by M J Preston
“And so, he is,” Blackbird said aloud, and pushed on with his search.
2
Over a thousand miles away, Proudfoot also thought about his cousin as he packed a bag for the trip to the small Prairie community. He remembered the night that Grandfather was slain. He had been so infuriated that he thought he might kill Daniel.
He still heard the screams as the black rain fell down upon them and he saw the broken body of the old man.
A foot or two away sat the two pieces of diamond willow that had touched the earth so many times as Grandfather walked and talked and prayed. Reaching down he picked up one piece in each hand, inspecting the polished and carved wood.
No! This isn’t supposed to happen!
His eyes shifted from the wood to Grandfather’s body. The old man’s eyes were closed, his mouth twisted into a grimace of pain that invoked a myriad of gut-wrenching images. In the blue-grey darkness of Spirit Woods, the old man’s body looked more like a stone statue, frozen and unreal.
No, no, no…
Then Proudfoot turned his attention Blackbird.
“You damned fool! Do you know what you have done?” Daniel looked back him, no words to rebut, his eyes frozen with pain. “It wasn’t just you who loved him, Daniel,” Proudfoot yelled. “Damn you!” Their eyes were locked, as the others came running to see. “I hate you!”
Proudfoot turned his back on him and walked away into the solitude of the woods. As he stomped off into the darkness, he placed one of the broken pieces under his arm and removed the large hunting knife from his side praying to the Spirit Mother Earth that his cousin would follow him.
Thankfully, he never did.
He walked the woods aimlessly all night in the solitude of his own misery. Under the darkened canopy he wept.
Exhaustion finally overtook him sometime before dawn, and he collapsed upon the stone where Grandfather had built so many fires.
Hours passed. He was awakened by the continual solitary thump of a Chocktee drum, which was banged in mourning of his grandfather.
He watched from the rock outcropping as Daniel stood on the dock with Aunt Janice. He was leaving. Good! Then Daniel looked up and he felt caught off-guard. He stepped back into the tree line and waited.
As the aircraft climbed into the sky, he loosened his grip on the knife, sheathed it and walked back down to the village. He returned as the drum continued its farewell beat and the people of Chocktee looked on in silence, knowing no words could comfort him. All-consuming hatred showed in every muscle, every contour of his body.
Not a word was spoken, nor a child’s whisper heard as he went to the center of the village and splashed water onto his face to clean away the grime and tears from the night before. Then, face clean, he stared down into the soft ripples at the man staring back.
What do we do now? Where do we go from here, he thought.
Malaise flowed over him like poison gas and he splashed his hand in the water, fearful he would break down in front of the onlookers.
We say goodbye, he thought, and headed for the Peace Garden.
Janice Blackbird started to follow her nephew, but Old Jake stopped her. “Let him alone, Janny,” he said placing a soft hand on her shoulder. “Now is not the time.”
For three days she followed at a distance when he visited the Peace Garden to stare morosely down upon Grandfather’s grave.
The burial ground was a collage of markers that ranged from gatherings of stones to sticks bound by roots, each significant to the individual. Grandfather’s marker was a jagged piece of jade that Daniel had brought back from the west coast.
This only deepened Proudfoot’s resentment.
Toomey had engraved the marker with the old man’s name using a coal chisel to chip into the green stone, before dabbing it with Indian ink.
Nekoneet, which meant ‘One who leads’, was inscribed into the stone, but no one, except the Elders and his mother, called him by his Chocktee name. He was called Grandfather or Old Blackbird by most, and to his mourning daughter he was simple ‘Da’.
For the last three mornings, he felt her there behind him, waiting. The first two days she had said nothing; just waited in silence for him. He was tempted to yell at her, exact his anger on her for what Daniel had done. After all, she had brought him back to Chocktee. Her mongrel son whose blood was impure, his mind poisoned with white man doubt.
He could have lashed out at her, but he knew that she was in more pain than he, and he loved her too much. She had taken him in after his parents were killed, showing no favor over her own son, embracing him in the darkness as he wept secretly. He would no more yell at her than curse Grandfather for being a fool and trusting Daniel.
Still she waited, for risk that his words might turn venomous he did not speak. He simply looked down upon the marker and clenched his teeth, feeling his jaw muscles bunch up as he fought back the tears. He remained quiet and turned to pass her. He was bound for the woods where he could cry openly.
But then…
“You loved him a great deal,” she said from behind him.
Proudfoot stopped.
“He spoke so highly of you, Johnny.” She touched his shoulder. “He would not want you to live your life bound by hate.”
“I can’t forgive him, Aunt Janny.” He kept his back to her.
“For today, Johnny, just forgive yourself.” Her voice wavered slightly and she placed her frail hand upon the side of his head.
He lowered his head, and in series of shrugs his emotions uncorked and his tears began to fall.
“I miss him, Aunt Janny. I miss him so much. It hurts.”
He turned and hugged her, and she held him against her frail body as best she could.
While Johnny Proudfoot wept she pushed away the dual loss she had been dealt and decided then that she would melt the ice which encased his heart. It was what her ‘Da’ would have wanted.
“I miss him too, Johnny.” She cried with her nephew.
3
Blackbird walked on considering his past, realizing he hadn’t thought about Johnny or how he felt. He did not see the jealousy or know that sometimes when he and Grandfather made palaver his cousin would watch from his sleeping bag. It was obvious that the old man loved him more than anyone else. He did not see any wrong in that. He was enveloped in his own rite of passage with the old man and he was also not of pure blood. His father had been a white man, and that was why he thought Grandfather had taken him tightly under his wing. In retrospect he understood the resentment, but could do nothing about it.
Aside from their claims on Grandfather’s heart, Blackbird and Proudfoot were truly like brothers. Always fishing, always hunting and occasionally fighting – but whatever the quarrel neither Proudfoot nor Blackbird would turn their back if the other were in trouble.
Blackbird loved Proudfoot, just as any young man loves a tough older brother, and though he could not break through that rough exterior, he thought the feeling was mutual, at least back then.
“Now I am simply his ward,” he said aloud.
He continued to push toward the clearing he had spotted, all the while hoping there would be a stone. On his back he carried the worn canvas knapsack and in it were the provisions he needed. Grandfather had left him a bit of Jimson in the medicine bag he carried, but the fallen bark from the surrounding trees would also help with the ritual.
“Grandfather’s magic,” he said and smiled, reflecting on his college days when he lay naked next to a cocoa brown girl he had met there. She was a philosophy major from Bellingham and her dark skin made his look pale by comparison. Always before having sex, he hung the leather medicine bag on the post.
“What’s this?” she said, pointing toward the small leather pouch.
He reached up and brought it down, twirling it on the leather strap he normally wore around his nec
k. “That is Grandfather’s magic.” He smiled and ran his free hand over the curve of her naked thigh.
“What kind of magic?” she asked, her brown eyes meeting his.
“Secret magic. It keeps me safe.” He kissed her and thought, I have snared many a squaw with it, and almost laughed.
“Don’t be letting the world in on my secrets, Young Daniel,” Grandfather echoed.
Never.
He replaced the bag on the post and took her in his arms. And they had another go at Grandfather’s magic, below the dream catcher Daniel’s mother had made.
He reached the clearing, and the smile on his face faded. He had business to attend to. He reached down and removed a knife, identical to the one that his cousin carried on the night they lost Grandfather.
“You must have a weapon to protect yourself.” Toomey had told him.
“Why? I thought I had two days,” he asked.
“You cannot trust him. There is something that is distracting him, but as the equinox approaches his strength grows. He can send others to try and hurt you while you are in this state,” Toomey said.
Perfect. He didn’t air this sarcasm aloud.
“Try and get the ritual done during daytime, Dan; his power isn’t as strong in the day. He falls into a meditative state in daylight and especially after eating,” came Toomey’s voice from inside his head, while Blackbird kicked away at the autumn leaves and fallen spruce needles which littered the forest floor.
Dirt, moist and cold, exploded up into the air as he continued his search.
“The stone is ‘wakanda’ which means it possesses special power. You must sit upon it as you smudge and purify yourself.”
On the other side of the clearing, he spotted it jutting out the ground. It was barely exposed, a hump of grey covered with a blanket of leaves and deadfall. Daniel crossed over to it and knelt down. Using the handle of his knife he tapped the ground: a returning click indicated the rest of the stone beneath the raised ground cover.
“It is better if the rock is exposed, but if you expose it to the light its power will come to life in the light of day. The Great Spirit that runs through the woods will awaken that power and it will protect you,” Toomey told him.
“Let’s just hope it’s big enough, Old Jake,” he said aloud as he cleared away more and more needles and ground cover.
4
While Jake Toomey rattled around in Blackbird’s head, his mother inhabited the subconscious of John Proudfoot, who was now working in his woodshop away from the laughter of his children or the prying eyes of the others. This was the one place he lost himself. He loved the art of creation – though this was not creation, but repair.
“I was an outcast,” she said. “I had broken the circle and left. I wanted more and when I came back, there were many who shunned me. Others who said I should be banished.”
“We don’t do that,” Proudfoot argued. “Jake Toomey left to fight the white man’s war and no one shunned him.”
“Jake left with five others when the white man came calling, but they only went to fight in the war to protect Chocktee,” Janice Blackbird had said. “We are of the old ways, and we only live now because of the sacrifice. With ancient ritual often comes outdated thinking. When I came back, I was in ill regard, my son considered a pariah, not because of his birthright, but because of my sin.”
“Why? Because you had a child with a white man?” Proudfoot asked.
“No. I broke the ancient circle. Up until then no one left the Chocktee. We are a cursed people, Johnny. That’s why we have not mixed with the other nations. It would have made no difference if I had mixed with a native man from the Ojibwa or any other people.”
She was smoking a cigarette as they sipped blackberry tea. Her eyes were sunken and her skin stretched across her cheekbones like worn leather.
Proudfoot knew that Old Jake had gone off to fight in the war and though his aunt said it was to protect Chocktee he guessed that Jake’s warrior blood had more to do with it.
The six men who left Chocktee enlisted in the Marine Corps and were deployed to Vietnam in 1969. Only Toomey returned. Three of the men had been killed during a bloody offensive and the other two were MIA. After the end of the Vietnam War the people of Chocktee waited for them to be released, but they never appeared. The three dead men were repatriated to the Peace Garden four months before Toomey came home, their bodies interred with the Chocktee warriors. The two missing men were never heard from again and they were honored with markers at the turn of the millennium after an official notice declared them killed in action.
“It was my father and Old Jake who had been the voices of reason when I returned and eventually made the council leaders surrender to their call for change.” She coughed and set down her cup.
“Are you okay” he asked.
“No, Johnny. I am dying – but I will see my father soon. My heartache is here on earth.”
“I am trying, Aunt Janice.”
She lit another cigarette. “I know you are, Johnny, but you must try harder. Someday you will be a leader, likely an Elder. You must not burden your soul with what cannot be undone.”
Over the short span of her remaining life, the two had many talks, and through them Janice slowly but surely chipped away at the hardness of Proudfoot’s heart, until at last no anger was left.
In the last moments of her life he held her hand as the pain from the cancer consumed her. “You will take your place at the council soon, Johnny,” she whispered to him from her death bed. “My only son, your blood brother, walks alone. I ask you to watch over him and be there. Do not leave him to walk alone.” She waited for his answer, squeezing his hand tightly.
“I will not leave him, Aunt Janice,” he promised. The weight lifted from his shoulders and was replaced by a solemn oath. “I will do everything in my power to help him.”
Janice Blackbird smiled. Her commerce in this world now complete, the light in her eyes faded and her grip upon his hand loosened. He did not see the guardian waiting patiently to take her to the next world. She looked into the corner of the room and said, “Da…” then slipped peacefully away.
He set her hand upon her bosom and looked to the place where she had been staring. There was nothing.
And so, once again, Proudfoot was sad and alone – but she had left him with a purpose. He left the Blackbird house and went to mourn while the others prepared her for the peace garden.
Coming back from memory, he focused on the completed repair job. He wrapped it up in an old poncho and took a drum from the wall he had made a few months earlier. As he carried these two items back to his small house, he wondered if he would ever return to his workshop. The autumn air was fresh, a reminder of the coming equinox and the threat of bitter cold.
Later, after supper, he had a talking circle with the Elders.
From the window, his wife Joanne watched. When she caught his eye, she smiled, but it veiled her worry only thinly. He smiled back and then their two boys joined her at the window, lighting up his heart. He decided, after Toomey’s talking circle, he would take them to the outcropping. There they would build a fire to roast marshmallows and hot dogs with the kids tonight. He would tell them the stories of his boyhood and about his blood brother, the brave hunter. Then, as they slept, he would make love to his wife under the canopy, possibly for the last time.
“Tomorrow we will fly away from this place and try and stop the evil our people have set upon the world,” he whispered, just under his breath.
5
The bedrock was grey with veins of rusty ore running through it from one corner to the other. It spanned twenty-five by ten feet, and it took the better part of an hour to clear away the moss and overgrowth. As he worked, the sun peeked through the overcast sky, evaporating the dampness from its surface and causing its color to fade.
He could feel
the energy in the rock and hear Old Jake’s voice approval. “This will do nicely.”
“Let’s hope so,” he said.
Blackbird began to gather firewood and stones from around the forest floor and set them in a circle to contain the flame. It was still early morning and he was not sure how long the ritual would take, but he wanted to be out of here before the darkness could disorient him.
Kneeling before the encircled kindling, he reached into his pack, pulled out a magnesium bar and scraped filings into the center of the circle using the dull side of his knife. Once that was done, he placed some twigs and dried leaves to start the fire. He dropped a match onto the pile of magnesium shavings. They flared up immediately. Daniel began to pile on the wood he had stacked beside him. Then, pleased with the fire, he rolled out the cloth poncho his mother had knitted and set it before him.
Some of the smaller twigs began to crackle and pop while he set out the items he had carried all these years: the pipe, the hunting knife, the tattered dream catcher, and the black feather.
He made a tripod of three long branches and lashed them together using a piece of cord from his pack. He hung the dream catcher from the tripod and set it behind the place where he would sit. As he did this, he prayed to the Mother Spirit that it would protect him.
Lifting the black feather up to the sky, he said, “Gather the forces of good, oh Mother Spirit: bring their energy and goodness to me in this time of withdrawal.”
He laced its quill through the single braid of his hair.
The stone beneath him was warming to the heat of the flames that licked upward almost three feet. He added no more wood and heard Toomey’s voice again giving counsel. “You must make an offering to the spirits, and in turn, they will purify you.”
He removed the treasured medicine bag from around his neck and untied the leather which had bound its secrets for so many years. As he did this, he spoke aloud.
“Grandfather, I have worn this almost half my life and believe it was the thing that kept me safe all these years. I believe we will again make palaver.”