by Scott Blum
“He seemed to like you,” Martika said as we walked back toward the tipi grounds.
“Really?” I laughed. “Are you sure? It didn’t seem that way to me!”
“Definitely. He usually doesn’t say more than two words to someone he’s just met. He’s really nice when you get to know him, but he’s understandably wary of the motivations of new people.”
“I suppose that makes sense. There are probably a lot of people who just want access to peyote.”
“More than you know. Scott, I need to return home for a few hours to prepare for the meeting. I suggest you stay here and see if you can help out.
The meeting is going to be really full tonight, and you might lose your place in line if you leave.”
“I can stay.” After the conversation with Uncle Wayne, I felt it was probably best to remain so I wouldn’t lose my nerve. “What should I do to help?”
“The tall man near the tipi owns this property—he’d be a good person to ask. His name is Stefan.”
Stefan was occupied with stacking long sections of carefully prepared logs near the entrance of the tipi. Each one was between three and four feet in length and had been completely stripped of its bark, as well as any branches or imperfections.
After I introduced myself, Stefan asked me to fold the blankets covering the sweat lodge and stack them inside the plywood shed nearby.
I had never seen a sweat lodge up close before, and the dome-like structure was much smaller than I would have expected. It was no more than five feet tall and ten feet in diameter and was topped with a dozen gray padded moving blankets. I was amazed to discover the skeleton of thin willow branches under the blankets that was responsible for sustaining their considerable weight. Once the coverings had been completely put away, I admired the shallow pit inside the structure, which was filled with stacks of porous lava rocks.
Martika had invited me to attend the sweatlodge ceremony the night before, but seeing how small the austere lodge was made me glad that I’d decided to wait. One thing at a time, I thought.
After Stefan told me there was nothing left to do, I relaxed on a nearby picnic bench as the sun retreated behind the rocky Cascades. Before long, a well-dressed Indian man joined me and began pulling out several items from a green canvas duffel bag. He wore a long-sleeved button-down shirt, a black leather vest, and a braided bolo tie that was cinched with a polished silver-and-turquoise clasp.
He started by removing a red silk sheath from a small cast-iron cooking pot. It was no more than eight inches high and slightly wider in diameter.
He reverently placed the kettle on the table and carefully removed various objects from inside.
The first was a well-worn folded leather disk cut about twice the diameter of the kettle. He then retrieved seven perfectly round black stones, an ebony-colored carved wooden stick, and a generous length of white cord.
When the kettle had been completely emptied of its contents, the man held his palms over the objects and began to recite a prayer in his native language. I felt as if I were imposing by staring at him during this obviously intimate moment, but I couldn’t take my eyes off him or stop listening to his gravelly voice. Although I couldn’t understand what he was saying, his words captured my very soul and held it firmly until he finished.
Once his devotion was complete, he retrieved a canteen from his bag and began to speak in English. Although he wasn’t looking at me, I was aware that his words were for my benefit.
“Many years ago, my great-great-grandfather had everything stolen from him. His land. His drum. His family.”
He emptied his canteen full of water into the iron kettle.
“But the music in his heart kept beating even after everything was gone. When he was sent to the reservation, he was told to never strike the drum again or else he would be killed, like his father and his uncles had been. But the drum kept beating in his heart.”
He then submerged the leather disk into the kettle and began massaging it underwater.
“Periodically those who had stolen would invite themselves into his home on the reservation. They would pretend to be his friend, but he knew the real reason they visited. They were looking for the drum. The drum was very powerful. They were afraid of the drum.”
He removed the leather and wrung it out like a used washcloth. The hide had become supple in the water, and he placed it over the mouth of the kettle.
“In the surrounding forests at night, his family would gather to meet and receive medicine. But the medicine needed the drum. The drum is the heartbeat of the medicine.”
Retrieving one of the marble-like stones, he placed it under the leather on the side of the kettle and then wrapped cord around it so that its shape protruded through the leather.
“So he made a new drum from the iron kettle that had been given to him by his captors to cook his food.”
The wrapping continued until the cord had been woven around each of the seven stones and secured at the bottom of the kettle. Within minutes the ordinary cooking utensil had transformed into a beautifully crafted drum that would have been at home in a museum.
“It was a good drum. A powerful drum. He would carry it to the forest at night to bring the heartbeat back. The medicine was happy.”
He struck the drum with the hand-carved ebony stick, which filled the air with a thunderous sound. It was extraordinary how loud the small drum was, and it resonated as if it were several times larger.
“And when the ceremony was over, he would untie the drum and return the kettle to his kitchen alongside the plates and utensils he had been given.”
After striking the drum several times in succession, he brought it to his mouth and bit into the skin of the drum, tipping it forward as if he were drinking soup. When he returned it to the table, a small puddle of water had pooled from the punctures left by his teeth. He spread the liquid around the surface of the drum skin before tightening the cord and striking it again. The drum was repeatedly tuned in this way until it satisfied the master craftsman.
Martika joined us as soon as the drum maker was finished. She had changed her clothes and was wearing a long maroon loose-fitting dress with delicate yellow birds embroidered around the bodice.
“I see you met Keyan,” she said. “He comes from a long history of Drum Men.”
“Yes, he was telling me,” I replied, giving her a hug.
“Hello, Martika,” Keyan greeted my friend as he stood up. “Tonight is your meeting. I have come from South Dakota and will provide the heartbeat for your medicine.”
“Thank you for coming all the way here. When Uncle Wayne asked me who I wanted to drum, I could only think of you. I’m very happy you were able to join us.”
“My pleasure.”
“It’s almost dark.” Martika turned to me. “I have to go in now, but I’ll save you a spot next to me.”
I nodded as she disappeared through the womblike opening of the tipi, which revealed a fire burning inside. The glow of the flames stood in warm contrast to the indigo twilight that had descended on the mountainous landscape surrounding the ceremonial grounds.
Suddenly, nearly everyone who had arrived gathered near me in front of the tipi. The crowd was unusually quiet, and although a few acknowledged me with a simple nod, most were obviously concentrating on their own experience and preparing themselves for the night ahead.
My anxiety returned, and I once again felt nervous about what might happen during the ceremony. In that moment I became aware that it was more than just the peyote that intimidated me.
Whatever was inside the tipi would change my life forever, and I knew that I would never be the same.
CHAPTER TEN
Thankfully, Martika saved me a place, because by the time I followed the eager crowd into the tipi, most of the available spots inside had already been taken. We were directed to walk around the fire clockwise, and fortunately, I remembered Martika’s warning to always face the flames while I was inside. It sounded easier than it was, a
nd I nearly fell over trying to sit down without turning my back to the fire. I never realized how natural it was to turn around before sitting cross-legged on the floor.
Once I was situated, I could appreciate the simple beauty of how the inside of the tipi had been prepared. Closest to the opening were ten wooden poles intricately layered on top of one another to form an arrowlike structure. Impressive flames burned brightly where the tips of these poles crossed, filling the center of the tipi with flickering light.
Surrounding the fire at the opposite end of the tipi was a narrow shelf that had been meticulously sculpted from the soil into the shape of a massive elliptical half circle. It was no more than two inches above the ground, but the craftsmanship was remarkable, as evinced by the flawlessly level surface.
“What is that?” I whispered to Martika, pointing toward the peculiar dirt sculpture.
“That is The Moon—the altar that houses Father Peyote.”
As she mentioned this, I noticed a dark brown peyote button planted near the center of the altar. It seemed to emanate waves of unseen energy, and I felt its power in the pit of my stomach whenever I stared directly at it—my nervousness was compounded greatly in its presence.
“Is that what we’re going to eat?”
“No,” she whispered. “That one is not for us. Father Peyote is a sacred talisman that belongs to the Road Man. It is not to be eaten and is the source of much of the Road Man’s power.”
I recognized Uncle Wayne sitting cross-legged behind The Moon, elevated by three large pillows. Immediately in front of him was a small red cloth upon which several feathers, small boxes, and animal bones were crowded. To his left, Keyan was also sitting on large pillows, with his reconstructed water drum resting between his crossed legs. To the Road Man’s right was an elderly Indian gentleman, also resting on large pillows. He appeared the most preoccupied of the three and seemed to be looking at the fire and within himself simultaneously.
“Who’s that?” I whispered.
“The Cedar Man.”
Uncle Wayne nodded to the man tending the fire at the opposite end of the tipi. Without a sound, the man deftly untied the flap of the tipi opening and it quickly fell shut. Immediately, all whispers hushed and everyone fell to silence, turning their attention to Father Peyote. The small button appeared to have grown to nearly twice its previous size, and the energy emanating from it forced me backward. I felt the back of my head brush against the wall of the tipi.
The muscular man tending the flames picked up a handmade broom and began sweeping the ground between the fire pit and everyone seated around the tipi. Within just a few minutes, the dirt was meticulously groomed, and all our footprints had been brushed into a crisscross pattern that reminded me of a Zen rock garden.
The Cedar Man then approached the fire and dipped his fingers into a yellow buckskin pouch adorned with an intricately beaded bird. Removing his hand from the bag, he flung a handful of its contents into the fire, which crackled and sent a generous plume of smoke toward the peak of the tipi. He fed three additional handfuls to the flames, and the air filled with the unmistakable musky scent of cedar. I found the distinctive aroma to be rather comforting, as it reminded me of chopping wood when I was a child.
“Bless yourself with cedar,” the Road Man commanded as he held his palms toward the fire. The people around me followed his lead and confidently scooped the elusive plumes of smoke and “bathed” themselves with it. Starting from the top of their heads and progressing down to their feet, everyone looked like they were blissfully showering in the most luxurious oils on Earth. I attempted to do the same, but I felt awkward trying to catch the smoke and direct it where I wanted it to go.
Uncle Wayne then retrieved a stack of rectangular yellow sheets from the miscellany in front of him, and after taking one for himself, passed the rest on to Keyan. He licked the sheet, systematically covering every inch with saliva. When the bundle reached me, I encountered dozens of carefully flattened corn husks that had been trimmed to exactly the same size—approximately four inches by three inches. I followed everyone else’s lead and put the tasteless sheet in my mouth, passing the rest onward.
While I busily moistened the ridged husk, Uncle Wayne retrieved a small leather pouch and extracted a generous pinch of tobacco before passing it along. He expertly rolled the husk into a near perfect cylinder and held it together by licking its edges.
I attempted to mimic the master roller, but mine ended up looking less like a cigarette and more like a thin, lumpy burrito with shredded tobacco twigs limply hanging out the ends. I tried to seal it shut by licking the edges, but the husk defiantly refused to cooperate.
Meanwhile, the Fire Man tended to an eighteen-inch wooden cylinder whose pointed end was smoldering deep within the center blaze. He carefully rotated it as if he were turning a rotisserie, and would remove it periodically to blow on the tip until it glowed bright red. He repeated this process as the tobacco pouch made its way to everyone in the tipi before Uncle Wayne returned it to its place.
With a nod, the Road Man summoned the glowing wooden cylinder, and the Fire Man presented it with ceremonial reverence. Uncle Wayne blew on the pointed tip so that the crackling embers glowed brightly, and then used it to ignite one edge of his corn-husk cigarette while he eagerly puffed. The large wooden lighter looked grossly out of scale in comparison to the relatively small cigarette, but there was something gracefully majestic about the way the coals coaxed smoke from the rolled corn husk.
By the time the lighter was passed to me, the embers had retreated deep inside. My lung capacity was challenged as I attempted to revive the burning coals with my inhalation. It took several tries before the corn husk began to smolder, and I accidentally breathed the smoke into my lungs during the process, coughing uncomfortably for several seconds.
Once everyone in the tipi had successfully ignited their tobacco, the Road Man got our attention with a gravelly whisper:
“Tonight we meet for Martika. Her family. Her children. Her children who are here. Her children who are gone.”
He held the corn-husk cigarette with his thumb and forefinger and deliberately brought it to his lips, inhaling deeply. As he exhaled, a river of smoke left his lips and floated above all of us like a giant halo.
“And we pray,” he continued. “We pray for Martika. For her children. For our family. For ourselves …” He drew another breath from the tobacco and lifted his head and blew a thin stream of smoke toward the peak of the tipi. “… Father Sky …” Returning his gaze to level, he exhaled a sea of smoke that gradually kissed the forehead of each of the people gathered around the fire. He then looked to the ground and blew a needle of smoke that lingered when it reached the dirt. “… Mother Earth.”
Uncle Wayne closed his eyes and began to mumble in his native tongue as a chorus of voices joined in. Everyone in the tipi vocalized their prayers while puffing on their smoldering corn husks. At first I could hear the distinct crackling of burning tobacco, lifting the prayers to the sky, yet within seconds the voices had filled the air and I could no longer even hear my own breath.
It felt oddly voyeuristic to eavesdrop on so many people at once, although it was genuinely touching to hear them outwardly express their heartfelt love and concern without a trace of selfconsciousness. Because everyone was speaking at the same time, I couldn’t distinguish any single prayer, although I was able to discern a few words that were regularly repeated: “Martika … children … love … hope … medicine …”
The prayers continued to escalate in volume and intensity until the energy had begun to swirl inside the tipi, as strong as a summer breeze before a storm. The magical way the words took on a life of their own sent chills up and down my spine.
I brought the corn husk to my lips and followed the lead of those around me by exhaling once to the sky, once facing forward, and once to the ground directly in front of me. At first my insecurity nearly prevented the words from escaping my lips, but when I notic
ed that my individual voice was hungrily swallowed up by the prayer ocean cresting around me, for the first time in my life I was able to confidently express myself in prayer.
“Please give Martika the strength to heal her past, and kindly support each of her children with love and forgiveness for their mother.”
Soon the energy in the room began to shift dramatically. Whereas at first the prayers were all swirling together with a single purpose, the intentions quickly diverged, and the sound and energy metamorphosed into something decidedly more dissonant. The decibel level jumped several points, and I found it almost impossible to tolerate the roar of so many people all praying at the top of their lungs.
I strained to eavesdrop through the cacophony and discovered that Martika was no longer the singular subject of the prayers—everyone had begun to pray for themselves and their families. It was as if the prayers for Martika were almost a polite overture, and once everyone began to pray for themselves, the tone became much more desperate and insistent.
My thoughts turned to Madisyn and the difficulties she’d had with the pregnancy. I still hadn’t recovered from witnessing how physically violent the miscarriage had been, let alone dealt with the emotional and spiritual wounds inflicted by Autumn when she didn’t follow through with the pregnancy.
I closed my eyes tightly and concentrated on my love for Madisyn before my next prayer commenced.
“Please be with my wife during the next few months and give her the confidence to get pregnant again. Give her the strength to conceive a healthy baby and the stamina to support it through a full term. I understand that the miscarriage was perfect in the divine plan of the universe, but I humbly ask for compassion to allow us to be able to bring our baby into the world without any further complications.
“For Autumn … I pray for you. For your ability to feel safe and wanted, and to come through your mother, Madisyn, into this world so we can all be together as a family. We love you dearly and don’t blame you for anything that happened before. I apologize that you have had to wait so long for us to prepare for your arrival. We’ve had many experiences in this lifetime that have made us better people, and we are ready for you now. We have no doubts, and I promise you will be cared for deeply. You are our daughter, and we will love you forever.” It was difficult to pray for Autumn, but once I did so, a burden that I had been unaware I was carrying was released. A deep sadness had lodged itself within the back of my throat during the miscarriage, and the prayer had exposed it by allowing it to finally be felt. It wasn’t completely gone, but by acknowledging the wound I’d been oblivious to, I sensed that healing was finally able to commence.