for the pain. He called out but no one answer. His brother was gone.
Jerico spotted the sled in a thicket of debris and made out an opening in the wall of the gorge some thirty feet up.
He realized that Robby’s brother had gone for help but could not lead his parents back. He understood that there were two young lives at stake here for if Robby did not survive, Danny would never live at peace. Like a chain of sorrow, this singular event would cast a shadow across generations. Many would suffer for suffering is never alone. Just as Jerico’s remorse touched his circles of friends and family hundreds of miles away, so this boy’s shame and guilt would taint the circles of his life for as long as he walked the earth.
The boy was bruised and his shoulder displaced but his bones were not broken and the organs of his body were intact. He set his shoulder with the hands of a healer and packed his swollen ankle with mud. They talked until they laughed about the predicament they were in, an Indian and a little white boy in the belly of a great stone mountain. Robby asked if he knew the story of Injun Joe. Jerico said that he did but he did not approve. He then brewed a medicinal tea to ease his pain and give him pleasing dreams.
He watched the boy sleep and planned their escape. In the morning, he climbed the granite wall to the opening in the gorge, tied a rope to a tree, and hoisted the sled out. He then told Robby to hang on tight and carried him on his back as he pulled them both to the light of an early morning in the high country.
He tied the rope to the sled, fastened a pack so that Robby could sit comfortably, and they began the hike toward the smoke he had marked the day before. He passed the time telling stories of his people and answering Robby’s questions as honestly as he could. The boy had little knowledge of what had passed between their peoples, no knowledge of the buffalo slaughter, the crooked treaties, the relocations, or the Indian wars that stained the earth with native blood. It was not easy for Jerico to speak of these things with a little boy who had no part in them but it was even harder to realize that the boy knew nothing of them.
“It is good to remember the bad things our people have done,” he explained, “so that we will not do them again.”
Robby seemed satisfied with that explanation though he remained quiet for a long time. He wanted to say he was sorry but he understood that Jerico did not wish him to accept blame. It was not his doing. It was not his parents’ doing. But it was his people and he did feel sorry.
It was a long hike but Jerico kept a good pace and they found the camp well before sundown. As the cabin came into view, he turned to find a little white brother with tears in his eyes and he sensed they were not tears of pain. He knelt beside him and spoke.
“It is good to cry for the sorrows of the world. It is a sign of wisdom.”
Robby nodded and wiped the tears from his eyes. They exchanged a warm hug and the sorrow was replace with joy.
“Goodbye, little one,” said Jerico. “Never forget your Indian brother.”
“I won’t,” said Robby. “I promise.”
Someone spotted them and a handful of people emerged from the cabin, streaking toward them.
“Danny!” yelled Robby.
There were tears, hugs, and expressions of gratitude. Robby’s mother was an emotional being, clinging to her lost son as if the stars were dependent. A mother’s love is like no other. Her tears gave thanks. Her embrace gave thanks. Her words gave thanks. She wanted to give her life and all her worldly possessions to the man who brought back her son.
Jerico declined.
“I have done what anyone would do. I found a lost boy and brought him home.”
The father was solemn and equally grateful. He asked all the questions: How and why? He wore a badge of responsibility to lift it from his elder son.
Danny was an emotional roller coaster. His joy could not be contained. His silence was heavy, palpable, and filled the cabin with shame.
Jerico shared a meal, answered a father’s questions, and pulled Danny aside to simply say, “You did the right thing. You called for help and help came.”
He slept in a bed for the first time in many years. He had returned to the world and it gave him a strange, uneasy feeling. He knew that his journey was only beginning.
He rose before the sun and continued his descent down the mountain.
THE KILLING SPIRIT: Tales of Jerico (74)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
TALES OF JERICO
During his years of isolation, Jerico did not spend a breath worrying about the world’s problems. He was not apart from the world; he was a part of the world. He knew nothing of what had transpired in his absence but the world knew a great deal about a man named Jerico Whitehorse.
He had a profound influence on the little white boy he rescued from the bowels of a great mountain. The boy spoke of little else. His family was wealthy and prominent in the state of Wyoming and they were unwilling to let their child’s hero go unrecognized. They contacted the local news and soon found themselves before national cameras.
It was a slow news week and there was an acute shortage of American heroes so the story caught on and spread like wildfire, like the Ghost Dance at the turn of the previous century. Here was a man who risked his life for a child he did not know, a child not of his people, and refused to accept recognition of his heroism.
What could be wrong with him? What was he hiding?
There is something morbid about the media. They cannot leave a good story alone. Heroes and villains alike are to be dissected, shredded and examined until they find the hidden flaws. If they can find none, they speculate. There is always something to be found.
America wonders why she has no heroes. She has none because she exploits them without mercy and discards them without a trace of remorse.
Before long, many came forward to claim their fifteen minutes with stories about the strange man of the Lakota. Some were pure fabrications; others were true. They told the story of a man in search of his vision. Some said he was the direct descendent of Crazy Horse. Others claimed he was the reincarnation of the great warrior. None within the Lakota nation would deny it.
Like Crazy Horse, his skin was almost as pale as a white man’s skin. Like Crazy Horse, he sought truth in visions, believed that this world was a dream and the dream was real, and he thirsted for solitude, always moving away from his two legged brothers until the vision beckoned his return. Like Crazy Horse, he had lost the only woman he would ever love and his heart was forever wounded. Like Crazy Horse, he was a man of few words yet those he spoke rumbled like thunder and pierced the soul of all who listened. Like Crazy Horse, it was prophesied that his deeds would live long past his days upon the earth, for as long as the grass still grows, the water flows and the Black Hills remain sacred ground.
A mountain man the size of a bear spoke of a night in the high country with Jerico. He swore that only an angel or a spirit could survive the harshest winter in a hundred years. He spoke of the Mormon prophecy and wondered if Jerico was the chosen one.
Relatives in Oklahoma spoke of his assistance in a family crisis and a young woman from Mississippi, the shadow of a scar across her cheek, thanked him for saving her life from a crazed killer. An Apache elder from the Warm Springs reservation in Arizona told the strange tale of a century-old prophecy that a man would rise from the Lakota nation, that he would have great powers, that he would hold the key to time, and that his name would be Jerico Whitehorse.
It was only a matter of time before the media uncovered the story of the Sangre de Cristo massacre. A detective from the Santa Fe Police Department said that Jerico was the leading suspect though no evidence was ever found. He was certain, however, that he was the killer and the lost boy of the Rockies was lucky to be alive.
Not knowing that he was America’s latest celebrity, Jerico walked down a lonely highway on the high plains of northern Wyoming, where once the Cheyenne made summer camp and counted coup with their neighbors, the Arapaho, Shoshone and Lakota, when buffalo herds were thousands strong and the people were free.
An old Chevy pulled up alongside him to ask if he wanted a ride. He had not held out his thumb. He neither wanted nor expected a ride in this country where hatred for the red man was a badge of honor. They hated him for his claim on the land stolen from his ancestors. He had walked many miles and he would finish the journey on his own.
He leaned over to decline when he saw that one of the three men inside was Indian. He was hungry for news of the homeland. Was his mother well? Was grandfather alive? Were there jobs? Were the people still living in hopeless poverty?
“How’s the Rez?” he asked.
“The same,” the man replied with a wide grin.
Jerico climbed in the back, next to the Indian. He was Lakota, younger than Jerico though he appeared older. He was thin, gaunt, and his skin had a jaundiced, wrinkled quality that belied his age. He had grown up on the Rosebud Reservation and recently moved to Laramie for a job in construction.
The three of them had lost their jobs and were searching for work. They were headed for Indian country in North Dakota where they breaking ground for a new casino.
The Indian introduced himself as Jimmy Wilson. “No relation to Jack,” he chortled.
Jack Wilson was the notorious tribal chief, whose reign of corruption and terror was responsible for bringing the American Indian Movement to Pine Ridge, triggering a chain of events that culminated with the modern day siege of Wounded Knee. Many good Lakota men and women had lost their lives to the goon squad of Jack Wilson. Leonard Peltier was in prison for Jack Wilson.
Jerico wondered if the people had chosen the wrong path. He did not oppose gambling. People had a right to do whatever they wanted with their money but he feared the new wave of casinos did little for the people. It gave them minimum wage jobs while the lion’s share of the profits went to greedy white people in golden castles and their corrupted allies in the Indian community. It was an old wasichu game: land use agreements, mining rights, marketing agreements. Were these papers, drawn in a language the Indians did not understand, any different than the Fort Laramie treaty, promising that the Black Hills would remain Lakota as long as the grass grows and water flows? The wasichus were doing there best to fulfill treaty terms by pumping the earth with so much toxic sludge and waste that grass no longer grows and water does not flow. In the end, when the whites grew tired of driving to remote Indian casinos and opened their own, the Indians would be worse off than before.
Jerico realized it was a mistake to take this ride. There was shame in Jimmy Wilson’s evasive fidgeting, nervous grins, and he could feel the white men’s eyes crawl over him like vermin or vultures.
They pulled into a gas station with a little café. He thanked them for the ride and went inside. He had money left over from the dishwashing job so many years ago. Where he had walked, money was of no use yet he held onto it in anticipation of this day.
As he turned his back and walked away, he could feel their eyes still glued to him. He could hear one of them whisper, “That’s him, Jerico Whitehorse.”
He had not told them his name.
He sat on one of three bar stools. There were only two tables and the far one was inhabited by a family of three, a young boy and his parents. He had a vague sense of unease when he heard, beneath the hum of electrical current, beneath the zoom of travelers outside and a quiet breeze, hiding in the shadows of white noise, a ringing sound, a high pitched whistling, a sound he had heard so long ago it seemed another life.
It was the sound of the killing spirit.
Jerico bowed his head in silent prayer. He could not believe that it could find him so soon after leaving the path of a lone pilgrim. He lifted his head and surveyed his surroundings, trying to decipher the code. The killing spirit had changed. It had always directed him, showing its hand in bold strokes. Now it deceived and hid like an enemy afraid. It had only appeared at the site of a sacred rite but there was no ritual here: no seeking of visions, no stone ceremony, no Hunka Kagapi, no Inipi.
He wondered if, beneath the façade of commercial American life, this was a sacred place. He looked around once more and saw that it was so. It was a place where the people once gathered for the Sun Dance. He saw their suffering faces, their blood-stained bodies, the young ghost warriors Sitting Bull, He Dog and Gall, blood dripping from their wounds, thongs of buffalo hide connecting them to the Sun Dance pole, stretched taut until it seemed they would snap. They danced in the high sun, skin shining with sweat, streaked with blood, until the flesh gave way and they fell to mother earth with reborn strength and a message from the spirit world.
He wondered if this was the very spot where Sitting Bull had his vision of soldiers falling into camp, the vision that became the death of Yellow Hair at Little Big Horn. Jerico wanted to join his brethren spirits, to make his own offering of flesh, blood and sweat but he knew it was not time for dreaming. It was a time for caution and awareness, a time to put his heightened senses to good use. He wondered if the killing spirit had sent this vision to distract him, to negate the advantage he had gained over these last many moons.
The waitress, a stout white woman, greeted him with eyes of mistrust before she asked, “You with them?” She gestured to the three men still outside.
“No,” he answered. “I was but I have left their company.”
“Looks like they haven’t left yours,” she replied.
Jimmy Wilson and one of his white friends walked in while the other parked the car. Jimmy went to where Jerico was seated, slapped his shoulder and said, “Thought we might join you, chief.”
His hand still resting on Jerico’s shoulder, he said to the waitress, “Do you know who this is?”
“Can’t say that I do,” she replied.
The white man lingered by the cash register. Jerico noted the bulge beneath his shirt and placed his hand on his hunting knife.
“This is Jerico Whitehorse,” Jimmy said. “The Indian who saved the little white boy.”
“Is that so?”
She leaned into the counter, trying to trigger a hidden alarm. The white man pulled his gun and aimed it at her chest, supporting it with his left hand as a soldier does.
“Back off, bitch!”
Jerico pulled his knife but before he could deliver it, Jimmy Wilson grabbed his arms and the white man pulled the trigger.
The waitress screamed, the white man popped open the cash register, Jimmy bolted, and Jerico slumped over before falling, like a slab of meat, to the cold, tile floor.
TALES OF JERICO
During his years of isolation, Jerico did not spend a breath worrying about the world’s problems. He was not apart from the world; he was a part of the world. He knew nothing of what had transpired in his absence but the world knew a great deal about a man named Jerico Whitehorse.
He had a profound influence on the little white boy he rescued from the bowels of a great mountain. The boy spoke of little else. His family was wealthy and prominent in the state of Wyoming and they were unwilling to let their child’s hero go unrecognized. They contacted the local news and soon found themselves before national cameras.
It was a slow news week and there was an acute shortage of American heroes so the story caught on and spread like wildfire, like the Ghost Dance at the turn of the previous century. Here was a man who risked his life for a child he did not know, a child not of his people, and refused to accept recognition of his heroism.
What could be wrong with him? What was he hiding?
There is something morbid about the media. They cannot leave a good story alone. Heroes and villains alike are to be dissected, shredded and examined until they find the hidden flaws. If they can find none, they speculate. There is always something to be found.
America wonders why she has no heroes. She has none because she exploits them without mercy and discards them without a trace of remorse.
Before long, many came forward to claim their fifteen minutes with stories about the strange man of the Lakota. Some were pure fabrications; others were true. They told the story of a man in search of his vision. Some said he was the direct descendent of Crazy Horse. Others claimed he was the reincarnation of the great warrior. None within the Lakota nation would deny it.
Like Crazy Horse, his skin was almost as pale as a white man’s skin. Like Crazy Horse, he sought truth in visions, believed that this world was a dream and the dream was real, and he thirsted for solitude, always moving away from his two legged brothers until the vision beckoned his return. Like Crazy Horse, he had lost the only woman he would ever love and his heart was forever wounded. Like Crazy Horse, he was a man of few words yet those he spoke rumbled like thunder and pierced the soul of all who listened. Like Crazy Horse, it was prophesied that his deeds would live long past his days upon the earth, for as long as the grass still grows, the water flows and the Black Hills remain sacred ground.
A mountain man the size of a bear spoke of a night in the high country with Jerico. He swore that only an angel or a spirit could survive the harshest winter in a hundred years. He spoke of the Mormon prophecy and wondered if Jerico was the chosen one.
Relatives in Oklahoma spoke of his assistance in a family crisis and a young woman from Mississippi, the shadow of a scar across her cheek, thanked him for saving her life from a crazed killer. An Apache elder from the Warm Springs reservation in Arizona told the strange tale of a century-old prophecy that a man would rise from the Lakota nation, that he would have great powers, that he would hold the key to time, and that his name would be Jerico Whitehorse.
It was only a matter of time before the media uncovered the story of the Sangre de Cristo massacre. A detective from the Santa Fe Police Department said that Jerico was the leading suspect though no evidence was ever found. He was certain, however, that he was the killer and the lost boy of the Rockies was lucky to be alive.
Not knowing that he was America’s latest celebrity, Jerico walked down a lonely highway on the high plains of northern Wyoming, where once the Cheyenne made summer camp and counted coup with their neighbors, the Arapaho, Shoshone and Lakota, when buffalo herds were thousands strong and the people were free.
An old Chevy pulled up alongside him to ask if he wanted a ride. He had not held out his thumb. He neither wanted nor expected a ride in this country where hatred for the red man was a badge of honor. They hated him for his claim on the land stolen from his ancestors. He had walked many miles and he would finish the journey on his own.
He leaned over to decline when he saw that one of the three men inside was Indian. He was hungry for news of the homeland. Was his mother well? Was grandfather alive? Were there jobs? Were the people still living in hopeless poverty?
“How’s the Rez?” he asked.
“The same,” the man replied with a wide grin.
Jerico climbed in the back, next to the Indian. He was Lakota, younger than Jerico though he appeared older. He was thin, gaunt, and his skin had a jaundiced, wrinkled quality that belied his age. He had grown up on the Rosebud Reservation and recently moved to Laramie for a job in construction.
The three of them had lost their jobs and were searching for work. They were headed for Indian country in North Dakota where they breaking ground for a new casino.
The Indian introduced himself as Jimmy Wilson. “No relation to Jack,” he chortled.
Jack Wilson was the notorious tribal chief, whose reign of corruption and terror was responsible for bringing the American Indian Movement to Pine Ridge, triggering a chain of events that culminated with the modern day siege of Wounded Knee. Many good Lakota men and women had lost their lives to the goon squad of Jack Wilson. Leonard Peltier was in prison for Jack Wilson.
Jerico wondered if the people had chosen the wrong path. He did not oppose gambling. People had a right to do whatever they wanted with their money but he feared the new wave of casinos did little for the people. It gave them minimum wage jobs while the lion’s share of the profits went to greedy white people in golden castles and their corrupted allies in the Indian community. It was an old wasichu game: land use agreements, mining rights, marketing agreements. Were these papers, drawn in a language the Indians did not understand, any different than the Fort Laramie treaty, promising that the Black Hills would remain Lakota as long as the grass grows and water flows? The wasichus were doing there best to fulfill treaty terms by pumping the earth with so much toxic sludge and waste that grass no longer grows and water does not flow. In the end, when the whites grew tired of driving to remote Indian casinos and opened their own, the Indians would be worse off than before.
Jerico realized it was a mistake to take this ride. There was shame in Jimmy Wilson’s evasive fidgeting, nervous grins, and he could feel the white men’s eyes crawl over him like vermin or vultures.
They pulled into a gas station with a little café. He thanked them for the ride and went inside. He had money left over from the dishwashing job so many years ago. Where he had walked, money was of no use yet he held onto it in anticipation of this day.
As he turned his back and walked away, he could feel their eyes still glued to him. He could hear one of them whisper, “That’s him, Jerico Whitehorse.”
He had not told them his name.
He sat on one of three bar stools. There were only two tables and the far one was inhabited by a family of three, a young boy and his parents. He had a vague sense of unease when he heard, beneath the hum of electrical current, beneath the zoom of travelers outside and a quiet breeze, hiding in the shadows of white noise, a ringing sound, a high pitched whistling, a sound he had heard so long ago it seemed another life.
It was the sound of the killing spirit.
Jerico bowed his head in silent prayer. He could not believe that it could find him so soon after leaving the path of a lone pilgrim. He lifted his head and surveyed his surroundings, trying to decipher the code. The killing spirit had changed. It had always directed him, showing its hand in bold strokes. Now it deceived and hid like an enemy afraid. It had only appeared at the site of a sacred rite but there was no ritual here: no seeking of visions, no stone ceremony, no Hunka Kagapi, no Inipi.
He wondered if, beneath the façade of commercial American life, this was a sacred place. He looked around once more and saw that it was so. It was a place where the people once gathered for the Sun Dance. He saw their suffering faces, their blood-stained bodies, the young ghost warriors Sitting Bull, He Dog and Gall, blood dripping from their wounds, thongs of buffalo hide connecting them to the Sun Dance pole, stretched taut until it seemed they would snap. They danced in the high sun, skin shining with sweat, streaked with blood, until the flesh gave way and they fell to mother earth with reborn strength and a message from the spirit world.
He wondered if this was the very spot where Sitting Bull had his vision of soldiers falling into camp, the vision that became the death of Yellow Hair at Little Big Horn. Jerico wanted to join his brethren spirits, to make his own offering of flesh, blood and sweat but he knew it was not time for dreaming. It was a time for caution and awareness, a time to put his heightened senses to good use. He wondered if the killing spirit had sent this vision to distract him, to negate the advantage he had gained over these last many moons.
The waitress, a stout white woman, greeted him with eyes of mistrust before she asked, “You with them?” She gestured to the three men still outside.
“No,” he answered. “I was but I have left their company.”
“Looks like they haven’t left yours,” she replied.
Jimmy Wilson and one of his white friends walked in while the other parked the car. Jimmy went to where Jerico was seated, slapped his shoulder and said, “Thought we might join you, chief.”
His hand still resting on Jerico’s shoulder, he said to the waitress, “Do you know who this is?”
“Can’t say that I do,” she replied.
The white man lingered by the cash register. Jerico noted the bulge beneath his shirt and placed his hand on his hunting knife.
“This is Jerico Whitehorse,” Jimmy said. “The Indian who saved the little white boy.”
“Is that so?”
She leaned into the counter, trying to trigger a hidden alarm. The white man pulled his gun and aimed it at her chest, supporting it with his left hand as a soldier does.
“Back off, bitch!”
Jerico pulled his knife but before he could deliver it, Jimmy Wilson grabbed his arms and the white man pulled the trigger.
The waitress screamed, the white man popped open the cash register, Jimmy bolted, and Jerico slumped over before falling, like a slab of meat, to the cold, tile floor.
THE KILLING SPIRIT: Between Worlds (79)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
BETWEEN WORLDS
The bullet should have killed him. It entered just below the left nostril and lodged between the magdulla oblongata and the cerebellum. It was a miracle it did not kill him. Instead, it left him unconscious, wandering between worlds, the worlds of the living and the dead, the world of space, time, mother earth and father sky, and an overworld of spirit.
Media gather like wolves around a fallen buffalo. The story was irresistible. A little boy’s savior, legend of the Apache, descendent of Crazy Horse, a man of courage, strength and mythological stature, shot down by a common criminal and left for dead.
He laid in a Casper, Wyoming hospital unaware of the masses that prayed for him and the many who gathered on the streets below, waiting for their moments on camera.
What is it in the human soul that is drawn to tragedy, eyes that cannot turn away from horror, blood and gore, hearts that hunger to observe the suffering of others as if it can ease the pain within? What is it that desires ones voice to be heard, ones face to be shown, ones name to be known, regardless of the context or its meaning?
The family of the little boy lost and found paid for all the medical care, the best Wyoming could offer. People of the Lakota, Cheyenne, Shoshone, Paiute, Blackfoot and Crow gathered with the throngs and chanted in the old way for Jerico’s recovery or, failing that, his safe passage to the overworld. Spirit guides and healers were allowed to enter his room and performed sacred ceremonies. His mother stood vigil at his bedside while grandfather led prayers in the hospital waiting room.
Somewhere on the outer edges of his consciousness, Jerico sensed their presence but he could not answer their voices nor take their hands. They were beyond his reach, hovering like distant voices in a vast canyon.
As the days and nights drifted by, his condition unchanged, his body still, his mind far away, the media and their followers departed, leaving only a circle of friends and family to stand the daily vigil. Soon they would confront the decision that faces all whose loved one has slipped beyond the world of light. They spoke among themselves and knew what their decision would be: They would keep his soul in the sacred way and allow his body to return to the earth. In the sacred way, they would release his soul to the overworld where his ancestors would welcome him to new life.
If Jerico could have, he would have given them comfort. He had already been to the overworld and it was a place he longed to rest. He would have told them he was resting there now, laying his head in the bosom of the one he loved.
“Did I die well?” he asked.
Marie smiled as his eyes found the light. She stroked his hair and ran her finger over the scar that marked his face.
“You have not died,” she said. “You are between worlds.”
Jerico was home. Everywhere he looked, he found a familiar sight, a meadow of tall grass, wild flowers of every color, a clearing in the sacred mountains. It was the place that he and Marie had discovered together. It was where they went to be alone. It was where they found their love and shared it beneath golden skies and moonlit nights. It was where Jerico had gone to mourn when Marie died. He had not returned until now.
Marie tasted her lover’s lips awake and all his questions dissolved. He was home in the arms of his love, his center, his balance, his earth to her sky. In a field of tall grass and wild flowers, they made love as if they had never been apart, their bodies, real and sensual, melded into one, blending as waves in an endless sea. She was his eyes, his ears, his every sense and every moment of their lives and every particle of their being were reborn in a love that was only here and now.
He felt her body let go and his followed, rumbling like the aftershock of a quake. They rolled to their backs and listened to a gentle breeze, robins singing, and water flowing over smooth rocks in a mountain stream. They watched clouds dance over hills and stars come out to serenade their bond. They folded into each other’s limbs and took pleasure through the night.
It was the Moon of Cherries Reddening, a morning as bright and clear as a martyr’s heart. They climbed aboard their waiting horses, a red bay and a white appaloosa, and rode like a cool breeze through the hills and trees until they came to the open plains. Beneath endless skies, they saw the white buffalo, surrounded by her children in a vast field of fresh green grass. Behind them, in the rich forest, they saw the wolf, the coyote, the eagle and the hawk in a land untouched by the wasichu’s progress.
Jerico had lived in this place for as long as he possessed awareness. It was his vision, his dream, the place where he belonged, the world beneath the world, and home to his soul. It was where his senses matured. He could taste the sky and feel the heartbeat of the land. It was his home and his spirit soared each moment he was here.
They rode across the plains until they came to a camp of many teepees. Theirs was near the center of the camp, bearing the mark of lightning pointing upward. Inside were the sacred objects of his life on earth: a ceremonial red clay pipe, a war club, bow and arrows, a feather of the red tailed hawk, and a stone with the imprint of a buffalo hoof.
Marie remained inside as Jerico was summoned to a fire circle of elders, who carried word from the Great Spirit for his ears only. The day had given way to a star filled night. The fire burning low textured the darkness with dancing light and a warmth of the soul radiated within the circle, where three men and three women were seated.
Jerico was seated in a place that was his by right of birth. No words were spoken as a pipe was passed from person to person until the circle was complete. Drums pounded though none were present and the voices of many people, across many generations, chanted a prayer as old as the Lakota. Jerico understood in perfect clarity: It was a prayer of unity and perseverance across great folds of time and trials beyond the comprehension of any one being. It was a prayer for the people and all their relations on the earth and in the overworld: Earth abides and the people survive.
The elders began to speak, one by one, from left to right, following the path of the sacred directions. Though each spoke in turn, they spoke with one voice, as if the words had already been written. One voice, one mind, one spirit born of a collective consciousness, the hub of a wheel connecting all things of the earth, connecting the earth to the universe, connecting past to present to future, sprang forth in the words of the fire circle, in the vision of the chosen.
We are the people of the universe, the stars and planets, and our home is here beyond the world of the knowing. Here there is balance without darkness and light, without good and evil, without angels and demons. Here there are many buffalo, many bear, deer, elk, beaver but there is no hunt. We have everything we need and enough to share with all our kin. Here there are many tribes but there is no war. Here there is love but the heart is never broken.
It is the place to which we always return yet few remain here long. Only those that have found purpose in stillness. Only those who know the voice of silence. Only those that have discovered the journey within.
Most return to their lives as warriors, survivors, leaders and followers in the world below. Most return to continue the journey of suffering and hardship.
Some are chosen to travel between worlds with eyes open. Some are chosen to right great wrongs. Some are chosen to sacrifice.
You are chosen yet you must choose.
The pipe was passed in a silence heavy with solemnity. When Jerico completed the circle, it signified that he had accepted the challenge. It was an honor and he did not fear.
The elders spoke again in one voice:
The earth is in grave danger. The forces that held the planet in balance now threaten imbalance.
Once a great evil was unleashed upon the earth in order to challenge its inhabitants. The human species cannot stand still and survive.
The one you call the wasichu was planted in the hearts of men to set the balance and spur humankind to move forward. It was needed then but now its time has past. Now the killing spirit grows, thrives and threatens all of humankind.
The earth survives but her children may not.
It falls to you to close the door that was once opened. It falls to you to kill the killing spirit even if it costs your life.
With every spoke of the great wheel, new powers are yours. With every cycle, your knowledge grows. Complete the circle and you will have the strength to defeat your enemy.
The killing spirit cannot harm you but by the hand of your own kind.
The killing spirit will not stop until it kills or is killed.
The ancestors go with you. We will guide and protect you but in the final battle, you must succeed or fail by your own choices.
The piped was passed for a third round and Jerico felt a calm that visits the soul when love is given freely. A woman with eyes of deep compassion spoke with her own voice.
“I am White Buffalo Woman,” she said. “The words we have given you were given to us. Now we give you our ears.”
“In a dream,” he said at length, “I have had a vision of people from the stars. I believe White Buffalo Woman walks among them. Is it so?”
“We are spirit beings as you are,” she replied. “There are those among us who are not of the earth.”
“We are earth’s guardians,” said a man whom Jerico recognized as Sitting Bull. “We are here to guide and protect earth’s children.”
“In my heart,” said Jerico, “I am home. I have lived here all my life. As my vision clears, I know you. You are Sitting Bull. You are Joseph of the Nez Perce. You are Geronimo. You are Sacagawea. You are Pocahontas.”
“It is as you believe,” said Geronimo. “The dream is real.”
“And you, my friend,” said Joseph, “are Crazy Horse.”
Jerico’s heart filled with pride at knowing what he had always known. He choked back tears and struggled to find his balance.
“You are right to be proud,” said Sitting Bull. “Without the spirit of Crazy Horse, the Lakota would not have survived.”
“You were a great warrior,” said Sacagawea, “but the time for war has passed like ice in the warmth of spring.”
“How will I know what to do?” Jerico asked.
“Complete the circle,” said Pocahontas. “Then you will know.”
“Will I return?” he asked.
“That is up to you,” said White Buffalo Woman.
“Will I remember this?” he asked.
“You will remember the dream,” answered Sitting Bull.
They passed the pipe one last time, each leaving the circle until Jerico was alone. He sat until the embers lost their glow and soft footsteps approached him from behind. He rose to greet his beloved and found her cradling a baby in her arms.
“This is your son,” she said.
He held the child in his arms, no longer holding back his tears, and carried him back to their lodge. In the morning, as bright and clear as the day before, the child was now a fully-grown boy, strong and thoughtful. He often rode his pony into the sacred mountains to be alone and to cry for a vision in the old way, the way his father had taught him. He was the image of Crazy Horse in every way but one: He was not a warrior. Jerico would be the last of his kind.
It is a good thing, he reflected, for the time of war must end before the age of peace can begin.
BETWEEN WORLDS
The bullet should have killed him. It entered just below the left nostril and lodged between the magdulla oblongata and the cerebellum. It was a miracle it did not kill him. Instead, it left him unconscious, wandering between worlds, the worlds of the living and the dead, the world of space, time, mother earth and father sky, and an overworld of spirit.
Media gather like wolves around a fallen buffalo. The story was irresistible. A little boy’s savior, legend of the Apache, descendent of Crazy Horse, a man of courage, strength and mythological stature, shot down by a common criminal and left for dead.
He laid in a Casper, Wyoming hospital unaware of the masses that prayed for him and the many who gathered on the streets below, waiting for their moments on camera.
What is it in the human soul that is drawn to tragedy, eyes that cannot turn away from horror, blood and gore, hearts that hunger to observe the suffering of others as if it can ease the pain within? What is it that desires ones voice to be heard, ones face to be shown, ones name to be known, regardless of the context or its meaning?
The family of the little boy lost and found paid for all the medical care, the best Wyoming could offer. People of the Lakota, Cheyenne, Shoshone, Paiute, Blackfoot and Crow gathered with the throngs and chanted in the old way for Jerico’s recovery or, failing that, his safe passage to the overworld. Spirit guides and healers were allowed to enter his room and performed sacred ceremonies. His mother stood vigil at his bedside while grandfather led prayers in the hospital waiting room.
Somewhere on the outer edges of his consciousness, Jerico sensed their presence but he could not answer their voices nor take their hands. They were beyond his reach, hovering like distant voices in a vast canyon.
As the days and nights drifted by, his condition unchanged, his body still, his mind far away, the media and their followers departed, leaving only a circle of friends and family to stand the daily vigil. Soon they would confront the decision that faces all whose loved one has slipped beyond the world of light. They spoke among themselves and knew what their decision would be: They would keep his soul in the sacred way and allow his body to return to the earth. In the sacred way, they would release his soul to the overworld where his ancestors would welcome him to new life.
If Jerico could have, he would have given them comfort. He had already been to the overworld and it was a place he longed to rest. He would have told them he was resting there now, laying his head in the bosom of the one he loved.
“Did I die well?” he asked.
Marie smiled as his eyes found the light. She stroked his hair and ran her finger over the scar that marked his face.
“You have not died,” she said. “You are between worlds.”
Jerico was home. Everywhere he looked, he found a familiar sight, a meadow of tall grass, wild flowers of every color, a clearing in the sacred mountains. It was the place that he and Marie had discovered together. It was where they went to be alone. It was where they found their love and shared it beneath golden skies and moonlit nights. It was where Jerico had gone to mourn when Marie died. He had not returned until now.
Marie tasted her lover’s lips awake and all his questions dissolved. He was home in the arms of his love, his center, his balance, his earth to her sky. In a field of tall grass and wild flowers, they made love as if they had never been apart, their bodies, real and sensual, melded into one, blending as waves in an endless sea. She was his eyes, his ears, his every sense and every moment of their lives and every particle of their being were reborn in a love that was only here and now.
He felt her body let go and his followed, rumbling like the aftershock of a quake. They rolled to their backs and listened to a gentle breeze, robins singing, and water flowing over smooth rocks in a mountain stream. They watched clouds dance over hills and stars come out to serenade their bond. They folded into each other’s limbs and took pleasure through the night.
It was the Moon of Cherries Reddening, a morning as bright and clear as a martyr’s heart. They climbed aboard their waiting horses, a red bay and a white appaloosa, and rode like a cool breeze through the hills and trees until they came to the open plains. Beneath endless skies, they saw the white buffalo, surrounded by her children in a vast field of fresh green grass. Behind them, in the rich forest, they saw the wolf, the coyote, the eagle and the hawk in a land untouched by the wasichu’s progress.
Jerico had lived in this place for as long as he possessed awareness. It was his vision, his dream, the place where he belonged, the world beneath the world, and home to his soul. It was where his senses matured. He could taste the sky and feel the heartbeat of the land. It was his home and his spirit soared each moment he was here.
They rode across the plains until they came to a camp of many teepees. Theirs was near the center of the camp, bearing the mark of lightning pointing upward. Inside were the sacred objects of his life on earth: a ceremonial red clay pipe, a war club, bow and arrows, a feather of the red tailed hawk, and a stone with the imprint of a buffalo hoof.
Marie remained inside as Jerico was summoned to a fire circle of elders, who carried word from the Great Spirit for his ears only. The day had given way to a star filled night. The fire burning low textured the darkness with dancing light and a warmth of the soul radiated within the circle, where three men and three women were seated.
Jerico was seated in a place that was his by right of birth. No words were spoken as a pipe was passed from person to person until the circle was complete. Drums pounded though none were present and the voices of many people, across many generations, chanted a prayer as old as the Lakota. Jerico understood in perfect clarity: It was a prayer of unity and perseverance across great folds of time and trials beyond the comprehension of any one being. It was a prayer for the people and all their relations on the earth and in the overworld: Earth abides and the people survive.
The elders began to speak, one by one, from left to right, following the path of the sacred directions. Though each spoke in turn, they spoke with one voice, as if the words had already been written. One voice, one mind, one spirit born of a collective consciousness, the hub of a wheel connecting all things of the earth, connecting the earth to the universe, connecting past to present to future, sprang forth in the words of the fire circle, in the vision of the chosen.
We are the people of the universe, the stars and planets, and our home is here beyond the world of the knowing. Here there is balance without darkness and light, without good and evil, without angels and demons. Here there are many buffalo, many bear, deer, elk, beaver but there is no hunt. We have everything we need and enough to share with all our kin. Here there are many tribes but there is no war. Here there is love but the heart is never broken.
It is the place to which we always return yet few remain here long. Only those that have found purpose in stillness. Only those who know the voice of silence. Only those that have discovered the journey within.
Most return to their lives as warriors, survivors, leaders and followers in the world below. Most return to continue the journey of suffering and hardship.
Some are chosen to travel between worlds with eyes open. Some are chosen to right great wrongs. Some are chosen to sacrifice.
You are chosen yet you must choose.
The pipe was passed in a silence heavy with solemnity. When Jerico completed the circle, it signified that he had accepted the challenge. It was an honor and he did not fear.
The elders spoke again in one voice:
The earth is in grave danger. The forces that held the planet in balance now threaten imbalance.
Once a great evil was unleashed upon the earth in order to challenge its inhabitants. The human species cannot stand still and survive.
The one you call the wasichu was planted in the hearts of men to set the balance and spur humankind to move forward. It was needed then but now its time has past. Now the killing spirit grows, thrives and threatens all of humankind.
The earth survives but her children may not.
It falls to you to close the door that was once opened. It falls to you to kill the killing spirit even if it costs your life.
With every spoke of the great wheel, new powers are yours. With every cycle, your knowledge grows. Complete the circle and you will have the strength to defeat your enemy.
The killing spirit cannot harm you but by the hand of your own kind.
The killing spirit will not stop until it kills or is killed.
The ancestors go with you. We will guide and protect you but in the final battle, you must succeed or fail by your own choices.
The piped was passed for a third round and Jerico felt a calm that visits the soul when love is given freely. A woman with eyes of deep compassion spoke with her own voice.
“I am White Buffalo Woman,” she said. “The words we have given you were given to us. Now we give you our ears.”
“In a dream,” he said at length, “I have had a vision of people from the stars. I believe White Buffalo Woman walks among them. Is it so?”
“We are spirit beings as you are,” she replied. “There are those among us who are not of the earth.”
“We are earth’s guardians,” said a man whom Jerico recognized as Sitting Bull. “We are here to guide and protect earth’s children.”
“In my heart,” said Jerico, “I am home. I have lived here all my life. As my vision clears, I know you. You are Sitting Bull. You are Joseph of the Nez Perce. You are Geronimo. You are Sacagawea. You are Pocahontas.”
“It is as you believe,” said Geronimo. “The dream is real.”
“And you, my friend,” said Joseph, “are Crazy Horse.”
Jerico’s heart filled with pride at knowing what he had always known. He choked back tears and struggled to find his balance.
“You are right to be proud,” said Sitting Bull. “Without the spirit of Crazy Horse, the Lakota would not have survived.”
“You were a great warrior,” said Sacagawea, “but the time for war has passed like ice in the warmth of spring.”
“How will I know what to do?” Jerico asked.
“Complete the circle,” said Pocahontas. “Then you will know.”
“Will I return?” he asked.
“That is up to you,” said White Buffalo Woman.
“Will I remember this?” he asked.
“You will remember the dream,” answered Sitting Bull.
They passed the pipe one last time, each leaving the circle until Jerico was alone. He sat until the embers lost their glow and soft footsteps approached him from behind. He rose to greet his beloved and found her cradling a baby in her arms.
“This is your son,” she said.
He held the child in his arms, no longer holding back his tears, and carried him back to their lodge. In the morning, as bright and clear as the day before, the child was now a fully-grown boy, strong and thoughtful. He often rode his pony into the sacred mountains to be alone and to cry for a vision in the old way, the way his father had taught him. He was the image of Crazy Horse in every way but one: He was not a warrior. Jerico would be the last of his kind.
It is a good thing, he reflected, for the time of war must end before the age of peace can begin.
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