From its branches the horrors of Apparition Lake had come to an end when the Shoshone medicine man had been given his long-denied burial. Remnants of the bed on which Silverbear's body had laid could still be seen high in the tree. After three years, ritual items and sacred ornaments still dangled around that bed, a carved wooden box packed with herbs, feathered drums and bells, a medicine pipe, a ceremonial pipe, a horsetail; items the holy man was meant to use in the afterlife. And, peppered among them, the golden eagle feathers found at the scenes of each ghastly killing. But the wind and rain, the sun and heat, and time had done their work; the body had gone home. This was sacred ground indeed.
This was the spot Glenn Merrill had suggested for the Great Basin Indian Council.
To fully paint the picture, know that along the edge of this open plain was a rarely used dirt road. That night, just off that road, for some distance in either direction, were a line of parked cars and trucks bearing plates from all of the Basin states. A fair portion of them towed horse trailers. And at one end of the parked vehicles a half dozen horses, still saddled but resting from their various journeys, stood tied together. There were two National Park Service vehicles from Yellowstone, as well. Lew and Glenn had been forced by circumstances to drive down separately.
The chief ranger and the seismologist stood, nervous and wondering, beside Johnny Two Ravens and Abeque near the foot of Silverbear's tree. William Shakespeare and Running River were with them, the Shoshone councilman chattering like a hysterical magpie, but out of the side of his mouth, under his breath, with a politician's smile displayed to the crowd.
It was a crowd. Standing away from the tree, at an instinctively respectful distance, the council of Indians now gathered. In spite of great odds, many miles, and many questions, despite the strangeness of the request, at least two, in several cases up to five, representatives of each tribe of the Great Basin had come, the Western and Eastern Mono tribes from California, the Washoe, Northern Paiute, and Owens Valley Paiute of Nevada, the Kawaiisu, Chemehuevi, and Panamint Shoshone from California, the Moapa and Southern Paiute from Nevada, the Uinkarets, Kaibab, and Shivwits tribes from Arizona, the Western Shoshone from Nevada, and the Gosiute, Pahvant, the Fish Lake and Red Lake tribes (bands of Chippewa and Ojibwa that stayed out west), the Southern Numic and Southern Ute from Colorado, the Western Numic tribe from Oregon, the Central Numic from Nevada and Utah, and the Northern Shoshone, Lemhi Shoshone, the Shoshone-Bannock, and the Sheep Eater Shoshone of Idaho, the Northern Ute from Colorado, and the Tumpanogots and Weber Ute from Utah; thirty-one tribes, over one hundred American Indians, brought by letters of request from Shakespeare, for the Eastern Shoshone, and Running River, for the Arapaho.
That's why Shakespeare was chattering; he was in a quandary. In a lot of ways, it was wondrous having the Basin tribes together as his guests. But, fact was, he didn't know why they were there. Officially, they'd come at the joint request of he and Running River, but not at their instigation. The two Reservation Council leaders had heard Two Ravens' claims. They'd heard them seconded by the Ghost Dancer, though it was disconcerting she was suddenly adamant about being called by her birth name after years of insistence upon 'Alice'. They'd even heard it all backed up in a private plea from Yellowstone's Chief Ranger Merrill; a man they both believed had good sense. Despite their sincerity, none of the trio would elaborate on their cryptic claims of impending doom. While it made Shakespeare and Running River uneasy, they'd sent the invitations as asked on faith alone. They'd even done as requested and skipped informing their Bureau of Indian Affairs agent. However, faith was running slim and they wanted to know, as did everyone present, what this was all about.
They knew it was not a Pow Wow, all of the attendees knew that. There was no amiable chatter, not even murmurs, as they waited; the people were utterly silent. Despite a hundred-plus being gathered, they could still hear the creek run and the breeze passing through the tree. Nobody was talkative. What they were was curious; some were growing angry. It was the largest gathering of old acquaintances, wondering strangers, hesitant friends, and suspicious enemies the Indians had seen in 250 years. Each tribe had been asked to send a holy man, a chief, or a representative able to speak for their people. All did. Some sent additional braves. Glenn, a white outsider, could only guess who was who.
A sea of sunbaked copper faces, many surrounded by long straight black hair, as many surrounded by long straight gray hair, stared back at the ranger. They were dressed like any other dwellers of the deserts and high plains, cowboy hats and ball caps, long sleeved shirts, denim jeans, boots, and jackets, still there was no doubt they were native peoples. And, no doubt, more than a few had guesses as to who Glenn was. The red light of the fading sun set the surrounding cliffs afire. In that reflected glow the Indians stood quietly among the sagebrush and buffalo grasses waiting, they thought, on Shakespeare.
But now the event was on, Shakespeare wasn't sure how to proceed. He'd considered a speech, then vetoed the idea in favor of a simple greeting. Now the time had come even a greeting escaped him. He introduced himself, and Running River, thanked everyone for coming, then hesitated. “For the moment, that's really all I can do, is thank you and turn the meeting over to those who requested it.” He pointed. “Uh, Johnny Two Ravens.”
Two Ravens moved to center stage beneath the tree, with Abeque, Glenn, and Lew moving into his backfield for support. “My name, as you've heard, is Johnny Two Ravens. I'm the son of a Shoshone sub-chief and a member of the Eastern Shoshone tribe. I am an outfitter and wilderness guide in this area and into Yellowstone. I'm not certain how best to begin–”
“You can start,” someone shouted, “by telling us what this is!”
“Yes,” another added. “What is this? Never been to an Indian Council like this.”
“No,” Two Ravens agreed. “Nobody has. There's never been a Council like this.”
“I'm Fred Livingston,” a sturdy specimen of forty said, stepping forward. He chucked a thumb at a thinner, younger fellow to his right. “This is Monty Clark.” Monty smiled like he'd just heard a joke. “We represent the Nuwa,” Fred said with authority.
The pair had come from California to speak for the Kawaiisu, a tribe badly used over the years. The name, Kawaiisu, had itself been forced upon them by the Indians of the San Joaquin Valley and many (Fred, apparently, among them) rejected it, instead calling themselves Nuwa (The People). It made no difference, officially. Less than 150 Kawaiisu still existed and the BIA no longer recognized them as a tribe. On paper, they didn't exist.
Neither Fred nor Monty was a chief (or both were, depending upon your point of view); Fred knew the most about their people, Monty knew the most about their mountain home. Monty liked adventure; he considered life an endlessly-amusing ride and came because maybe, just maybe, he could be of help. Fred, rarely amused, came to confirm or refute his suspicions. He didn't hide his hostility.
“What Council is this?” Fred went on. “By what authority? Certainly not Tribal! We are not of your tribe. If Indian,” he pointed behind Two Ravens. “Why are there whites here? If a War Council, why are there women here? What is this? Your letter insisted our presence was urgent. We are here. Why?”
“We've called you here to warn you,” Two Ravens said.
“To warn us? Do you mean to threaten us?”
“No! No, no. Exactly the opposite. To warn you and to ask your help. To beg your help. You ask what kind of Council this is. It is a one-of-a-kind Council. There has been no other like it and never will be again. The white man at my side is Glenn Merrill, my friend. He is Chief Ranger of Yellowstone Park but tonight he represents, not the government, who have turned their backs on him and have no hand in this, but another tribe called to face this problem.”
A chorus of grumbles rose among the ranks.
“Please,” Two Ravens shouted. “Please. I do not use the word tribe lightly. All will be explained.”
The noise died down.
Two R
avens turned to the women. “This is Abeque.” Several to the rear of the audience, who no doubt understood Cheyenne, laughed. Two Ravens frowned. Abeque held her head high. “She is a healer, the daughter of Hridayesh, an Arapaho medicine man now with his ancestors. She is a daughter of the Cheyenne, as well. She not only has a right to be here,” He glared at the would-be hecklers, “And to be treated with respect. She is the reason we meet.” He directed their attention to Lew. “This is Dr. Betty Chmielewski. It is a core belief of every Native American tribe that man belongs to the earth; we are one. Dr. Lew is a seismologist. She reads the language of the shifting earth as our ancestors read signs and changes on her surface. These women represent, not our problem, but the answers to our problem. It is right, it is imperative, they be among us.”
A new buzz moved through the gathered, this one less readable; many differing points of view being expressed in hushed tones. Two Ravens raised a hand for quiet.
The moment Abeque had demanded the meeting of the tribes, Two Ravens saw the overwhelming flood of problems it would bring. Then Glenn suggested Dry Cottonwood Creek and the waters seemed to recede. An old quote had come to the outfitter and, in it, Two Ravens saw the way. He'd looked the quote up and wrote it out. He produced that paper now and showed it to the crowd. “We are many Indian nations gathered. So it would not, I think, be out of bounds to quote the leader of yet another tribe. Four days before he was killed by Army soldiers trying to arrest him, Crazy Horse, chief of the Oglala Lakota Sioux sat smoking the Sacred Pipe – for the last time – with Sitting Bull. They spoke of suffering beyond suffering. And Crazy Horse said…”
Two Ravens lifted the paper to read. “ 'The Red Nation shall rise again and it shall be a blessing for a sick world; a world filled with broken promises, selfishness and separations; a world longing for light again. I see a time of Seven Generations when all the colors of mankind will gather under the Sacred Tree of Life.' ” He paused, turned to take in Silverbear's tree, then returned to the text. “'And the whole Earth will become one circle again. In that day, there will be those who will carry knowledge and understanding of unity among all living things and the young white ones…” He nodded at Glenn and Lew. “…will come to those of my people and ask for this wisdom. I salute the light within your eyes where the whole Universe dwells. For when you are at that center within you and I am at that place within me, we shall be one.”
Two Ravens looked at the crowd. “It was foretold,” he said. “It is right we are here, together, many colors, many beliefs, as one nation. We will be brief but we require your attention and your patience. May I ask that of you?”
“If you get on with it,” Fred growled.
Monty laid a calming hand on Fred's shoulder. Frowning Fred grudgingly nodded his acquiescence and Smiling Monty turned to Two Ravens, “We will hear you.”
“Yes,” someone in the crowd said. Again, another voice, “Yes.” “Let us hear,” a third agreed.
“Animals and people have been dying in and around Yellowstone,” Two Ravens said. “Earth tremors have been on the rise across the lands of our ancestors. The Stinking Country is in upheaval and all of the tribes of the Great Basin are threatened. I saw an obsidian rock slide in Yellowstone, an omen, the Earth crying. A great darkness has come to the land.”
“It sounds like a fairy tale for kids,” someone (not Frowning Fred) yelled from the crowd.
“Even if it's real,” Fred added. “It's Yellowstone's problem. A white government concern.”
“It is not,” Two Ravens answered. “Whole herds of animals, nine people dead, among them Snow on the Mountains, the shaman for the Eastern Shoshone. And, just a few days ago, three young Arapaho killed at Slough Creek.”
“Still a government problem.”
“It isn't,” Two Ravens insisted. “The first signs appeared in Yellowstone. But they were signs of an Indian problem. You said you would listen. I now test that promise by telling you that Abeque has had a vision. You have been summoned by the Great Spirit in answer. The Earth has opened. An ancient Native American evil has escaped the Underworld.”
That got a reaction. Murmurs, jeers, several outright laughs raced through the crowd. But not everyone was making merry. More than a few silent troubled glares were returned by the oldest among them. Many group leaders were trying to quiet the gathered. From his place beside the tree, Two Ravens tried to do the same. “Please. Please!”
“What kind of nonsense is this?”
“It isn't nonsense. If it is then everything your father learned from his father was nonsense. And everything your grandfather learned from his father was nonsense. And we are all fools for ever having believed a word of it. I do not believe we are fools. This is an Indian Council, called by Tribal elders, without consulting the Bureau of Indian Affairs. It is called at the Great Spirit's command. And it demands you answer. Dare you simply reject it without listening?”
A fragile old Indian that Two Ravens knew, a holy man for the band of Sheep Eaters, stepped forward. “May I speak?” Two Ravens nodded respectfully. “I will listen. My people will listen,” the old man said. “But we ask you, what is this evil that kills? What is it you are talking about?”
“We are talking about an Indian legend that has come to life,” Two Ravens replied. “And we speak in complete sincerity. Nine people have died here; all of them killed by the little people.”
Chapter 38
Had Two Ravens suggested the recent deaths were the result of a murder spree by a unicycle-riding chimpanzee wearing bandoliers and firing a machine gun, he couldn't have caused more excitement or outrage. There was no riot, it didn't get out of hand, but there was a lot of noise, curiosity, and serious concern, peppered (particularly by the younger attendees) with loud disbelief and laughter. “Little people,” somebody yelled. Then he laughed and added, “You're crazy!”
“Now you know why these people are here.” Two Ravens lifted a hand to Glenn and Lew. “To answer charges of insanity and fraud. You don't know me, most of you. You don't know my word is my word. These people do. They are good and faithful friends, despite their color and their employers. But they are more. They are scientists, experts, and witnesses to what I am telling you. If that means nothing to you, or if they are disqualified because of their skin color, heritage, or religious beliefs, then…” He turned to Abeque. “I offer you a matching opinion from a Native American.”
More excited buzz. Groups were quickly reforming within the crowd, vocally at least, not by tribe now but by ideology, islands of emotional reaction in a suddenly stormy sea. Some had no clue what Two Ravens was yapping about, but felt nervous nonetheless. With ignorance as their shield they lashed back with laughter. Some quietly tried to recall, but couldn't quite remember, stories from their childhood. Intrigued, and murmuring amongst themselves, they agreed they were curious enough to keep listening. Some, the eldest among them, knew the old ways and stories. Sharing hard glances and nods, they contributed little to the noise but gave Two Ravens their full attention.
Abeque stepped forward, got a nod from the Shoshone, and spoke. “Two Ravens speaks the truth. And the legends are true. We know. We have seen them. The little people exist, they live, and have returned. A band of them attacked Glenn. One tried to split my skull with a stone hammer. Snow on the Mountains, fearing for his friends and his Indian nation, went in search of a vision and was killed by these demons. Encouraged… by Two Ravens, and Ranger Glenn, I followed the shaman. In a vision the Great Spirit spoke to me through the animals. The wolf, the fox, the bobcat, and the cougar came to me in the clouds and told me what had to be done. This is the first step. We were to hold council and to steel ourselves for war. No white army, no white authority, holds any power over this evil. No white man's government can stop them. Right must stop them. I have been given the knowledge necessary to defeat the little people. I bring that message to you.”
“Who are you to bring it?” Fred asked.
“I am nobody,” Abequ
e replied. “Nobody and nothing. I am an outcast among my people. I bring you that message, not because I would, but because I must. The spirits demand it.”
Fred wasn't impressed. “Of all of the Indian Nations, are not the Kawaiisu the most outcast? We straddle the Sierra Nevada Mountains. Many in California refuse to claim us. Many in the Great Basin refuse to claim us. We have few friends. But we are a peaceful people and have equally few enemies. You ask us to fight a war. Why should we fight your war? We traveled far to be here but how can we trust your message? Let us talk to these spirits!”
“Two medicine men have made that journey and died horribly.”
“I'll take that chance.”
“It isn't allowed,” Abeque told him. “You know that. Even if it was there is no time. The journey you must take instead is one of faith, here and now, within your own heart. The tribes,” She raised her face to the crowd and raised her voice. “All of you must take the Great Spirit's message on faith. You must decide like men what it is you believe and act upon it.”
“We're here,” Fred said. “Some of us against our better judgment. What more do you want?”
“Much more,” Abeque replied. “The Indian Nations must put away their disputes with each other and with the white man's government. They must band together as one and fight against a common enemy, an enemy created long ago from the darkness of Indian failings. There is no one else to blame and no one else to undo the evil. Only the tribes of the Great Basin, acting with one heart and mind, have any chance of victory. Will the Kawaiisu join? Will they hear the voices of the spirits?”
“You call on the Kawaiisu; you call on the dead.” Fred shrugged, lowering his voice. “No matter. What matters is, why us? These things, if they exist, did not come to California. They came here. Why should the Nuwa fight your enemy?”
Obsidian Tears (Apparition Lake Book 2) Page 20