You Don't Know About Me

by Brian Meehl

I caught up with Momi. “What was that about?”

  “She was flirting with you.”

  “I mean about the money.”

  She shot up a finger. “Ah-ah, that’s one of the few rules here: no money. There’s only bartering, goods for goods.”

  “But you bartered for cash.”

  “No, I traded a witness card for Founding Father leaves. And if you won’t play along, I’ll send you back to the van.”

  I didn’t get a chance to say any more. Just when I thought I’d seen the grossest thing in the world, I saw the grossest thing in the universe. A group of naked men on bicycles, with shaved heads, rode toward us. “I wish there was a rule against naked guys on bikes.”

  “Those aren’t guys.” Momi put her palms together and bowed as they passed. “They’re the most famous biker gang here: the Nudist Buddhist Nut Peddlers.”

  I pretended to boot. “Gross!”

  “You wouldn’t say the same about their rival gang, the Critical Tits Dyke Bikers.” She took my arm and pulled me toward some big tents. “C’mon, I have leaves to gather.”

  Camp Meccumenical wasn’t like any revival meeting or Bible camp jamboree I’d ever seen. There was every creed on earth, from Amish farmers to Zen monks. Some looked real and some didn’t. Most of the Amish guys were wearing fake beards. And then there was the guy dressed like a Plymouth Rock Puritan. He carried a gun with a funnel-shaped barrel that was actually a Super Soaker. He kept shooting people with “holy water.”

  After sunset, Momi traded her last witness card. Her buckskin bag was stuffed with leaves. The air cooled as we walked back across the playa.

  At Camp Renewal the tent was closed. Momi said Wachpanne Papa was inside “preparing the new-life lodge.” She and I ate salami and cheese sandwiches from a cooler in the van. I thought the bread was homemade because it was dusted with sweet flour. Then I realized it was alkali dust. Momi explained that dust was the official condiment at Burning Man. After we finished the sandwiches, she asked me to take a walk and come back in a half hour to help collect witness cards at the door.

  “Can’t I just take a nap in the van?” I said.

  She shook her head. “Yellow-haired Woman has rituals to prepare herself for the Sun Dance.”

  Walking out on the playa was like being on another planet. In the darkness, the statues and art cars glowed with bright neon colors. The best was a phoenix rising from a real ring of fire. The people walking around had glow sticks looped around their arms and legs. Some looked like they were wearing neon pajamas. Some looked like walking skeletons.

  I went over to the phoenix fire, got out my GPS, and checked the distance to Portland: 221 miles. I’d be there the next day. Then I pulled out the new chapter of Huck that I hadn’t had a chance to read. There was a funny part about Tom Sawyer kissing his aunt on the mouth. It made me think of the girl I’d met earlier, Spring. When she came to the Sun Dance I wondered if she’d still be green and covered in foliage. I wanted to see her real skin and what was under her leaves. But I also hoped she was still green and leafy. Otherwise, I wouldn’t recognize her.

  At the end of the chapter, I stared at the last two lines of my father’s poem. “My verses will now fade from sight/Giving rise to things Allbright.” Walking back to Camp Renewal, I kept wondering: the bad book was one thing, but “things” is more than one. What did he mean by “Giving rise to things Allbright”?

  38

  The Sun Dance

  As we let people into the tent, Momi and I collected over two hundred witness cards. I did the math; it added up to more than six thousand dollars. Whether you called them frog skins or Founding Father leaves, it was major bucks.

  Spring was one of the last ones there. She was green and leafy but had changed her foliage for a dress made of cattails. Her head was covered with a wild wig of green glow sticks. She looked like a woodland fairy after a nuclear accident.

  “I’ll save a seat for you,” she said as she went inside, throwing me a wink. Something flashed on her eyelid but I couldn’t see what it was.

  As Momi closed the tent I went inside and walked behind the low circle of bleachers. It was dark except for the hazy light of glow sticks. Spring was easy to find with her green fountain of glowing hair. I climbed up the back of the bleachers and sat next to her in the top row.

  Her glow-stick wig lit up her face. “Aren’t you going to ask me why I changed into cattails?”

  “Why did you change into cattails?”

  “They’re the traditional gift you bring to a Sun Dance.”

  I wanted to ask if that meant she was going to give her dress to someone, but every way I tried to put it in my head it sounded crude. I just said, “Oh.”

  She stared at me and pointed at her eyes. “Just so you know, I can see you with these.” She closed her eyes. I jumped. Her eyelids were painted with green eyes. “But I can read your mind with these.”

  I tried to sound like I’d seen plenty of girls with a double set of eyes. “So what am I thinking?”

  Her fake eyes kept staring. “You’re wondering who’s the freaky girl with four eyes.”

  I chuckled. “The four-eyes part is right. How did you get them on there?”

  “Tattoos.”

  “They’re permanent?”

  She opened her eyes, closing her green ones. “Don’t be silly. They’re stick-ons. But I had to have them for tonight.”

  “Why?”

  “ ’Cause even when I blink”—she flashed her green eyes—“I won’t miss a nanosecond of the Sun Dance. And, I can keep my eyes on you.” She shut her eyes and pushed her fake eyes closer. “Just remember, I know what you’re thinking.”

  I laughed nervously and tried to think of something to hide the sinful thoughts wallpapering my mind. I was saved by a rapid-fire drumming.

  “Here we go,” Spring whispered, squeezing my knee.

  The drum settled to a slow beat. Between each thump I felt a silent thump in my knee where her hand had squeezed. The drumbeat moved into the dark space the bleachers circled. The Tree of Life was a black silhouette. Yellow-haired Woman beat the drum and spoke in a low flat voice. “The beating heart of Mother Earth we do not always hear. We hear it now.”

  Across the space a ball of fire ignited. It was Wachpanne Papa with a torch. “The fiery eye of Father Sky we do not always see. We see it now.” He wore a full eagle headdress. His upper body was bare and covered in white dust. I was surprised by his big barrel chest. His lower body was wrapped in Indian-looking material, like a long tight dress.

  Yellow-haired Woman kept beating her drum slowly. “As we hear the heartbeat of Mother Earth, so she hears us.”

  Wachpanne Papa lifted his torch. “As we see the fiery eye of Father Sky, so he sees us. So he sees me, Wachpanne Papa, who the Great Creator took to the center of the earth. There, he showed me the heart and soul of Mother Earth. It was a breaking heart. It is breaking still.” The drumbeat changed to a thudding groan. “It was a weeping soul, weeping still.” The drum growled and moaned. “Then, Great Spirit, you gave me a vision of how to mend the breaking heart of Mother Earth. Of how to return her weeping soul to song.” He raised the torch and shouted, “Hetchetu aloh!”

  The audience shouted back. “Hetchetu aloh!”

  “What’s that mean?” I whispered to Spring.

  “ ‘It is so indeed.’ ”

  Wachpanne Papa lowered his torch and walked around the circle of bleachers. His voice changed to one that was casual and friendly. “Welcome two-leggeds, and any four-leggeds or six-leggeds or eight-leggeds that may be crawling on you.” The audience laughed. “Yes, we can joke as long as we stand outside the hoop of the world, but all is sacred once we step inside.” He stopped at two torches set in the ground like a gateway. He lit the torches. “Welcome, East, which brings us light and understanding.” He kept circling around and looked up. “Welcome, wings of the air.” He lit two more torches on poles. “Welcome, South, which brings us warmth and growing.”
As he walked he looked at Spring and smiled. “Welcome, roots of the ground.” Her cattails rustled as she giggled.

  He lit two more torches. “Welcome, West, which brings us rain.” Walking, he spread his arms. “Welcome, Great Creator. Thank you for stepping outside your tepee of clouds sewn together by lightning, and leaning close to hear our song.” He lit the last two torches. “Welcome, North, which brings the cold, cleansing wind.”

  The lit torches made four gates in a circle carved in the dirt. The drumming quickened as he moved back around it, waving his whooshing torch and pointing at the crowd. “You, the people. You are the outer hoop of the world that runs around it like ants, doing what ants do: digging holes, building mountains, and copulating so your holes and mountains are filled with the peoples of the earth. Hetchetu aloh!”

  “Hetchetu aloh!” everyone echoed.

  He stopped by the torches of the east. The drumming went back to slow. His voice grew soft. “But tonight, you are here not to dig, or to mound, or to copulate.”

  The crowd laughed. Spring giggled.

  Wachpanne went on. “You are here to give your hearts, beating with the heart of Mother Earth, and your eyes, seeing with the light of Father Sky, to the Sun Dance. Hetchetu aloh!”

  “Hetchetu aloh!” everyone shouted.

  He stepped through the torch gate into the circle, sweeping a hand around it. “This, the inner hoop, is the world, our only world.” He pointed to thick lines on the ground running from the rim of the circle to the Tree of Life in the center. They were dark and made of brush. “These lines of sweet sage and the wisdom of all medicine fathers are the beliefs of the world.” He walked, stepping over the lines. “Some beliefs are held by so many, they are called religions. These beliefs are as bright as the twelve moons. Some beliefs are held by so few, they are only pinpoints of light. Whether big or small, all these faiths, and beliefs, like the spokes of a great wheel, lead to the same center of the world.” He moved to the Tree of Life. Three unlit torches stuck out from it. He lit one of them. “They all lead to the same Maker of All Things.” He lit another torch. “To the Tree of Life.” He lit the last one. “This is where Father Sky and Mother Earth came together and brought forth the world.” He stuck the torch he was holding into the bare side of the tree, and whispered, “Hetchetu aloh.”

  “Hetchetu aloh,” the crowd whispered.

  He looked up at a buffalo skull hanging below the fork in the top of the tree. The huge skull faced the torches in the east. Its nostril holes and eye sockets were stuffed with pale green sage. “This is our brother, Buffalo. Every people has a brother like the buffalo. Without him, the people will go naked, and hungry, and die.”

  He pulled two big white feathers off the tree. “These are the feathers of our sister, Eagle. Every people has a sister like the eagle. Without her, the people cannot see from great heights, can have no knowledge or good medicine. Without her, the people would go stupid, and sicken, and die.”

  He took a bead necklace off the tree. A thin bone hung from it, and from that dangled a fluffy white eagle plume. “And this is the eagle-bone whistle that carries the cries of our prayer to the Maker of All Things.” He put the necklace around his neck. The drumming got frantic and scary. In the torchlight, I could see two dark streaks on his chest. They were scars.

  He lifted two long leather cords secured to the tree up by the buffalo head. He walked them back to the torches in the outer circle. “And these are the branches of the Tree of Life. They are branches bearing no fruit.” He stretched the cords tight. Each end had a short wooden peg. “Here is the prayer of Wachpanne Papa.” He faced the Tree of Life with the buffalo skull. “If the Tree of Life is to keep bearing fruit … if our Earth Mother’s breaking heart is to be mended …” The drumming stopped and Yellow-haired Woman moved toward the circle. “If we are to hear her soul sing again, we must make offerings to the Great Spirit.” Yellow-haired Woman stepped into the circle. Wachpanne Papa raised the two leather cords high. “We must bring our own fruit to the tree.”

  Yellow-haired Woman stepped in front of him. I saw a flash as she lifted a knife. She grabbed the scarred skin on his chest, pinched it, and ran the knife through the bunched skin. People gasped, but most of the audience stared, hypnotized. I stole a look at Spring. Her eyes were as bright and fiery as the torches. When I looked back a streak of blood ran down Wachpanne Papa’s chest.

  He lowered one of the pegs attached to a cord. She threaded the peg through the wound. He sucked in air and shouted, “In this way we renew the balance of the world.” Using a short loop of rawhide she turned the peg into a stirrup running though his flesh. He chanted, “Hetchetu aloh.”

  The audience echoed, “Hetchetu aloh.”

  I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. It was more than being on another planet. I was in another century.

  She made the same cut at the top of his other pec. He grimaced, shouting, “In this way we heal the wounds of the world.” Blood ran down his torso. He lowered the second peg. As she secured it he shouted, “Hetchetu aloh!”

  “Hetchetu aloh!”

  With the two cords stretching from his chest to the tree, he was tied to the buffalo skull. Yellow-haired Woman went out of the circle, and began drumming a steady beat, faster and louder than before.

  Wachpanne Papa dance-shuffled from the east gate of torches toward the Tree of Life, letting the cords go slack. “East, hear me,” he chanted. “You are where the morning star rises to give men hope and wisdom. Now your star rises with hopelessness and fear. You are where the sun rises with light and knowledge. But now your sun rises behind clouds of terror and hate.”

  When he reached the tree, he raised the eagle feathers toward the buffalo. Then he danced back, straightening the cords. “O East, hear me. I offer the only thing that belongs to me, my flesh, to make the Great East whole again.” He stuck the eagle-bone whistle in his mouth and jerked back on the cords. The whistle screamed as his flesh stretched out from his chest. The drum pounded. Streaks of blood streamed from the wounds.

  I wanted to not look, and I wanted to keep watching the most pagan thing I’d ever seen. I looked at Spring. Her face was locked in a faint smile. A tear rolled down her cheek, turning green as it gathered paint.

  The screaming whistle stopped and dropped from Wachpanne Papa’s mouth. Keeping the cords straight, but not pulling, he shuffle-danced to his left, chanting. “I send a prayer as I dance.” The buffalo skull turned with him. It was rigged to pivot around the tree. It was only a skull stuffed with sage, but when it moved it looked totally alive.

  He stopped at the south gate of torches and danced toward the tree. “South, hear me. Remember when you gave us nothing but warmth, the power of growing. You brought us the life of things. Now you deliver the death of things. You bring the flooding hurricanes, the poisoning oil, and the power of destruction.”

  He raised his eagle feathers and danced backward. “O South, hear me. I offer the only thing that belongs to me, my flesh, to make the world whole again.” Whistle in mouth, he jerked back, pulling hard on the skewers in his chest.

  I felt like I was watching a crucifixion. The only thing that didn’t fit was the way his chest flesh stretched out. It looked like two small breasts popping out of him. If it weren’t so bloody and awful, it might’ve been funny.

  He danced to the west gate, chanting and performing the same ritual. The buffalo skull followed, like it held Wachpanne Papa’s reins. He moved to the tree. “West, remember when you sent us the thunder beings. When they came I knew the rain, my friend, was coming to visit. Now you send the choking clouds of the foul-air beings, and I know my enemy is here.” He danced back and jerked his reins tight. A peg almost ripped free.

  I glanced at Spring. Her face was a weird mirror of Wachpanne Papa’s. Blood ran down his chest, turning it crimson; tears streamed down her face, washing away her green paint.

  As he danced toward the buffalo skull he staggered a little, but his words were c
lear. “Hear me, North, where the white giants live. Remember when you blew your cold white wind. You rubbed us with icy fingers until we were strong and robust. But now your white giants are old and shrunken. Every day they lose their great white teeth. Their icy fingers no longer reach us. The white giants are bleeding out.”

  Under the buffalo skull, he raised his eagle feathers high. “To you, Great North, I dance this dance. To you, I make my offering this night.” He began to dance slowly back. “Hear me, pray with the broken heart of Mother Earth.” Reaching the north gate, stretching the cords tight, he stuck the eagle-bone whistle between his teeth. “Hear Mother Earth scream with me.” He yanked back, hard. The whistle screamed, the drum roared.

  He pressed forward. It looked like he was sucking the stretches of bloody skin back into his chest. He shouted, “Hear us, pray for your great white giants to return—with their icy fingers—with their great white teeth.” He pulled back, yanking on the straining flesh. The whistle and drum screamed. He tilted forward, shouting over the frenzied drumming. “Hear us, pluck the fruit from the tree!” He pulled, the whistle screamed.

  Then, with the reins still taut, the drumming grew quieter. His voice went low, cracking from pain. “Hear us make the world whole again.” The drumming boomed, the whistle screeched, he tugged from side to side. The pegs ripped free. The cords snapped toward the Tree of Life.

  Everything went silent. It sounded like the silence I’d heard in the desert. The sound of God breathing.

  Wachpanne Papa stood, knees bent, blood oozing from his open wounds. His arms hung, fingers still holding the eagle feathers. Staring up at the buffalo, he rasped, “See us, touch Mother Earth with healing feathers.” The feathers dropped from his hands, fluttered down, and landed inside the hoop of the world. He wavered and fell to his knees.

  I sucked in a breath, like I hadn’t breathed for a lifetime.

  Yellow-haired Woman appeared with an Indian blanket covered in sage and cattails. She wrapped it around him. He slumped onto his shins. “Wachpanne Papa has gone to his vision,” she said quietly. “It is time for everyone to go to theirs.” She gave the crowd a nodding smile. “Hetchetu aloh.”