"Shh, I’ve been looking for you, too, but now I’ve found you. We'll be together forever and ever," the voice sighed.
The light around Timmy grew dim, dimmer, until it faded away completely. And along with it, the boy named Timmy. Peace seemed to float on the wind.
I hugged my son tighter and stroked his head. "Come on, let's go home."
We stood and walked hand in hand, past the headstones. I turned and looked while the moonlight shone like a spotlight on one of the stones.
It was carved to look like a tree whose top had been broken off. In the hollow of the tree, a carved bird nested. One limb jutted out from the broken trunk and around the limb was carved a rope, like a rope swing. It wound around the trunk, and carved into the trunk's base, was a wooden seat. On the seat was carved—Our Beloved Son, Timmy, 1880-1888.
Spirit of the Prairie
R.J. Baxter stood on the bluff overlooking the waving prairie grass and cursed fate. A reporter for THE NEWS COURIER in Michael's Creek, South Dakota, her editor had sent her out to do yet another "fluff" story. The opening of a cultural/youth center on the jerkwater reservation stretching out before her.
She'd done her research. She knew all about the "lost generation" of Native American children—children that had been rounded up back in the 40's and carted off to schools run by white missionaries. It had been an attempt at forced assimilation into the white culture and had failed. Its victims were left with feelings of not belonging to either society. When they finally were allowed to return to their people, they knew nothing of their heritage or language. Alcoholism ran rampant. Now their grandchildren were trying to change all that by instilling pride in the next generation and the new cultural center was the means.
R.J. didn't need another human interest story. She needed a juicy murder, a natural disaster, a political scandal—anything to get her out of the bush leagues and bring her work to the attention of a major newspaper. She had talent, but it was wasted writing endless stories about church bazaars and one candidate elections whose outcome was long decided before the first vote was ever cast.
Ambition sizzled through her as she looked to the heavens and raised her fist. "Give me something, anything," she cried to the endless stretch of sky.
A crack of thunder drew her attention to the far horizon. Boiling clouds rolled across the prairie as lighting flashed sideways. If she didn't get back to town and the motel that she'd spotted nestled amid the pawn shops, the bars, and the convenience stores, she'd be caught in the rain storm.
With a hurried step, she turned then paused. Her scalp tingled. Someone watched her. Whirling, she searched the landscape. Nothing. Empty except for a lone pine tree to the right of the bluff.
Suddenly its branches trembled, and a huge white owl emerged from behind the thick needles. Unblinking yellow eyes glowed across the distance. Seconds ticked by as it stared at R.J., then with a screech, it lifted its massive wings and launched itself skyward. The storm forgotten, R.J. watched while it soared higher and higher, becoming smaller and smaller, until it disappeared completely into the dark clouds. Shaking herself out of it, she rushed to her Jeep and sped off down the road while the clouds chased after her.
When she reached the town sitting at the edge of the reservation, she whipped into the only motel in sight, bouncing across its empty parking lot. Not the best place she'd ever stayed. The neon sign flickered hypnotically—on and off, on and off, on and off. The doors to each unit looked like they'd recently received a coat of new red paint, but the rest of the building was faded and peeling. With a shrug, R.J. grabbed her purse and ran into the motel office.
A young man sat at an old desk located behind the counter. Holding some kind of computer game in his hand, at first he was oblivious to R.J.. When he did notice her, a flare of expectation lit his face only to die instantly.
"What do you want?" he asked in a surly voice, taking in her dark brown hair and brown eyes.
"A room, please," she replied, approaching the counter.
With a frown, he returned his attention his game. "We're full," he said while his thumbs moved quickly over the keyboard.
Smacking her purse on the counter, R.J. leaned forward. "Then where are all the cars?"
"Sorry."
Great, the storm was almost upon them—the kid wasn't going to rent her a room. What did she do now?
She hadn't reached a decision when a door at the back of the tiny office opened. An older man strode out. He took one look at the kid, one at R.J., then noticed her Jeep visible through the office windows. His hand shot out and he gave the kid a whap on the back of his head.
"Put that thing away," he said, glaring down at the young man. "Can't you see we have a customer?"
"But Gramps, you said not to rent rooms to—"
Another whomp to the kid's head silenced him. "You idiot. They don't drive Jeeps with out-of-county plates." The man looked at R.J. and gave her a toothy grin. "Sorry about my grandson," he said, sidling up to the counter. "He'd rather be playing that damn game than doin' what he's paid for. Go fold those towels in the back room," he called sharply over his shoulder.
Without a word, the teen stood and shambled out the back door.
"Need a room, Missy?" the older man asked hopefully.
R.J. thought about telling him he could take his rude grandson and his seedy motel and shove it, but another crack of thunder changed her mind. The idea of searching for another motel during a deluge was less appealing than staying here.
"Yes," she replied, pulling out her driver's license and credit card.
The man studied it, comparing the picture to R.J. "Ruth Baxter from Michael's Creek, hey?"
"Actually, I go by 'R.J.'" She picked up a pen and read the form. "I'll need it for at least three nights, maybe more."
Avarice shone in the man's eyes. "Three nights?" He swiftly ran her card and handed it back to her. "What are you doin' in this neck of the woods for three nights?"
"I'm a reporter," she said quickly, filling out the form.
"A reporter, huh? What's around these parts worth reportin' on?"
Man, this guy was chatty. But what could it hurt letting him know why she was here?
With a sigh, she handed him her registration. "The new cultural center."
A frown crossed his face. "Yeah? Would've been better for everyone if old Jon Swifthawk and that grandson of his would've left well enough alone and let them build a casino."
Her reporter's curiosity perked. "A casino?"
"Yup. A casino would've brought a lot more tourists than some ratty cultural center. But oh no, Swifthawk had to convince the Council that gambling would only corrupt the young." He gave a mean snort. "Like they need any—" He suddenly broke off and handed her a key. "Number nine, the one clear at the end." His eye twitched in a wink. "That way you won't be bothered by all the comin' and goin' next door."
She wasn't interested in the bar in the next building, whose parking lot, unlike that of the motel, was full. No, she wanted to hear more about Jon Swifthawk. Taking the key, she glanced down at it, before giving the man a speculative look. "Tell me more about this Jon Swifthawk? Is he someone important?"
"Humph, thinks he is," he exclaimed, "And his grandson. If you ask me..." He paused and a look akin to fear crossed his face. "Hey wait a second—you're not goin', quote me are you?"
"Not if you don't want me to," R.J assured him. "You were saying—Jon Swifthawk's grandson?"
He turned away from the counter and crossed back to the rickety desk. "Never mind. None of my business about what goes on out there," he said firmly. "Enjoy you stay."
Giving up on quizzing him further, she hurried out the door and to her Jeep. She had just parked in front of her room when the first raindrops hit. She reached in the back seat, jerked out her lap top, and ran to the door. Once inside, she placed the lap top on the small desk and flipped on the light. Her heart dropped. This was worse than she'd expected.
The room smelled must
y and unused, and the floor was carpeted wall to wall in avocado green. Several suspicious dark stains stood out against the putrid color. R.J. refused to let her mind contemplate what might have caused them. A mismatched bedspread was flung across what looked like a very uncomfortable mattress. Above it hung a reproduction of some Frederick Remington print. If the picture had been meant to give the room a touch of class, it had failed miserably. Cheapened by the rest of the décor, it only looked sad.
With a shudder, R.J. crossed the room to take a look at the bathroom. A stool, a shower, a sink in a vanity scarred by cigarette burns.
"Won't be any chocolate mints on the pillow in this dive," she muttered to herself.
The sudden ring of her cell phone startled her. Crossing to the bed, she pulled it out of her bag. Her lips twisted in a frown. Mom. With a sigh, she flipped it open.
"Hi."
"Where are you?" her mother asked without preamble.
"I explained last week," she answered, trying to hide her exasperation. "I've been assigned to write a story about—"
Her mother broke in. "You're going to be home in time for your sister's baby shower, aren't you?"
"I'll try."
"Trying isn't good enough. You know how important this is to Dee." Her voice took on a distinctive whine. "Do you realize how disappointed she'll be if you're not there? And the neighbors? What will they think if—" She stopped. "What did you say?"
"Nothing," R.J. mumbled into the phone. The truth was Dee could care less if she attended her shower, and R.J. had inadvertently said as much, but thankfully her mother had been too busy with her rant to catch it.
Her mother sniffed. "Well, I expect you to be there. Your aunts have gone to a lot of trouble organizing this. You should've helped, but you were too busy."
R.J. rolled her eyes. "Look, Mom, I have a life and a job. I can't drop everything just because Dee's—"
Her mother didn't let her finish. "We'll expect you at two on Saturday."
"Mom," she began, but her mother had disconnected.
She looked at the silent phone in her hand. "Nice talking to you, too, Mom," she said, tossing it on the bed.
One of these days, when she finally had the chance to show what she could do, maybe it wouldn't be "Dee, Dee, Dee" all the time. Her mother would be proud of her, too.
A loud boom reminded her of her suitcase, still out in the Jeep. Crossing to the door, R.J. flung it open and was immediately hit in the face by raindrops, sharp as needles. She winced as she darted into the storm. By the time she'd retrieved her suitcase and hauled through the door, she was soaked. Wiping the water out of her eyes, she turned to shut the door.
It was half closed when she heard the noise.
Somewhere, above the sound of the pounding rain...an owl hooted in the night.
*
The old man stood in the protection of the lean-to while his eyes roamed the storm tossed sky. Wind whipped at his braids and water poured down in a curtain from the sloped tin roof. Finally he sensed what he'd sought. Stepping out of his shelter into the rain, he extended a leather covered arm and braced himself. The weight of the bird landing made him stumble as sharp talons clung to his arm. With a quick movement that belied his age, he swung around and ducked back under the cover of the roof.
The bird, spotting his perch, leapt with a flutter from the old man's arm and settled himself. Spreading his immense wings, he ruffled his feathers and shook. Droplets of water flew while his yellow eyes focused on the old man.
Tsking, the old man picked up a towel and gently dried the bird's white feathers. "I worried for you," he mumbled softly, dropping the towel.
The owl, his eyes never leaving the old man's face, bobbed his head twice in response.
With perfect understanding, the old man sighed and glanced back into the storm.
"Ah, it is as I feared," he whispered.
*
A chant to welcome the morning sun rang through the meadow. Two voices—one young; one old—melded together in an ancient rhythm while the sky lightened first to gray; to rose; to pink shot with gold. A breeze, sweet from last night's rain, blew around them and made the cottonwoods shiver.
The younger man's heart filled with peace. Tipping his head back, he closed his eyes and lifted his arms high. His voice rose, almost drowning out that of his grandfather. Then as the warmth of the first rays touched his face, he let his voice slowly fade. Opening his eyes, he saw Jon Swifthawk watching him. With a smile, his grandfather placed a hand, almost in a benediction, on his grandson’s auburn hair. Pride shone in the old man's eyes.
"Come, Akecheta," his grandfather said, calling him by the name his grandfather preferred.
Throwing an arm around the old man's shoulders, they walked together toward the lean-to.
Jon went directly to his workbench, and removing the cover, looked lovingly at his tools in their neat, straight line. Picking up a twist of sage, he lit it, and one by one, smudged each tool and a long piece of cedar before sitting on the battered work stool. Taking up a whittling knife, he slowly stroked it down the wood that would become the stem of a sacred pipe.
Akecheta leaned against a post and found comfort in watching his grandfather's still strong hands slice away slivers of cedar. He'd been only fourteen and suddenly alone when this man had given him a home.
A cold spot formed in the pit of his stomach as he remembered those days and the terror he'd felt on the bus ride from Las Vegas to South Dakota. Just a kid, stepping into a culture he knew little about and into the arms of a man he'd never met.
"Disturbing thoughts serve no purpose, Grandson," his grandfather said without lifting his head.
Pushing away from the post, he shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans. "I was just thinking about Mom and—"
"We don't speak of them," his grandfather said, cutting him off.
His grandfather's insistence at not mentioning the dead irritated him. He could never share the good memories of his childhood—his mother's shy smile so different from his father's boisterous ways. He didn't know if his grandfather clung to the old custom out of belief, or because his grandfather had hated the man who'd lured his beloved daughter, Dawn, away from her people and into the white world. Either way, it left him feeling that a large part of his life was locked away. A life his grandfather wanted to pretend never existed.
Turning from his grandfather, he stepped off the lean to and walked a short distance into the clearing. Over the past twenty years, he'd grown to love his grandfather and this land. As his eyes roamed the clearing, he thought of another land, another clearing. Eleven years ago. Not dappled with early morning sunlight like where he stood now. No, it had been scarred with freshly overturned dirt. His heart lurched at the memory of that mass grave and its victims. Dozens of bodies dumped without ceremony. Clenching his jaws, a feral smile twisted his lips. The men responsible had paid. He'd used his talent to hunt them down and—suddenly his grandfather's voice broke into his thoughts.
"Excuse me?" he said, returning to the lean to.
His grandfather had placed his tools back on the bench and sat watching him intently. "It's not good. The reporter; the white woman," he said, almost choking on the word white.
Akecheta tugged the thin streak of white hair at his temple in frustration. "We've been over this, Grandfather. I know you don't want her here, or the tourists her story will bring, but we need them if the center's going to pay its own way."
A grunt answered him.
Grabbing a broom, Akecheta carefully swept up the wood shavings to be used later as kindling for the fire. "The gift shop will bring revenue to the tribe," he said, making the same argument he'd made a hundred times. "Our people can sell their crafts there instead of peddling them along the road, or worse, in town next to the bars."
His grandfather's mouth tightened in a stubborn line. "Nothing good has ever come from the whites."
The words 'what about me?' almost popped out of his mouth, but respe
ct for his grandfather stopped them. Placing the broom against the wall, he knelt before him. "Would a casino have been better? At least the center will educate our young. Give them a place to go and celebrate our culture."
His grandfather shook his head sadly. "She brings trouble."
"We've trouble already." His gaze drifted toward the empty perch above his grandfather's head. "But we'll be warned in time."
"They'll use her against you."
"I won't let them," he answered.
Cupping Akecheta's face, the old man stared into his amber eyes. "I don't know if you can stop them."
*
R.J.'s tires spun as she hit the gravel in the Center's parking lot. Man, she was late. If some jerk hadn't let the air out of her back tires, she'd have been on time. Coming to a sliding halt in a cloud of dust, she noticed a man pacing back and forth in front of the new building.
Tall with auburn hair, his light blue chambray shirt clung to wide shoulders and his jeans fit his legs like a second skin. He looked like he'd be more at home on a horse than a place dedicated to Native Americans.
Spotting the Jeep, the man scowled and started down the stone path toward her. Had he been waiting for her?
R.J.'s interest kicked up a notch. With an attractive man like him hanging around, being stuck out here in the boonies for the next few days wouldn't be so bad after all. She quickly glanced in the mirror and fluffed her hair. She needed a little more lip gloss, but swiping some on would be too obvious. Grabbing her backpack, she slung her camera around her neck, but before she could open her door, the cowboy beat her to it.
"Hey, cowboy, are you waiting for me?" she said flirtatiously, giving him a wide eyed look and a flash of her dimples.
The dimples didn't work. The cowboy's scowl deepened.
"R.J. Baxter?" the man asked in a brusque voice, "you're late."
"Sorry." Defeated, her smile faded as she jumped out of the Jeep as the man turned, and with long strides, headed back up the path. She ran to catch up with him. "Somebody let the air—"
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