Winter Moon Rises

by Scott Blum

  “What’s that?”

  “Love. There are very few experiences as powerful as a miscarriage that can strip karma down to its very essence. From conception to our final resting place, love is the reason for being.” Martika closed her eyes and let her words settle around us like golden leaves floating to the ground.

  “No matter which lessons we’re meant to learn in this life, they all come down to love. We need to move beyond our ‘self’ and learn that we are all one—we are interdependent, and love is the thing that nourishes our connection with one another. A mother can’t help but understand this at the core of her being when she’s growing a baby inside of her.”

  “She was a part of me,” whispered Madisyn, her tears beginning to resurface. “There were times when I swear I could feel my own blood pumping through her tiny heart.”

  “And when a child is never born,” Martika went on, “the only thing that remains is the love that nourished each of you during the brief time you shared.”

  “But if her karma is already fulfilled,” I interjected, “is she going to come back?”

  “The karma of this lifetime is fulfilled,” clarified Martika. “Whether she comes back or not is yet to be seen. According to the Tibetan Book of the Dead, she will have forty-nine days to determine if her soul has learned enough to be liberated, or if she will be reborn again to learn additional karmic lessons.”

  “I don’t know if I’ll be ready to try again by then,” said Madisyn. “And to be honest, I’m not sure I want to go through that again—ever.”

  Hearing Madisyn say these words saddened me deeply. I couldn’t imagine not being able to bring Autumn into this world—to hold her in my arms and rock her to sleep. Although I was anxious about the responsibilities of a parent, I’d been waiting to see my daughter in the flesh for many years, and the possibility that Madisyn might not be willing to try again filled me with sorrow.

  “It’s up for debate whether the forty-nine days are literal or symbolic,” said Martika. “But we do know for sure that she will rejoin you if it’s meant to be.”

  “You and your meant to be.” I attempted to force a smile. “Sometimes I wish I could be responsible for deciding what was going to happen in my own life.”

  “We all do,” Martika whispered. “But like it or not, the destiny of our unborn children is permanently entwined with our own.”

  “I just assumed we wouldn’t have to worry about being parents until after Autumn was born. But she’s just so demanding—even in the spirit world, she seems to pull the strings.”

  “That’s more common than you think—it’s just that not every parent is tuned in to what’s actually happening. But especially now that she had begun to incarnate, Autumn’s influence on the physical world will be greater than ever. If I can give you a little advice … be sure you make peace with her now—or else you’ll be sorry later.”

  I instantly got truth bumps down the back of my neck, as if the temperature in the room had dropped ten degrees. I didn’t understand what she was talking about, but I knew I needed to find out more.

  “Sorry? That sounds ominous—what do you mean?”

  “As you know, I spend a lot of time with ancestral healing. At the core of much of that healing is attempting to honor everyone who has ever been involved in a family line—whether born or unborn. If a family member has been disowned or forgotten for whatever reason, all hope of a healthy and positive family line is permanently on hold until every member is acknowledged and openly honored, no matter what they may have done to deserve banishment. In other words, the forgotten will torment the remembered until everyone is openly acknowledged and allowed to return to their place.”

  “That sounds like superstitious voodoo,” remarked Madisyn. “Do you honestly believe that’s the case?”

  “Yes,” whispered Martika in a manner that seemed to draw darkened circles under her eyes. “Honestly, I do.”

  “Either way, I know that won’t happen with us,” I spoke up. “Autumn will arrive soon enough, so she can torment us in our home.”

  “You’re probably right.” Martika sighed. “But unfortunately, I wasn’t so lucky.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I have four children,” she continued. “But two of the pregnancies were terminated before they reached full term. And what I didn’t understand until just recently is that the connection between siblings is very strong and cannot be severed by death—no matter how long each of them may have lived. Even if their existence is unknown to their siblings consciously, the deceased will attempt to make themselves known by any means necessary. I’m just so worried that I’ve done my living children a terrible disservice by keeping their siblings secret for so long.”

  Madisyn and I looked at each other in disbelief. I knew that some things were seldom talked about in polite society, but it seemed tragic that an experience of the magnitude of abortion was commonly hidden from close friends. I wasn’t sure if she was overstating the metaphysical implications, but I knew that as a friend I wished I had known so I could have been more understanding and supportive.

  “We didn’t know.”

  “Nobody does.” Martika wiped the tears from her eyes before continuing. “But I’m committed to doing something about it now. Some old friends of mine have just organized a meeting to help me.”

  “A meeting?” I asked. “Who are you going to meet with?”

  “Not a ‘meeting,’” Martika laughed. “A meeting. It’s a powerful Native American ceremony that often involves coming together to help someone in need.”

  Madisyn and I glanced at each other and shrugged. I had never heard of a meeting before, although something about it intrigued me.

  “Have you been before?” I asked.

  “Oh yes—several times. But this will be the first time I’ve ever done so for myself. Truth be told, I’m actually quite nervous about it.”

  “What’s it like?” I was getting more intrigued with every passing second.

  “Hmm, that’s a good question. The simple answer is that it’s unlike anything else—it’s definitely a unique experience. Let me see … it takes place in a tipi and usually begins around sunset and goes all night until morning—”

  “Well, that counts me out,” interrupted Madisyn. “If I don’t get my eight hours, I’ll be ruined for weeks. Why do all the best ceremonies happen at night?”

  “I don’t know.” Martika laughed. “Throughout the night there are several regimented rituals that are accompanied by drumming and singing. Even the wood used in the fire must be prepared with a strict mindfulness of tradition.”

  I usually avoided organized Native American gatherings because most of the ones I had been exposed to previously had taken place in school gymnasiums or impersonal cultural centers. And although I wanted to deepen my relationship with my Indian ancestry, I felt uncomfortable doing so in such a modern context. However, hearing Martika talk about a tipi as the location of the meeting definitely got my attention.

  “You’re welcome to come if you’d like,” Martika offered. “It would be lovely to have as many friendly faces as possible.”

  “That sounds great!” I was unquestionably excited, although I didn’t want to leave Madisyn home alone. “Are you sure you don’t want to come?” I asked her.

  “There’s no way I can stay up all night,” Madisyn replied. “But you should definitely go. You need to connect with your heritage, and this is the first Native American event that you’ve been interested in since I’ve known you.”

  “You’re probably right,” I conceded. “Martika, when is it, and what should I bring?”

  “It starts this Saturday night and goes through Sunday morning. You should bring some warm clothes, a blanket, and a cushion to sit on.”

  “You should also bring some water,” Madisyn added.

  “You can bring water,” replied Martika, “but you’ll need to leave it in your car. You’ll be given water when you are allowed to drink
. Like I said, the rituals are pretty rigid.”

  “I’m glad I’m not going.” Madisyn scrunched up her face. “I don’t like being told when I’m allowed to eat or drink. It reminds me of elementary school.”

  We all laughed, and Martika gave me directions to the ceremonial grounds and arranged a time for us to meet.

  “Oh, I almost forgot,” Martika said on her way out the door. “Be sure not to drink any alcohol between now and Saturday. Alcohol has a violent reaction to the medicine, and you’ll get really sick if there’s any in your system.”

  “Medicine?” I didn’t have a problem abstaining from a glass of wine with dinner, but this was the first I’d heard about “medicine.”

  “Didn’t I mention that? Oh, sorry. Yes, there will be sacred peyote medicine as part of this ceremony. You don’t have to partake if you don’t want to, but it is a significant part of the ritual.”

  “Peyote!” I exclaimed. “Are you serious? I thought that was illegal!”

  “It is a controlled substance, but the N.A.C. has a religious exemption for use in ceremonies.”

  “What’s the N.A.C.?” I felt like I was finding out about a secret society I’d never heard of before.

  “Native American Church. It’s actually the largest indigenous religion in the United States, although it wasn’t formalized until the early 1900s.

  There are thousands of members all over the country, but they try to keep quiet because they don’t want their rituals taken away from them.”

  My excitement about attending the ceremony was now greatly tempered with the knowledge that there would be psychedelic plants consumed during the ritual. I personally wasn’t familiar with the effects of peyote, but everything I’d seen in movies and read in books portrayed it as a powerful drug that was difficult to control. There was no denying that I was drawn to everything Martika had shared, but I wasn’t certain I was prepared to ingest a controlled substance.

  “Wow, I don’t know about that. I’m not sure I’m ready for peyote.”

  “You don’t have to take it,” Madisyn reiterated.

  “But what’s the point of going if I’m not going to participate fully? Isn’t that a major part of the ceremony?”

  “Yes, it is,” said Martika. “But it is okay if you don’t partake. Everybody is really nice, and there won’t be any peer pressure if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “I don’t know …” I repeated. “I guess I just need to think about it.”

  “I totally understand—no pressure. Just tell me by Friday so I can make sure your place is reserved.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  My anxiety about the meeting intensified appreciably during the rest of the week. I was sure there were many people who would be envious of the opportunity to experience peyote in a traditional ceremonial context, but I wasn’t a big fan of mind-altering drugs and genuinely felt afraid of what might happen if I completely lost control. I had received most of my information about illicit substances from antidrug propaganda in elementary school, and although I was a big fan of psychedelic music from the 1960s, I personally wasn’t drawn to the source of their inspiration.

  As the weekend drew closer, I began to feel a knowing in my soul that it was something I had to do. It felt like a rite of passage and an ancestral doorway that I was compelled to pass through. And although I knew that my Cherokee lineage wasn’t explicitly involved in the N.A.C., there was still something undeniably authentic about the meeting that resonated deep within my soul.

  After I notified Martika that I was intending to attend, time accelerated at a blinding rate, as if to disallow second-guessing my decision. Once Saturday afternoon came around, I barely had time to gather all of my supplies so that I could arrive three hours early in order to ask the people in charge of the ceremony for permission to participate.

  Thankfully, Martika was already there by the time I found the ceremonial grounds after winding over several unmarked dirt roads along the foothills of the Cascade Range. A massive muslinhued tipi had been erected in a clearing among the conifer forest about a hundred yards from the road. The grounds were buzzing with activity as several groups of people feverishly prepared for the evening’s occasion.

  “Did you bring the pie?” Martika asked after greeting me with a hug. She’d been very explicit that I was to bring a marionberry pie as an offering when I asked permission to attend the ceremony. After scouring three different grocery stores, I eventually found the last pie in town.

  “Yes, it’s in the car.”

  “Good. Why don’t you get it now, and we’ll go to the house to meet the Road Man.”

  After retrieving the pie from my car, we walked up the dirt road toward a peeled red clapboard cabin at the end of the drive.

  “What’s a Road Man?” I asked.

  “He’s the person in charge of the meeting. Sort of like a priest in other religious traditions.”

  “Is he from this area?”

  “No, he’s from Arizona. He’s constantly traveling across the country to perform various rituals. It’s very important to honor him because of the many miles he travels to share his wisdom and ceremony.” “Is that why he’s called a Road Man? Because he’s on the road so much?”

  “No.” She laughed. “But that’s a good thought. The reason he’s called a Road Man is because he’s the one who helps everyone navigate the Peyote Road. He has a very powerful connection to the spirit world and significant experience in handling the sacred medicine. You must surrender yourself to his care in order to journey on the Peyote Road.

  And when you ask permission, he will either grant or deny his assistance in doing so.”

  I began to get nervous about whether or not I would pass the test. In some ways I was hoping he would reject me so I wouldn’t have to confront my fear of taking the peyote, but I also knew myself well enough to understand that my ego wouldn’t let me give up without trying.

  The inside of the house was bustling with activity as several women tended to three large iron pots boiling on the stove. The unusual aromas wafting from the cookware revealed a mélange of spices unlike any I had smelled before. Seated at the far end of the kitchen was a frail Indian man who was devouring a blood-rare slab of beef as if he hadn’t eaten in weeks.

  “Uncle Wayne!” Martika addressed the small man, and he returned the greeting with a toothless grin.

  “Hello, niece,” he mumbled through a mouthful of food before hastily returning his attention to the steak.

  “When did you get in?”

  “Morning,” he grunted, without lifting his gaze from the plate of food.

  “Are you doing okay?”

  “Humph.”

  “Uncle Wayne,” Martika continued, “I want to introduce you to a friend of mine. He’s interested in attending the meeting tonight.”

  No response.

  “His name is Scott.” She gestured that I should introduce myself.

  “Nice to meet you,” I said as confidently as I could.

  “He has Indian blood,” Martika said.

  No response.

  “Cherokee,” I interjected.

  “Humph.”

  By this time I was concerned that I had already done something wrong to break protocol. I definitely wanted to attend the meeting, but more important was that I not offend someone I’d just met.

  “I brought you a pie,” I offered.

  “What kind?” It was the first time the Road Man had addressed me, although he still wouldn’t look in my direction.

  “Marionberry.”

  “Humph.” He gestured for me to put the pie on the table and then to sit in the empty chair across from him.

  After I settled into the chair, he looked at me intensely with sunken, bloodshot eyes and mumbled, “Why you want to come to meeting?”

  “Um …” I suddenly felt ill prepared and looked to Martika for support, but she was now by the stove chatting with the women making soup. I then closed my eyes and took a
deep breath before the words came to me. “I want to support Martika … and I feel it’s important to reconnect with my Indian heritage … to learn more about where I come from.”

  He continued to stare at me for several seconds and shifted his gaze, as if to study every pore on my face. I had never felt more self-conscious in all my life and surmised that even my soul was being judged by this wrinkled, toothless man.

  “Medicine is teacher,” he said after a long silence, straightening himself up before continuing. “I’m not teacher. Medicine is teacher. Understand?”

  “Yes.” I did my best to follow his garbled words, as he had resumed stuffing his mouth without the aid of a utensil.

  “Medicine good. Alcohol bad. Drugs bad.

  Medicine help. Medicine puts us back on road. Red road.”

  I nodded intently.

  “Medicine not drug. Medicine is teacher. Good teacher.”

  I continued to nod.

  “Respect!” he yelled loudly and began pounding on his chest with his closed fist. “Medicine! Respect!”

  The Road Man leaned toward me, and his nose nearly touched my own. His bloodshot eyes were open wide, and the fragile Indian man I had met moments before was long gone. He then whispered in an otherworldly voice that sent chills down my spine: “Are you afraid of medicine?”

  I nodded slowly. “Yes, I am a bit afraid.”

  “Good.” He leaned back and nodded understandingly. “Good to be afraid. But medicine is kind. Good teacher.”

  His attention turned back to the food before him as he placed an enormous wedge of marionberry pie on his dinner plate.

  “Good pie,” he mumbled while stuffing his mouth with the dessert. Large globs of indigo filling ran down his chin, and he wiped it clean with the back of his wrist.

  Martika then returned to my side and put her hand on my shoulder to indicate we should leave. “Thank you, Uncle Wayne,” she said as she guided me out of the kitchen.

  As we exited the front door, I heard him grunt one last time. “Humph.”