Birthing the Lucifer star

by donna bartley

  Chapter 4 Advent

  There was nothing anyone could do but wait. Tortured by worries, despair, and self-analysis, his face stuck to the ICU glass, Dan Ghostwolf watched the vast array of IV tubes, keeping his daughter alive. When Sara was transferred to the ICU, hospital personnel cleared the room, stripping her of the things she loved. They had dragged away her stuffed animals, books, flowers and balloons. Bareness crept over everything and no matter how snug the nurses wrapped her legs and body against her favorite blanket, Sara often cried when negative thoughts invaded her mind. Robert stayed near his daughter, squeezing his hand into a fist against the glass that held him fast from his daughter's bedside. Bending her face toward her father Sara Bravebird, with outstretched arms tried to sit up.

  "It hurts, Daddy."

  "What does sweetie?" Dan whispered.

  "Dying." She gasped, forcing the word out.

  Sara collapsed. Her body remained motionless. The nurse, bringing in a fresh set of vials became startled by the sight and dropped the tray. The vials fell and shattered on the floor. Oozing silver medicine flowed slowly, meticulously as Sara lay unconscious. Doctors, nurses, and specialists, were now dashing toward the room. Sara could feel herself breathing more freely as she slid away from her body, from the clay container that held her forcibly. Sarah's spirit, now free, darted over the walls and ceiling. She was now feeling blissful, free from pain. Sarah circled the room several times before skittering forward.

  In the blink of an eye, she found herself in a vast meadow filled with roses, lilies, violets, daisies and wildflowers. The morning sun projected strips of light and shadow that she gave chase to. There was an absence of fear. No perception of being deserted or totally alone. No panic or thoughts about the bad things that must have happened. Something furry tickled Sarah’s cheek. The touch so soft she hardly noticed. Gentle, it is a butterfly's wing. Sarah tried to swoop it up in her hands but began to feel shaky and wobbly. She lay down on the grass and concentrated on breathing slowly. She thinks that babies do the same thing. Sleep soundly; control their breathing even when people are coming and going, talking, and moving around. That's the way her life had always been since birth. She had struggled inwardly her whole existence to gain the ordinary composure of things, trying not to feel tired while at play. She successfully hid her frequent nosebleeds and shortness of breath, while attempting to overcome the pain in her bones and joints. She spent years denying the low-grade fevers, the swollen lymph nodes. Even after the diagnosis, she kept her mind steadfast on remission and recovery. It changed when her mother was found dead in that terrible storm. Her father became distant, different. He was always a sweet guy. Shy, sexy hot, popular with various women and absent. Sara just knew he'd been with someone. Many some ones. But she loved him completely and convinced herself it was all just a huge misunderstanding. Sarah Bravebird could not move, but realized with her last breath, that when you return to someone you love, the love is always returned.

  "I'm sorry, daddy."

  Her body began heaving up and down desperate for air... Dandelions rise from damp metal screens. The white room witnessed the writhing of her life. Time-space soon becomes an acquaintance. The cause of death: Lymphocytic Leukemia. The time of death: 2:40 am.

  Daniel Ghostwolf cried at his daughter’s bedside. “My sweet, sweet Sarah Bravebird, this is my entire fault.”

  Ghostwolf left the hospital, he had been duly warned. He did not do what he was told. Now his wife was dead, his little boy missing, and his daughter just died. Dan went home to pack his bags and head for New York City. First he had to explain all of this to his grandfather.

  “Grandfather, I must leave. I have brought great pain upon me and my family.” Dan spoke to his great-grandfather, “there is no peace in my soul, and because of this my whole family is gone, I do not wish to bring harm to you also, I must leave.”

  “Was it another woman?” The great, great grandson of Chief Spotted tail asked.

  “No, no. I have not been allowed to tell you. But now….it makes no difference, I was given a great crystal.” Daniel confessed.

  The old medicine man stared hard at his grandson.

  “It was given to me by Uktena, the keen eyed one.” He revealed in soft tones.

  “So…..you have the great crystal, the Ulun'suti?” His grandfather mused.

  “Sshh….please, do not speak of it, Grandfather. No one else should have to suffer because of this infernal rock.”

  “You have not used it wisely!” his grandfather proclaimed.

  “No….I was ...selfish, I used it to find treasure….bones…..instead I have only found

  death…” Dan pushed out the words as his voice filled with fresh tears. “I must go, and give it to someone else.”

  “You have made bad medicine; you must do what is right.” His grandfather spoke harshly. “You have brought a curse, I can only pray with my sacred pipe…” his voice trailed off, as he fingered his Yuwipi stones. ...”Did I not sing to you to always follow the red road of the sacred white buffalo calf woman??” He questioned….”Go, find your peace…..you know where to go.” The pejuta wicasa commanded.

  Daniel Ghostwolf hopped into his land rover and headed east. He pushed the tape into his old cassette player, and listened to the sacred music, ‘Sigh of the Lakota’, Seventh generation restores the sacred hoop:

  drumbeats

  I am the seventh generation, the heart of everything that is, the sacred hoop was broken, but now it’s on the mend Drumbeats

  we are spirit, we are warriors, we protect the sacred tree

  whose roots find sustenance on that red road, it will bloom when we are free…...

  Daniel George Ghostwolf ruminated on the total destruction of everyone and everything he had ever loved in his life. He had nothing left; his only responsibility was to relieve himself of the curse of the Ulun ‘Suti, the stone of portent before it took his grandfather also. As he recklessly drove toward the east coast of Turtle Island, a thought came to him, he had never found his son who had vanished with his mother, after they had gone on an expedition to Moose Lake in Minnesota to harvest wild rice and participate in the sacred ‘wild rice’ ceremonies. They had gone out with their knockers to tap the delicate rice into their canoes made of birch bark, when the area was inundated by high winds and flash floods. Ghostwolf’s wife was found in a shallow pond days later, but his son was never heard from again. Search parties were sent out into the marshes and shallow lakes around the rice paddies, but his son’s body was never recovered.

  As Ghostwolf drove toward Moose Lake he wondered if the crystal could be used to locate his missing son. He traveled along the marshes watching groups of people of the Ojibwa tribe row between the rice reeds harvesting the sacred wild rice. He held the crystal in his hand, while wiping it with the blood of a Crappie he had snagged by the edge of the marsh, and searched the multi colored hues of the marshes for any sign of his beautiful little boy.

  He remembered what his son used to say, "I fear nothing!" laughing in his haughty laugh, taking a chunk out of his apple with his rather large teeth. By now Ghostwolf could remember the bits and pieces without shedding tears. The past one and a half years had worn him to a frazzle and he drank more often, to assuage the pain of his wounds.

  Reminiscing he felt the remorse and knew he would not find the power to forgive himself truly and felt he never could. The presence of his son lingered in the Minnesota air, the feel of his glare, and tiny gem of his eyes, a sinful reminder. Ghostwolf was to blame, a fact engraved in granite, there to stay forever.

  He piled himself back into his Land Rover and once again turned in the direction of the East coast, searing the final touches of his plan into his consciousness. He listened to the sacred words……”Canku Luta:”

  “It's the red road I searched f
or, the road to my home,

  Wisdom and strength my bow and arrow in the wilderness of roam,

  I had seen the far reaches of the tree of life and yearned,

  But I wound up on that black road.. The path of no return….”

  *******************

  Young Robert Growling bear was preparing for the ceremony in the sweat lodge, he had gathered the sage and cedar wood, piling them onto the hot coals when he heard someone call his name. He climbed up out of the pit and walked to the edge of the clearing. He swore he heard his father’s voice, he waited, straining his ears, he was sure he had heard his name wafting through the fiery autumn canopies of Aspen and Elm.

  “I think that your father is calling you, son.” Spoke Roger Sitting bear.

  “I know, I heard him,” Growling bear replied, waiting for Sitting bear to continue.

  “Will you go to him?” Sitting bear questioned.

  “You have been my father these past few years; it is you who saved my life.” Growling bear stated as matter of fact.

  Growling bear stared at the man who had saved his life that fateful day while he and his mother were harvesting wild rice. The Ibom was sudden, there was no time to react as the fierce wind blew the tiny craft into the ash trees lining the marsh….Growling bear had been thrown into a clearing where Sitting bear was gathering cedar wood and pine needles for the sweat lodge ceremony. Sitting bear witnessed the incident and ran to Robert, who stood up yelling and screaming, arms and legs flailing against the tempest. Sitting bear had no time for such nonsense. He grabbed the boy and using buffalo hide and rope made of hemp, tied them both to a large Buckeye tree. The fierce wind flattened most of the birch and ash trees to the ground. Young Robert had lacerations on his face and legs. Sitting bear, the local medicine man brought the boy to his home to nurse him back to health. Robert suffered from amnesia and for the longest time did not remember who he was. This made him frustrated to agonize over his memory loss, often throwing himself down kicking and screaming against his inability to remember anything of his past, thus receiving the name, Growling bear.

  Sitting Bear taught the boy to accept his fate; he calmly and patiently raised the boy as if he were his own. Young Robert was an apt student who quickly learned all the healing knowledge the medicine man had to offer.

  “Do you want me to go?” Robert asked, his eyes growing wide with confusion.

  “What you decide is totally up to you; remember you are your own person.” The great medicine man spoke calmly.

  Robert grabbed the buckets of water that were needed to create the steam in the sweat lodge ceremony, quietly he shoveled more coal into the pit, then gathered up more sage and cedar wood chips. “I hope its okay with you, I choose to stay.” Robert finally spoke.

  *****************

  Yes, Ghostwolf’s future was certain; he was a victim of circumstance. An innocent led astray by the beckoning of the great serpent of the underworld. The gnarled trees boasted their ghostlike branches, reaching out to grab him, to choke the life from him.

  The red road…What was it called? The facts began to escape his mind, to flutter on the cold wind. Whatever it was it was supposed to be there, a blinding, piercing ocean of purity, glaring into his soul, begging him to spill out all the blackness within him that had interrupted its pale perfection. And then it would be gray, like the sky overhead, and everything would melt into blissful oneness.

          No longer sensible of his actions, he stumbled over to the bridge’s overhang, near a plaque welded into the bridgework he stared at the name, Verrazano, next to a date that his failing sense could not discern. He dug his feet into the wires, wishing to find warmth underneath the wretched cold. He stared forward, and looked upon the gray sky with metal wires etching the aether. The man in the moon, the cynical observer that he seemed to be, exerted a bitter, mocking stare, as another lost soul was dying in its mirthless light. And then it all faded into oblivion.

          He was cast into the depths of his mind, his last refuge. Vertigo…doom….the feeling of flying...a mother’s comforting voice…vertigo. Then the cold chills mercifully disappeared.

          Through his last remaining sense, he heard a soft, deep melody lilting up from somewhere in the rough waters below, floating above the misty air and landing gently upon his emaciated libido and burying deep inside his mind. Yes from the misty waters below, he seen the faces of his mother, his wife, his children, and with great happiness he jumped to their waiting arms.