The Spirits of Nature
All rights reserved
Copyright © 2005 Library of Congress
Copyright © 2006 by Michelle Post
Writer’s Guild registration #1141773
Cover designed and created by Lorita Atwell
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author.
What determines the outcome in life is not what happens to us.
It is how we choose to respond that makes the
difference.
Rides With Fury
Crow Holy Man
For Mom and Dad
The Dream
The intention of this manuscript from its conception was for a greater understanding of our First Americans. I wrote this piece as merely the foundation of the healing process.
It seems only fitting that half of the profits from this project be donated to further the culture and improve the lives of the modern day Crow Indian tribe. The Crow and many other Native Americans struggle to keep their culture alive. They were forced to give up their way of life in order for us to live the way we do today. Too many of the present day Indians have been forgotten by our modern society. They were never ‘absorbed’ into the system as originally intended. Most live in deplorable conditions on reservations in what little is left of their land, a land they loved and respected.
Michelle Post
author
Prologue
He took her to their place in the mountains. It was their private sanctuary. For the past decade and a half they had come here after the first thunder, once they were settled into their summer camp.
The troubled Brave deep in thought walked the black stallion as his wife sat on the horse’s back examining the new forms of life that surrounded them.
When they reached the top of the highest ridge, the seasoned warrior patted the animal’s flank to let it know it was time to rest. He turned and stretched up his arms to help his wife alight.
It had been too many days that her husband had not been himself. She felt a distance between them that made her heart grow weary. They had always been so close. She always knew that in time he would share the trouble in his heart. That time had now come.
As he helped her from the horse, he took her in his arms and held her tightly. It was not an embrace of passion, but rather one in which he sought for the comfort he trusted she alone could give. As he released her from his hold she could sense the burden within his heart was heavy. She saw a tear forming in the corner of his eye as he looked into hers and then glanced away.
They stood in silence, gazing upon their village below. Her husband’s mood was ominous, and that lay heavy in her heart. For this fleeting moment, before he would speak what was in his heart, she would drink in this place of serenity. The view of the peaceful village from this vantage point always took her breath away. She always felt as one with God and nature when she was here.
She could easily see their lodge from here. She observed her two youngest children at play, carefree as their grandmother watched over them. They had shared this place that had become sacred to them for the entire time they had been married.
She turned to gaze at her husband. He was still as powerful a warrior as he had been in his youth. Now in his middle age he possessed the wisdom not to be foolish in his attempt to display bravery. The years had taught him a skill that can only be attained through experience. Given this combination he was virtually unstoppable.
She put her hand on his bare chest. She was patiently waiting for him to share what was on his mind.
He opened his hand and swept his arm as though indicating all the land that lay below. “There will come a time when the white man’s machine will cross the land of our fathers,” he said as he began to explain. “It will have the power of many horses. It will drive the buffalo away.”
These words cut deeply; not only because she could never envision change in this beautiful land, but because the white world was once her world. They would be responsible for the tragic change.
“I saw it in my vision,” the warrior said, pointing to his own deep-set eyes.
She knew there was much more. It would take some time to hear. Without him having to instruct her she knew she would build a fire. It would wait for just another minute.
She wanted to absorb the majestic sight of the village and the people she saw moving about. They were enjoying the first signs of spring. These were a people he had guided for the entire time she had known him. He was a wise and faithful chief, respected by all those who had trusted his leadership.
For the moment she entwined her arm in his and nestled close to him. “If they only knew,” she whispered. “If only they knew”
~1~
Tiponi and the Reservation
The long train ride had been therapeutic for me. The sound of the track below the cars had lulled me to sleep last night. During the day I had caught up on my writing and research of the Crow Indian Tribe. The mode of transportation did wonders for clearing my mind. It was also a much easier way to transport my motorcycle. I was not sure what my accommodations were on the reservation but I was sure I would be able to get around with my bike.
I was still feeling pangs of guilt at leaving without giving Jack a chance to say “good-bye” or more than likely to give him the opportunity to convince me to stay. He and my children, Sam and Rachel, thought I was carrying this research too far.
Jack who usually supported me in whatever my work entailed was not very happy with me traveling almost 2000 miles to a depressed Indian reservation. He questioned the validity of an old man who might be more of a storyteller than an accurate historian.
Now, the lonely sound of the train was making me wish I could be with him again. Jack. Wonderful, dangerous, Jack. I missed him as much as I was grateful to be away … for awhile at least. The thought of never seeing him again was more than I could bear.
The train trip was almost over and I was anxious to meet the man known to his people as Tiponi. I had been tracing my family genealogy. I knew there was a trace or connection to the Native American tribe known as the Crow Indians and the Butler family. As a writer I was more than curious to meet this man who claimed to have known this connection. I was hopeful to find my roots after searching for so long. I also had aspirations for writing the great American novel.
It had been a long journey from Chicago. It had taken almost a full day to reach Montana. I was looking forward to a shower before I would meet Tiponi.
Cosette, my wonderful faithful mutt, had been a real trooper for the entire trip. She was a fantastic companion named after one of the main characters in the Broadway play Les Miserables. She was as restless as I to depart from our current mode of transportation.
The train came to a stop and once again I heard that familiar, high-pitched sound of the metal wheels against the rails.
Once my bike was off the train I packed it with the sparse amount of clothes I had taken and, of course, my lap top. When we were ready to go I placed the ‘doggy goggles’ on Cosette. On signal she took her position on the back of the bike. She would lie across the seat. She would stay there for the duration of the ride. She loved it! I had trouble going anywhere without her. In the three years we traveled together in this fashion she had not fallen.
Within minutes we were on our way. I loved the feeling I had when I rode. That freeing feeling that took your mind off all your troubles. I needed it after traveling and having a lot of time to think about the current events of my life.
~
The closest Amtrak station
to the reservation was Malta. I still had to travel about 200 miles to the reservation. I welcomed the long trip. I would arrive in the reservation at around the dinner hour.
I had never been to Montana and was curious to experience the ‘Big Sky’ state. It lived up to the name and I found myself in part of a panoramic background to an area that still had wide-open spaces and all the enticement for great inspiration.
This was a whole new experience for me. I had taken road trips with my bike up to the Wisconsin area. It was beautiful and very picturesque, but this mountain area and the plains had a majestic beauty all together different. I could feel the excitement build as I saw I was getting close to the reservation.
As I rode into the crystal blue sky that did not seem to have any boundaries I knew I had made the right decision in taking this trip.
~
As with the beauty of Montana I was not prepared for what I saw as I entered the Crow Indian reservation. In some ways it was like stepping back in time. I had read about the depression but I was not quite prepared to witness it. There were people with what I would term a ‘faraway look’ in their eyes. I also knew that alcoholism was a prevalent problem among the Native Americans. I was moved with compassion for an instinctive culture that had been devastated. The final remains are a people who no longer see a purpose. I knew after just a few minutes ride into the reservation there was more to be learned than just my family heritage.
I arrived in a few minutes at the small restaurant where I was to meet Lilly, my connection to Tiponi. It was a wooden structure reminiscent of yesteryear. It was a family-ran business that Lilly and her family operated. Cosette stayed outside as I entered the building. She was exhausted.
Lilly was a woman in her mid-thirties with high cheekbones and beautiful black braids that had a shine I wished I could capture for my own blonde hair.
The reservation has its own college. It is known as the Little Big Horn College. Lilly volunteers her time there a couple days during the week in the library. She had answered the phone when I first began my search, over six months ago. She had been instrumental in helping me with my questions, which led to Tiponi.
“Hi, Lilly, I am Darcy, Darcy Butler.” I introduced myself as I extended my hand.
Lilly was warm and friendly, not what I found from most of the Native Americans who I had encountered up to this moment. Lilly had warned me about that. She told me they are a suspicious people. They did not easily trust. I appreciated the insight before I had arrived. Once I was on the reservation it was obvious there were many who would rather I leave.
“Would you like some coffee?” Lilly asked me as she pulled out a chair.
“I would love it,” I said, hoping this meant she had some time to speak with me. I was hoping she would let me know when I would meet Tiponi.
I took a sip of the coffee. It was strong and rich and just what I needed. Lilly knew the length of my trip. Without asking she sensed I must have been hungry. She excused herself and entered the kitchen. She returned with a home-cooked meal that satisfied my hunger. Her kind gesture fed my soul.
“I appreciate all you have done for me Lilly,” I told her sincerely. “I want you to know that I intend to do something for your people in return for all your help, I will not forget you once I have my story.”
She seemed to be unaffected by my words, as though that promise had been made and broken before.
“You know Darcy; I hope you have not made this trip for nothing. Tiponi is known to have a wild imagination. I cannot guarantee that what he is about to tell you is real.”
She looked down at the table and refolded the napkin. She seemed hesitant to repeat what she had told me in an earlier conversation we had on the phone.
“I am not sure if he knows what is real and what folklore is.”
“I understand,” I assured her. “I am sure that I will be able to distinguish between the two.” I was confident about that. I wanted to make her feel more at ease.
“I went through a divorce about three years ago. My crap detector is pretty well-toned.”
She laughed somewhat relieved. I continued to show my interest.
“I am just excited to meet him.”
I looked around and suddenly felt very much at home. I shared that thought with Lilly.
“For some reason, I feel a familiarity here. I am not sure what it is. I feel so comfortable.”
It was one of those rare occurrences when your soul feels as though you have already been to a place that your mind knows you are visiting for the first time.
Lilly smiled at my openness and seemed to appreciate it.
“I have arranged for you to meet Tiponi at around seven tonight,” Lilly said.
“That is about two hours from now … but I am talking about Indian time.”
Given this information I knew it could be anywhere from 8 p.m. to 10 p.m. I was grateful because this meant I could take a shower, call the kids, take a nap and still have plenty of time. Native Americans are notorious for their laid-back attitude. Some do not adhere to time restrictions.
Lilly got up and walked toward the door.
“I will show you your place for as long as you would like to stay. The Pow-wow will be in a couple of days so I was glad to secure a room for you early.”
She was warming up to me and that was reassuring.
She took me inside and gave me a quick tour of the facility. She left and I looked around the place I would call home for the next couple of weeks.
It was a small log cabin. It was the size of an efficiency apartment but very rustic. In the large room were a bed and a desk where I was sure to be spending much of my time. There was a kitchen so I could make my much-needed coffee in the morning. It was supplied with the essentials. It was clean and that is what matter most to me. I was glad to see a phone hook up. I could use the Internet, in super-slow speed of course. That really did not matter. In fact, it would make me a more disciplined writer. I unpacked the laptop and placed it on the desk.
I had only taken a few items of clothing and of course some pictures. I had one of Rachel and Sam. At the last minute I took the picture of Jack and I that was taken last New Year’s Eve. We could not look happier, because we were.
I called the kids who still did not understand why I was taking on this project. However, over the years they had learned to understand the passions of a writer.
Rachel asked if I had talked to Jack. They really liked him. This was a rare occurrence. Usually my kids, who were adults themselves, did not like the men I dated. Jack was different and they got along well. Jack was even able to relate to my oldest son, Sam, who was very protective of his mother in regard to whom she dated.
I took a much-needed shower, munched on some fruit and waited restlessly to meet Tiponi.
God, did I miss Jack.
~
Tiponi lived in a place much smaller than my accommodations. It was very ill kept, as was he. I was told that he was near to one hundred. He looked every bit the age. He was just as I pictured him. He had dark hair with grey strands running through. He wore a hat and his face had the deep wrinkles that depicted his age.
Lilly had told me that he would not die until someone wrote this story; he believed that. He was a stubborn old man she informed me. But he was well loved and respected among the people. He had for years told everyone that there would be white person who would come to tell his story, a story that fulfilled a prophecy. He felt that this was his reason for being born. Most thought he was suffering from dementia. Today, as I entered his home there were looks of extreme curiosity from the inhabitants of this reservation.
Lilly introduced us. She bent down to let him know that I was the author. I saw him immediately light up as though he had a new reason to live.
“Tiponi, this is Darcy. She wants to hear your story.”
I extended my hand and moved closer. The smell of whiskey was overwhelming and was about to make me sick. He gave me a toothless smile. I began
to feel very apprehensive and I questioned my wisdom in being here. He sensed the hesitation.
“I know I am not what you might have expected,” he said as though he was reading my mind.
I was immediately embarrassed at my myopic judgment of this man.
“Not at all, it is an honor to meet you, Tiponi,” I said trying to do some damage control.
I saw immediate forgiveness in his eyes.
“Please sit and we can talk.”
He was smoking a pipe and offered it to me.
“Oh, no thank you, I don’t smoke,” I replied.
He seemed offended. However it did not stop him from smoking. He took the pipe and lit it. When he began to smoke he fanned the smoke in an upward direction over his head.
I knew then that it was going to be a cultural adjustment before we would get much work done. I needed to let my guard down and earn the trust of this man. I attempted small talk to break the uncomfortable silence.
“Why do you fan the smoke in the direction of your head?” I questioned him.
“It is the way to send prayers to the Great Spirit,” he replied. “Right now, I am thanking the Creator for your safe journey here.” He took another puff and repeated the gesture. “I am also praying that you have a heart that is good. I have not shared this story with anyone and I consider it sacred. I pray that you can be trusted.”
He stopped for a moment. He closed his eyes and was very still.
“I have permission to tell you,” he said as though someone had just spoken to him, allowing him to continue.
I was ready to leave. But, I could not move. Something made me stay in spite of the fact that he was beginning to scare me.
I looked over to Lilly. She seemed unaffected by his strange behavior. I decided to remain quite and observe before judging again.
He looked at me. My face must have told him I was very hesitant.
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