by Scott Blum
“And for myself, I pray that this ceremony will connect me with my heritage and give me a purpose and sense of being within my family line. I pray that the medicine will be kind and teach me what I need to know to be a better person and to prepare myself for the journey of fatherhood.”
The voices in the tipi slowly began to fade as everyone finished their prayers. A collective sense of relief filled the tipi, and everyone seemed several years younger after their burdens had been lifted. It was as if we had all taken a psychic bath and were now thoroughly clean and refreshed.
After the last person had finished praying, we sat in silence for several minutes without moving. There was a palpable sense of release that accompanied the silence, and I felt my entire body relax, after being able to hear my own breath again.
Out of the corner of my eye I noticed Keyan beginning to stir, and when I turned my gaze toward him, I could see that he had placed his drum on the ground between his crossed legs. He then passed a handmade rattle to Uncle Wayne and watched intently as the Road Man turned it in his hands to carefully examine the gourd attached to the hand-carved wooden handle.
All eyes were fixed on the rattle, and everyone collectively held their breath while he waved it over Father Peyote as if it were a magic wand. The feathers hanging from the rattle softly kissed the sacred button, and once the Road Man seemed satisfied that the rattle and the cactus had been properly introduced, he sat upright and began to shake the instrument intently.
Schk, schk, schk, schk, schk, schk, schk …
The rattle punctuated the silence with an insistent rhythm that commanded our full attention. The Road Man shook it with little variation for nearly a minute before Keyan joined in with the water drum I had watched him reconstruct outside.
Puhm, puhm, puhm, puhm, puhm, puhm, puhm …
The drum’s rhythm was nearly identical to the rattle’s, although with its more forceful tone, I could feel it deep within my core, and my own heartbeat gradually sped up to keep time.
Uncle Wayne began to sing with a gravelly voice that had more in common with Delta blues vocalists than the traditional Native American musicians I’d been exposed to previously. The soulful melody floated over the top of the repetitive percussion in a way that seemed almost disconnected from the supporting beats. I’d never heard music sung with such unusual intonation before, and at first I found it quite difficult to follow.
The Road Man kept repeating the lyrics until he ended up satisfying some internal rule that wasn’t obvious to me. Once the rattle ceased to shake, Keyan quickly tipped the drum on its side and struck the stretched skin with his handcarved stick. As the water inside the drum sloshed, the pitch slid around in a manner more akin to a trombone than a percussive instrument.
The Road Man handed the rattle to Stefan, who was sitting on the opposite side of Keyan. He held the rattle still with both hands in a prayer position, and then without warning began to shake it with a fervor similar to that exhibited by Uncle Wayne. Within moments, he too began to sing, although his voice didn’t have the same intensity.
Once the first verse had concluded, nearly every person in the tipi confidently chorused the second even though it was in a language that didn’t resemble any I was familiar with.
The rattle continued to be passed from one person to the next, each of whom took the liberty of leading the entire tipi in song. Thankfully, Martika handed it over without singing, which made it easier for me to do the same. I wanted to take the time to examine the rattle’s artistic beauty, but I was afraid that Keyan would begin drumming and everyone would wait for me to sing. Therefore, the rattle remained in my hands for no longer than a few seconds before I carefully presented it to the person on my left.
As more songs were performed, I started to feel comfortable joining the chorus to echo the lyrics as best I could. The unusual songs began to sound much more natural, and after a while my ears opened up and I was able to fully appreciate the music’s perfect beauty. I then surrendered to the spirit of the ancient sounds, which gracefully prepared me for whatever would happen next.
Once the rattle had completed its first journey around the circumference of the tipi, the Road Man gently placed it on the ground next to a small wooden box, which he’d been blessing with an eagle feather. After waving the feather above the box one last time, he unhinged the top and removed a small clay pot and cradled it in his hand.
He then retrieved a generous pinch of the container’s mysterious contents and placed it in his mouth.
“That’s the medicine,” whispered Martika.
“It’s been dried and shredded.”
I nodded, and watched him take a second and third helping before passing the ceramic vessel on to Keyan. He, too, consumed three portions and passed it to his left before bringing his drum into position.
The percussion resumed, and the Road Man once again led the group in song. However, instead of looking at the attendees while singing, he concentrated on Father Peyote and serenaded the small cactus button with all his might.
I wasn’t able to take my eyes off of the clay pot as it gradually made its way around the tipi, each person reverently consuming between one and three generous helpings of the shredded peyote. By the time it was only three people away from me, I was beside myself with apprehension and felt like I’d made a grave mistake in attending.
Martika noticed my panic attack and held my hand gently while smiling supportively.
“You can pass the medicine if you want,” she whispered. “You don’t need to have any.”
I nodded, considering her words. She was right. There was nothing wrong with not taking the peyote. I would still benefit from the prayers and rituals of the ceremony.
Soon the clay pot was in Martika’s hands. I watched carefully as she took a minuscule pinch of the tealike medicine. She swallowed hard, making it obvious that she didn’t like the taste at all. Bowing her head, she then ceremoniously handed me the red ceramic dish with both hands.
My nervousness evaporated once the vessel of shredded peyote was in my hands. I was immediately calmed by it, and I held it for several seconds while deciding what to do. Just as I was about to pass the clay pot onward, I heard a familiar voice echo in my head.
You are here for the medicine.
It took me a moment to register who was speaking. I recognized the voice of my Cherokee great-grandfather, who had helped guide me through many adventures during my spiritual awakening. I knew that if he was with me, I could handle anything.
With my actions entirely disconnected from my conscious mind, I watched myself dip my thumb and forefinger into the clay pot and remove a small pinch of peyote. I brought it to my mouth and let it fall onto my tongue. It had a grainy consistency and a distinctive taste that could only be described as salty ash. Surprisingly, it didn’t repulse me, as it had seemed to do Martika; and while I was chewing, I discovered that I unexpectedly enjoyed its intense, musty flavor. Something about it was unusual and intriguing. But the thing that was most remarkable was the indescribable feeling of familiarity that the grainy cactus elicited. There was something deep in my soul’s memory that was very familiar with the taste in my mouth.
I passed the clay pot to the person on my left and patiently waited for the effects of the peyote to overtake me. I didn’t know exactly what to expect, but I guessed it would be similar to the feeling I’d had in the past when my soul had left my body to visit the spirit world. I purposely didn’t research the effects before attending the meeting because I didn’t want to have any preconceived notions that might influence the experience.
By the time the medicine vessel had returned to Uncle Wayne, I still wasn’t feeling any sensation that could qualify as resulting directly from the peyote. Looking around, it seemed that many people were starting to feel the effects, as evinced by closed eyes and swaying torsos. I didn’t know how long it was supposed to take, and the only way I was able to mark the passage of time was when another person took the
rattle and commenced singing from the voluminous peyote songbook.
I decided to close my eyes and see if I could coax the desired effect by concentrating on disconnecting my soul from my body. It was a skill I had learned at a very young age and could usually summon up quite easily. However, at that moment it was nearly impossible to disconnect, as it felt like a force would pull me back into my body every time I tried to float away. I had never experienced so much resistance before, and began to get frustrated. I concluded that I probably hadn’t taken enough peyote, and I finally decided to wait patiently for everyone else’s experience to end.
When I opened my eyes, I was disappointed to find that nothing had changed. I wasn’t having an otherworldly experience—in fact, quite the opposite. In that moment, the ground seemed so obviously mundane that even the ceremonial preparations could no longer cover up the undeniable fact that we were sitting on nothing more than garden-variety dirt. I began to feel sorry for the people surrounding me who were all buying into this sham of a spiritual practice. I’d been exposed to profound metaphysical experiences many times before, and this appeared to be no more than a group of well-intentioned lemmings thinking good thoughts while ingesting mind-altering substances. Perhaps the ceremony had first originated from a genuine tradition, but on this night it felt no more profound than watching a Saturdaymorning cartoon.
Then a plaintive voice with a thick Native American accent emerged from the incessant drumming and spoke to me directly.
You are one of them.
For some reason these words annoyed me, and I quickly turned around to confront the person who had spoken them. My nose nearly made contact with the canvas wall—clearly there was no room for anyone behind me. I looked in vain for where the voice might have come from and discovered that nobody had moved an inch. Once I realized that the sound wasn’t corporeal in origin, I assumed it must have come from my greatgrandfather. But when it spoke again, I realized that the voice was entirely unfamiliar.
You must remain on the soil.
Without skipping a beat, I found myself urgently explaining to the voice in my head why I intended to commune with the spirit world. I told him that one of my gifts was to be able to travel to other worlds and that I needed to speak with my unborn daughter to make her feel comfortable about making the journey to this planet. And that I was hoping that the medicine would help me be with her.
I am helping.
How do you expect your child to feel at peace with this earth if you can’t remain here yourself? Children look to their parents for guidance and support by watching their actions. If you want your child to come into this world, you must remain here yourself.
You must remain on the soil.
These wise words profoundly humbled me, and I felt ashamed that I had doubted the integrity of the ceremony. The medicine was right. If I wanted Autumn to be born on this planet, I needed to invite her to where I was living.
It was time to begin acting like a parent, not a friend.
Suddenly the music stopped, and I couldn’t help feeling that someone was looking at me. When I turned to my right, I found Martika staring at me intently.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“Uh-huh.” I didn’t know how to begin to explain what had just happened, but it was comforting to see her smile.
“It’s almost midnight—they just brought in the water. Are you thirsty?”
I nodded, realizing that I was indeed dehydrated. I had a severe case of peyote mouth, and my saliva had formed a gummy mush that made it difficult to swallow.
She handed me a galvanized pail, which sloshed with water as I placed it between my crossed legs. I dipped the stainless-steel ladle into the bucket and brought it to my lips, careful not to spill any on myself. The first mouthful of ice-cold water evaporated on contact with my sandpaper tongue. After the third drink, the water finally made it to the back of my throat and all the way down to my stomach. I eventually forced myself to stop drinking, after noticing there wasn’t much water left for the rest of the people in the tipi.
After everyone had rehydrated themselves with the modest ration of water, the drumming resumed in force, as did another round of passionate chanting. Although I couldn’t be certain, I still wasn’t able to pick out a repeated song, and I was impressed with the sheer volume of lyrics that nearly everyone seemed to know by heart.
By the time the second round of peyote was circulating, my left leg had fallen hopelessly asleep. I was used to being in bed by midnight, and evidently my leg hadn’t received the memo that we were staying up all night. After helping myself to a much larger pinch of the salty ash than the first time, I slowly began to massage my leg back into consciousness. My foot was the first to stir, but it wasn’t pleased to be interrupted from its slumber. It punished me by stabbing my arch with hundreds of imaginary needles that felt excruciatingly painful with the slightest movement.
Thankfully, I was able to coax my leg back to normal by sitting “sidesaddle” while once again waiting for the medicine to take effect.
I repeatedly found myself staring into the fire and watching as the flames danced to the rhythm of the water drum. The fire surged and fell with the beat, and periodically contributed its own voice by crackling precisely in time with the music.
When Uncle Wayne began to lead us in song again, he shook the rattle with such intensity that I thought the head of the shaker would fly off. Veins protruded from his neck, and his eyes were fixed intently on the fire in the center of the tipi.
There was also a tone of desperation and urgency in his voice that was frighteningly intense. It was almost as if he were trying to summon the very soul of the fire to reveal itself and walk among us.
As I returned my gaze to the fire, it appeared as if he’d been successful in enticing it to burn with much more of a frenzy than it had before. The flames licked the air with such determination that I wondered if they would reach the sloping walls of the tipi and ignite our shelter.
Then I saw the first one.
A misty figure emerged from the flames and floated briefly above the blaze before disappearing into the air. It was vaguely human in form, yet it resembled an infant more than a grown adult. At first I thought I had imagined it, but as I continued to gaze into the embers, another figure emerged and again floated a few feet from the fire before fading away.
The Road Man continued his intense engagement, and the more I watched, the more it seemed obvious that he was the one responsible for extracting the spirits from the flames. Every time a new one would reveal itself, he would flinch slightly and gesture with his free hand in the direction of the ethereal shapes.
After a while several of the spirits had still not disappeared, and instead remained inside the tipi, hovering in the space above our heads and curling into the fetal position, as if the tipi had transformed into a giant uterus. They kept emerging from the fire until there were at least two or three spirits for each corporeal attendee. Before long the tipi was filled with all the spirit babies that had arrived.
As I looked around, it seemed as if everyone besides me and Uncle Wayne were oblivious to our guests.
Suddenly, the Road Man stopped singing and rested the rattle on the ground in front of him. He gazed up at the floating “nursery” and then stared intensely into Martika’s eyes before speaking.
“My niece Martika brought four babies into this world.”
Martika gulped nervously.
“But only two remain here. Her two other children were taken by her own hand. They call it abortion. But the babies don’t understand. The babies are confused. So the babies haunt their brother and sister. The brother and sister have difficult lives. Because they live for the babies who cannot live for themselves.”
His harsh words shocked me.
I had always felt that a woman should be able to make any choice regarding her own body, and it was disconcerting to be confronted with the assertion that a baby’s soul might not understand what happened
as a result of such a difficult decision. This realization reinforced my belief that medical care needed to get better at taking a holistic view of healing in order to treat not only the body, but the soul as well. In some ways it seemed like the indigenous cultures were substantially ahead of Western medicine in this regard, and it was fascinating to witness firsthand.
“Tonight we release the two babies,” Uncle Wayne continued. “They travel back to spirit world. They belong in spirit world. Let brother and sister live here in peace.”
The Road Man uttered a barely audible prayer under his breath while rolling a large ball of peyote between his palms. He then placed the medicine in his mouth and swallowed it whole without flinching. He continued to pray as he rolled a slightly smaller-sized ball for Martika. When it was passed to my friend, she stared at it suspiciously for several seconds before taking a small bite out of it, as if it were a miniature apple. It took her three tiny bites to finish the brownish ball of dried cactus, and when she was done, she thirstily downed the small jar of water that was handed to her.
“Martika,” Uncle Wayne spoke again, “you explain to first baby why you didn’t want baby here.”
I heard a gasp from nearly everyone in the tipi, and I stared at Uncle Wayne in disbelief. I was shocked by what he was asking my friend to do.