Spiritride

by Mark Shepherd

  But Wolf's mechanical time had been spent on his own Harley, which ran fine, even if it did leak oil. Marking its territory, he'd told Grampa. All Harleys leak. The Indian had never leaked.

  "Well, then let me give you this," the old man said, pulling a scrap of paper out of nowhere. "There are some other things we could use as well."

  Wolf took the list, biting back anger. There was no way he could get all this stuff back on the bike. This shouldn't surprise me. This really shouldn't. He was still going to go riding today. Suddenly he was anxious and restless, more so than he had been in a long time. Living with Grampa in a tiny little trailer in the middle of the desert for six months would have that effect on anyone, he reasoned.

  "Maybe later on," Wolf said. Whatever was planned for "class" today, he wished it would go ahead and be over with. As hot as it promised to be, he didn't much look forward to another day meditating in the sun. The thought had even occurred to him to refuse, and he seldom entertained such rebellious thinking.

  If Grampa sensed his impatience, he didn't indicate it overtly. But then, everything about Grampa was subtle, particularly when it came to shaman training. Grampa put a sheathed knife on the table, a hunting blade that was around a hundred years old, with a bone handle and a pitted, irregular surface. The blade always remained razor sharp, though Wolf had never seen him sharpen it. From under the table he produced a chunk of gnarled pinyon the size of a large orange, and began carving away.

  "What are we going to do today?" Wolf asked.

  Grampa didn't answer right away, but Wolf knew he was just taking his time. The old man knew when he woke what they would be doing, and likely had planned it the previous night.

  "Today I tell you about your powers," the old man said. "The ones you saw when you were fighting in the desert, over in Africa."

  "Iraq," Wolf corrected, knowing that it wouldn't make any difference to him. Anything overseas was more or less jumbled into the same geographic lump. Such details weren't all that relevant, as his ears had pricked at the mention of his powers. He had waited months for his mentor to tell him about them. The incident in Iraq had more or less been the reason for the training. Fast Horse had refused to tell him anything about them, as he "wasn't yet ready," and Wolf had accepted this explanation respectfully. But that was six months ago. He was ready to know, now. Today.

  "The Chaniwa have had many enemies, some physical, some of spirit. Our physical enemies have already conquered us. We are a conquered people, but we are a proud people. Our lands have been taken, and we can no longer fight the white devils and the other tribes, but our souls are still free."

  With his bare arm, Grampa swept a layer of wood shavings from the table and resumed whittling. The shape was too vague to tell much about what he was carving. Perhaps it was a turtle, or a bear; he had often carved fetishes from wood, as it was easier to work with his arthritic hands than stone.

  "Before there were Chaniwa, there were the wandering tribes who hunted the buffalo and followed them with the seasons. One season, a small group split off and went south, following the trail of a small herd. Their medicine man told them they should go south, that their destiny was with this small herd of buffalo. He was a powerful medicine man, and much respected. But the other tribes thought them foolish, and returned north.

  "They followed the buffalo to a large river, so vast they first thought it was a lake. The hunt was plentiful, and they spent many days drying the skins and the meat. There was a long rest, but they grew anxious in the heat. They yearned for home. Even the women complained."

  This was not entirely new information for Wolf, who had been told the history of the Chaniwa already. He sensed that this time the history would include more of the secrets Grampa had been holding back all this time.

  Grampa continued, "Then they saw the canoe with wings, pushing up the great river, against the flow. They thought these creatures were gods, as strange as they looked."

  Wolf ventured a question. "Is this canoe with wings the sailing ship you talked about?"

  "That is the one. It was a ship, but still looked more like a canoe. It's on the coin. Now, I will show you the coin."

  Wolf watched, fascinated, as Grampa unwound a strip of leather at the knife's handle. He had heard of the coin before, some ancient artifact that had been passed down, but he didn't know what it looked like, or where he kept it. Until now.

  In the exposed bone handle was a slot, out of which fell a small, metal circle, a little larger than a quarter. "It is not currency," Grampa explained. "It is a written record, passed down. There is magic connected to the coin, that is why I keep it hidden."

  Wolf knew it would be futile to ask for a date, or even a number of years. He examined the relic, on which was the unmistakable rendering of a Viking ship. On the other side was a design of the four directions, the elemental points of the Chaniwa religion. Finding a blending of European and Native American cultures on such an ancient piece was spooky, particularly when that culture was one's own.

  "The wandering tribe followed this ship as it took a branch of a smaller river, which flowed less swiftly, keeping a respectful distance. The medicine man remained silent when asked about these gods. He either didn't know, or was not allowed to speak of them. The tribe knew something important was about to happen. They should follow the gods to see where they led them.

  "Weeks passed as they made their slow progress up the river. The tribe observed things about them that questioned their position as gods. They argued among themselves, in a language no one understood. On some days they tried travel and gave up, because of rain, or because there was no wind. The tribe learned the wings were only big skins, and the wind was blowing them upstream. If they were gods, why didn't they control the rain and the wind? And why did they argue among themselves? Such things were considered weaknesses when it happened among the tribes. And most suspiciously, if they were gods, why didn't they know they were being followed?"

  Wolf fought back an urge to yawn, and got up for another cup of joe. He refilled Grampa's cup, who took a long drink before he continued.

  "Then the elders realized they had wasted valuable time following these strangers. They should have been traveling north, to catch up with the buffalo herds. They were already far south, and the course they had taken had led them into areas they had never been before. They saw mountains to the north. For a tribe that depended on the buffalo, they were in quite a bind, and the leaders didn't know what to do.

  "They blamed the medicine man for failing them, but he told them they had made the decision to follow the strangers, not he. The tribe began to split. One wanted to return to their familiar path to the east, and another wanted to strike out across the mountains. Either way there would be famine, if they didn't adapt their hunting skills for game smaller than the buffalo.

  "On the day there was to be a confrontation between the two groups, something amazing happened among the strangers and their winged canoe.

  "A scout came running into camp, telling of a division among the strangers. It appeared some of the strangers had killed the others, and had destroyed the canoe, sending it burning down the river. There was something strange about the victors. Perhaps they were gods, or children of gods, after all.

  "The 'Go East' faction wanted nothing of this, and set off before they wasted any more time. The 'Go Over the Mountains' group wanted to approach the strangers, to see if they were gods, and then maybe see if they could aid the tribe in their journey over the mountains.

  "This made sense to the medicine man, who wanted to see the strangers himself. They set off to talk to the gods."

  A gust of wind swept in off the desert, shaking the tiny trailer and pushing a bit of cool wind through it, reminding Wolf how hot it had been lately. I could sit in here all day listening to Grampa talk. Even if he never gets around to explaining how I fixed an assault rifle by looking at it.

  "The first god they encountered was a chi-en, but right away the medicine man sens
ed evil in this one. The tribe blocked his passage in a narrow valley and drew weapons because he looked evil and wicked. Speaking to the wind, he said his name was Nargat, and demanded he be allowed to pass, making the mistake of being discourteous to the medicine man, angering the warriors. But they permitted Nargat passage at the medicine man's urging. This one was trouble."

  Speaking to the wind was a form of telepathy. This was something he had wanted to know about right away, but again, Fast Horse had told him he wasn't ready.

  Grampa continued, "Soon they saw that others pursued this Nargat. They observed the chase from a respectable distance, as three chi-en and a white woman hunted him. In a valley they watched a fire of strange colors appear, and into this Nargat ran. Then the fire disappeared, and there was nothing left of the evil one, not even ashes. The others gave up their chase and set up camp with what little they had. No teepees, not even skins, at least not the kind this tribe was accustomed to seeing.

  "Again, the tribe was having second thoughts about the strangers. Perhaps they were gods after all. The medicine man went to speak to the three chi-en and the white woman alone. Right away he knew these people were good, and they welcomed him and the tribe to their camp.

  "At first they spoke with the wind to be heard, then before long the strangers knew enough Akaniwa to be able to speak without the wind. The Indians never did learn much of their language, except for a few words like wikka, which meant medicine.

  "They spoke all night, learning about each other, until the sun rose the next day. There were two women chi-en and one man chi-en, a brave who was younger than you, Wolf. He was the son of one of the women, but the women were young and beautiful, with long blond hair and blue eyes. They had pointed ears which made them look wise. There was a human woman among them, the white woman, who was also young and beautiful, with red hair and pale skin. She was a medicine woman too, and it was from her that we received the Hand of the Chaniwa, as it was a symbol of her medicine, wikka."

  Fast Horse pointed to the "Hand," the five-pointed star woven into the dreamcatcher. Wolf wondered if there was some influence of the old Celtic religions, but didn't see how this could happen. A ship sailing from Europe to the New World, down its eastern coast and around the Gulf of Mexico, and entering the mighty Mississippi river, then branching off on probably the Arkansas river, was a little farfetched. But the Vikings had been known as explorers, he remembered reading once. And the Chaniwa had a different past, and a different gene pool, from the rest of the North American tribes. European blood introduced to the tribe nine hundred years ago would explain the differences in their appearance, as well as certain points of their religion, but again there was no solid evidence to point to, just the long tales passed down through the ages.

  There I go again, Wolf thought as Grampa rambled on. Thinking like a white man. Maybe there is something to what Grampa is saying, even if it's not written down in black and white.

  "The three chi-en and the human had been Nargat's slaves. They came from across a great ocean, from a place called Islen. Nargat was a wealthy landowner who wanted to start his own kingdom in the New World, but his armada of ten ships encountered a violent storm, and he lost all but the one ship. They were blown off course and discovered a warm land. Since they had lost their provisions, Nargat decided to explore. They followed the coast all the way to the rivers. Once they were inland, the slaves were able to tap the natural reserves of power on the land itself, and secretly build it until the right moment, when they unleashed it and broke their magical bindings. They rebelled while their masters slept, set the ship ablaze and cast it adrift down the river. Burning the ship was necessary to complete the breaking of Nargat's spell over them. Nargat escaped, however.

  "The medicine man asked about the fire Nargat had disappeared into. That was a doorway to the spirit world, they told him. And only the most powerful of their medicine men could construct such a thing. Nargat had escaped, but it was unlikely he would come back. His plans were a failure.

  " 'And what of you?' the tribe asked. 'What is to become of you?'

  "They told the tribe they were far from their homeland, and had no way of returning. They had nowhere to go, and knew nothing of this lush, wild land. So the tribe struck a deal with the chi-en and the white medicine woman, to share their knowledge, and help each other to survive. They became part of the tribe, and from that time on the tribe was known as the Akaniwa, which means 'three peoples.' The white, the chi-en, and the rest of the tribe. All looked different. All became the same tribe. Akaniwa became Chaniwa, but it all means the same thing."

  Wolf squirmed in his seat as he fished another cigarette out of the pack. "So what about the buffalo? Did they go back to their old lands?"

  "No, the Chaniwa never did return to their buffalo herds. In their new land they found abundant game, deer, birds, wild turkeys. The chi-en taught them how to build houses out of logs, and established a community near where Nargat had been defeated. The women married with braves in the tribe, and the son took a wife. Those are our ancestors. That is how the Chaniwa began."

  Yes, but what does this have to do with seeing through concrete?

  By now the heat was becoming oppressive, working its way into the trailer gradually. Granted, drinking hot coffee didn't help matters; Wolf knew he would soon need to start consuming the water they kept in the refrigerator to keep from getting dehydrated. Sweat had beaded on his forehead, and he wiped it as surreptitiously as possible. If Grampa saw he was having trouble with the heat he might suggest a day in the sun, something he wanted to avoid. Unless, of course, he was on his Harley.

  "That was not the last of Nargat, however. He did not return, but he sent a demon spirit in his place to haunt and harass the Chaniwa. This didn't happen right after Nargat's defeat, instead showing itself to the Chaniwa a generation later. Those of mixed blood, chi-en and human, were more vulnerable to attack. They had the sight to be able to see this spirit, but not the power of a full blooded chi-en to ward it off. This is what the following generations of medicine men were trained to do, to keep the spirit away. The spirit's one way to affect us is to block our powers, so we cannot use them to banish him to the spirit world.

  "You are descended from the medicine men of the Chaniwa, Wolf, whether you like it or not. That your powers arose when you were far away tells me something else, something important."

  Fast Horse whittled away at the carving, its form coming free from the wood. It was not a fetish; the limbs were too defined. Wolf knew this was going to be one of those one-sitting jobs, which also meant this conversation might take even longer.

  "Our medicine men descended from the offspring of these first Chaniwa, their blood mixing with the white woman and the chi-en. This is why other tribes thought us the enemy, this is why the Chaniwa lived in isolation. Since the beginning, the medicine men have made prophecies, and passed them down from mother to daughter, father to son.

  "The most fearsome prophecy has to do with the death of the Chaniwa, and the ashes from which it rises. Its new birth. This prophecy is at hand."

  The urgency with which Grampa had made this last statement drew him back into the lesson.

  "When there is one Chaniwa left, there will be a new cycle. A cat spirit will try to kill the very last one of our tribe," he said as he glanced over Wolf's head, "and the chi-en will rise from their underworld, the good and the bad. Nargat will return to seek his vengeance, as will others who are his enemy. There will be a white brave, adept at wikka, but he will not know his true path until he goes on a great journey to the underworld."

  "So who wins?" Wolf asked, trying to sound interested, but the heat was beginning to distract him again.

  "That we don't know," Fast Horse said. "The battle has yet to be fought." Grampa was getting excited, in a way Wolf found disturbing. The old man was starting to sound irrational. Wolf considered ways to appease him. "The Chaniwa have a power, which sometimes skips generations. Your father didn't have it. But you, W
olf, you have something he didn't. You are something he wasn't."

  "Which is?" Wolf asked, trying to sound polite. "What am I?"

  "You are . . ." Grampa began reverently, "you are chakka. Shapeshifter."

  Wolf's heart sank. The chakka were bogeymen of bedtime stories. Chakka were the Chaniwa equivalent of werewolves. Unacceptable. He was willing to accept his powers having to do with his own natural abilities, which obeyed only himself. Now Grampa was bringing in spirits and ghosts and shit, things he didn't accept, didn't believe in. At least not yet; if Grampa presented some convincing evidence he might accept the notion of spirits, and make the knowledge his own. That he was a true chakka was beyond belief.

  Grampa is starting to unravel.

  "The evil cat spirit, the one Nargat summoned, her name is Ha-Sowa," Fast Horse said, looking above Wolf at the trailer's ceiling. "Never speak it unless you are gazing into the Hand. The Hand will keep the spirit away. Otherwise you may invoke the spirit. As a chakka, you may discover your other self."