“Cody! What is going on!” His wife startled him, shaking his legs where they stuck out of the crawl space.
“Call the tribal police—right now!” he cried. Then he lay in that entrance for half an hour until the police arrived. If he took his eyes off the creature’s remains, he feared it might come back to life. He did not dare crawl under to retrieve it.
After the police gathered the remains, they dumped them on the hood of the squad car.
“Stuffing, hair, and cedar wood,” said the officer, shaking his head as he sifted through it. “Is this some kind of joke, Cody?”
“No, sir!” Cody held out his shredded pant leg. “I didn’t do this to myself!”
The officer went on: “Looks like it was a cedar-and-fur doll. The stuffing looks like cattail fibers, something the old-timers used to stuff their quilts and pillows with—also their dolls.”
The officer held up a sharp triangular piece mixed into the mess of stuffing. It appeared to be a sharpened shell—and there were several. Then he spoke.
“This is a doll—or it once was. You don’t need cops, Cody. You need a medicine man.”
A couple of days later, Cody entered the medicine man’s home. He placed the remains, now securely wrapped in cloth and tied with a leather lace into a bundle, on the table. Sitting around it were several elders, all holding canes ornately carved with symbols unique to their clans and families. One by one the elders spoke in their native tongue. They never opened the bundle. Most appeared to not even look at it. Then they asked Cody to leave the room while they disarmed the powers of the doll.
When they called Cody back in, the elder at the head of the table spoke, now in English. He told Cody he and his family were safe.
“This being was not intended for or against you.” He looked gravely at Cody. “It was created over a hundred years ago for someone else.”
“However”—the elder began to unwrap the bundle—“somehow this being has survived, most likely because its reason for being created was never completed.”
Cody’s eyes were wide as he listened.
Then the elder’s voice lowered. “We know the story of this one. It was sent by a medicine man to kill your wife’s great-grandfather. But her great-grandfather was a powerful medicine man. He understood evil spirits, and he captured the doll before it did him any harm. Then, because these spirits cannot be killed, he had to contain it inside a living thing.”
“What kind of living thing?” asked Cody.
“First, he placed the doll into a deep sleep and tied it up. Next, he wrapped three young cottonwood trees around it, tied them tightly together, and buried the bundle. As the trees grew up around the doll, they contained it.”
Slowly the elder finished unwrapping Cody’s bundle. There the thing lay. Cody gasped. It had completely restored itself.
It was hideous, a horrific long face carved in cedar with hair of black fur and eyes made of shiny black shells. Its leather body also was covered in black fur. Bear claws lined its feet, and falcon talons stuck from its arms instead of hands. Most terrifying was its mouthful of sharpened shells.
“The doll should have eventually rotted inside the roots of the cottonwood,” said the elder. “Then its life force would have passed into the tree and it could never harm a human again.”
In a sickening flash, Cody remembered the bulldozed tree with three roots he saw the evening before.
“Instead,” said the elder, “it escaped.”
Cody asked frantically, “Is the doll dead now?”
“It was trying to heal itself and come back alive,” said the elder. “But we have put it to sleep for now and we will contain it—this time for good. See: It’s already starting to rot, and it can no longer harm you or your family. You may go home now.”
Cody watched as the elders pushed themselves up on their canes and started to leave the table. With a sigh of relief, he took one last look at the partly decayed body, then turned to go.
In that second, its mouth opened.
The Garage Sale
TOLD BY VERNANDRIA LIVINGSTON, NAVAJO, NEW MEXICO
In the Navajo and many other American Indian tribes, custom holds that when a person dies, their clothes must not be sold or given away. They must be burned. Otherwise the person’s spirit will continue to live in the clothes and he or she can never move on to the next life. But what if a person is still living and their clothes are sold or given away? That person’s spirit still clings to the clothes. If the clothes end up in the wrong person’s hands, they may be used for harm. I was just five years old when I learned that important lesson.
My family was having a garage sale at our home in Gallup, New Mexico, on the Navajo Reservation. It was a nice day for spring cleaning, and my parents were selling some of the toys I’d outgrown. My mom and dad were also selling household items and clothes and shoes they didn’t want anymore.
A man I had never seen before came to the garage sale and spent a lot of time looking around. He seemed especially interested in my dad’s clothes. I watched as, one by one, he piled up the shirts, trousers, and shoes. He seemed very friendly and chatted with my parents. My mom said he was lucky to have found such a bargain. Then he bought all the clothes and left.
I thought this was strange. My dad was a tall, large man, and the man, who could have been from another tribe, was thinner and shorter. It looked as if the clothes would be too big for him. But maybe he was buying them for someone else. No one thought about it again.
Several days after the sale was over, my dad started having terrible dreams during the night. He could hardly sleep. When the family asked what they were about, he said that the things he saw in the dreams were too scary to tell anyone.
At the same time, other things were going wrong. Our car broke down and appliances in the house stopped working.
Soon sores started breaking out all over my dad’s body. They itched constantly. I was scared. My dad went to see the doctor, but after a full checkup and many tests, the doctor couldn’t find what was causing the sores. The doctor gave my dad some medicine to soothe the itching, and he went home. But the sores didn’t heal.
“Maybe we should go back to the hospital!” I heard my mom say one evening after watching my dad treat his sores.
“No,” said my dad quietly, shaking his head. “A doctor can’t help me.”
Instead of going to the hospital, he went to see a medicine man—a person who is taught to practice traditional medicine and ceremonies. The medicine man told him that his symptoms were not a coincidence. He asked about the man who had bought his clothes.
“Maybe it was someone from the yard sale—from another tribe,” my dad said. “Some time ago I had an argument with a person from that tribe—not necessarily the person at the yard sale. But I thought we had settled it and we were all on good terms.”
The medicine man asked for the details of the argument and my dad explained it. When he had finished, the medicine man nodded. Then he spoke.
“The person who bought your clothes is probably the one responsible for harming you,” he said. “It sounds as if he is still angry with you for something you said, and he used the clothes to practice dark magic—to get even.”
The medicine man continued: “He has put something on your land to hurt your family. Now we’ll find it and you will get better.” Then he prayed over our family to restore the beauty and harmony he saw had been misaligned.
The next day the medicine man came to our house. We followed him and watched from a distance as he walked slowly around to the back door. There he knelt down and pushed away a mound of dirt. From a shallow hole he pulled up a bundle of clothes. They had belonged to my father.
As the medicine man carefully unwrapped the bundle, he found that the clothes were tied around a large stone. The stone was carved with tiny images of our house and car and other family property—and an image of my dad. All the pictures showed some kind of damage or illness. Immediately we understood why we
had been going through hard times and why my dad had gotten sick.
The medicine man quietly turned to go, taking the bundle with him. He promised to destroy it.
Little by little, my dad felt better. Soon the sores disappeared, we fixed our house and car, and our family life went back to normal.
But I can’t forget. I have remained skeptical of who I can trust—and I learned from the medicine man that it is important to always be kind to other people, no matter who they are.
Besides, you don’t know what they’re capable of doing.
Exorcism of the Blood Bull Boy
TOLD BY DAN SASUWEH JONES, PONCA, VISITING THE BLACKFEET TRIBE, MONTANA
A Wild Spirit in nature is a form of energy that changes the spiritual and physical behavior of a being, perhaps an animal or human. Such energy can be good or harmful. Only skilled medicine people know how to direct a Wild Spirit. Medicine people are a revered kind of witch—some are very good, and direct a Wild Spirit to heal; some are very bad, and direct the spirit to be deadly. In the face of a harmful spirit, the greatest tool a good medicine person can use is love. It carries the most powerful protection in nature.
In my travels I found myself staying with a family of medicine people, traditional healers of the Blackfeet people. Old Man, as he was known, was the head of the family—a stunning old soul. He wore black every day—from his black hat down to his black boots—and he was very much respected. He was a traditional doctor who healed people with ancient methods using herbs and spiritual prayer. He knew things about nature and natural medicines that science and psychology have yet to recognize. When you looked into his eyes, you saw a universe.
Old Man and his wife, Agnes, lived on a small farm in the shadow of the far northern Rocky Mountains. Here, Blackfeet lands include Glacier National Park, called the Crown of the Continent, which includes some of the most breathtaking mountains in the world. The only way in was over a very precarious mountain crossing called Dangerous Trail.
It was Old Man’s son, Floyd, who brought me into his family. Everyone called Floyd Tiny Man. Studying under his father, Tiny Man was also an accomplished medicine man.
A whole world revolved around Tiny Man, Old Man, and Agnes. It wasn’t just the things we know of in our world. Theirs had another dimension—with spirits, witches, demons, fairies, heroes, and heroines all circling the family’s lives. After Tiny Man invited me to stay in the family compound, I became very close to Old Man. Even though he spoke only the Blackfeet language, I entered his world through translations made by Tiny Man.
For three days I had been watching the silver-haired Old Man keep vigil, going outside his cabin an hour before sunset and looking to the north. Always deep in silent prayer, he appeared to be expecting someone or something. What was Old Man waiting for?
On the morning of the fourth day, I was at the corral feeding and brushing the horses and watching Old Man from across the yard. He was in his early nineties, but you wouldn’t know it by the way he stood—tall and strong. Judging from his handshake, I’m sure he would beat me in an arm-wrestling contest.
On this clear morning, looking down into the valley, I saw a small red truck racing along the highway. At the entrance to the farm it slowed, then sped toward us up the dirt road, churning dust into clouds. That truck was in a hurry.
I watched as it screeched to a stop in front of the house, and from it unfolded two pretty large Indian men. I later learned they were from the Blood tribe and they had come from Alberta, Canada, to meet Old Man. There had been no phone calls, no letters; they simply showed up. But Old Man had known they were coming. He walked around the house to meet them. As they all conversed in Blackfeet, I watched from a distance, and I realized that this was what had been bothering Old Man. But what was “this” all about?
One man went to the back of the truck and pulled out a hindquarter of a very large animal—from its hoof I saw it was a moose. Then he pulled out another. It dawned on me that this was payment for the doctor— people asked Old Man to help heal them by offering food for his family. Things were starting to make sense, but neither of the men looked ill. Then they returned to their truck and left as fast as they had come.
Tiny Man came over to the corral and leaned against the rails. I wanted to blurt out, “What on earth is going on?” Instead, I remarked casually, “Those boys were in a hurry.”
“Yeah,” said Tiny Man, “they’re going to bring their younger brother here—hopefully before sunset.”
“Sunset?” I said. It sounded urgent. Whatever Tiny Man was about to tell me would be pretty intense. I bit my lip to stay calm. Tiny Man was nervous—not like him.
After a moment he spoke: “Their little brother has been possessed by a fierce Wild Spirit. The boy insulted a powerful medicine man they call Walking Bear Medicine. He ran away with the medicine man’s daughter.”
“Do you know this medicine man?” I asked.
Tiny Man nodded, serious. “He’s dangerous.” As he looked up at me, I could see he meant it. “The brothers told us that when the sun goes down, the boy turns into a bull. It takes four men to handle him because he becomes vicious. They tie him up to control him, but he rages and smashes things. This goes on all night. Come sunrise, he turns back into a human. This will be the fourth night and his family is frantic.”
Old Man had agreed to hold a ceremony to help the boy.
Later that afternoon the truck again approached the house. Behind it was a small van. Tiny Man and Old Man appeared on the front porch to greet them. Old Man was serious, but he wore a smile that had the power to brighten any situation—except maybe this one. Things were tense.
The boy’s family filed out of the van. Then I noticed the young man—the reason for the visit. He looked like any other young man. Slowly they all disappeared into the house.
Around four o’clock in the afternoon, the young man came out and walked around the yard. I kept my head down as I chopped firewood, not wanting to stare. Then, suddenly, I felt a presence and looked up. I started. He was standing directly in front of me.
“Hey, how are you?” I asked, trying to stay calm. He was just a boy really, yet his very presence chilled me. His eyes, bloodshot from lack of sleep, looked through me with a cold gaze that seemed to focus on something far away. As I took my tools back to the shed, he stood in silence at the chopping block, surrounded by something powerful and frightening that hung in the air. Relieved when one of his brothers took him back inside, I retreated to my lodge for a late coffee. My hands shook as I brought the cup to my lips.
It was getting toward sunset when Tiny Man knocked, and I invited him to have coffee before the ceremony started. No sooner had he sat than a loud thud from the main house shattered the calm. Then another.
Tiny Man shot for the door, and I began to follow. “Don’t!” he ordered. “It’s started. Stay away!”
Then I heard it. Crashing sounds like people being thrown off the walls. It was all I could do not to run into the house to help protect the old people. But I could not tamper with Old Man’s medicine. The crashing continued into the night. From inside my lodge, I could clearly hear Old Man and Agnes praying loudly and singing native songs. The drum seemed to calm the loud snorting and calls that only a bull could make. All night long it sounded like one big fight going on in that small house. I paced around in a circle. What if he escaped? Could I handle him? He was just a boy, wasn’t he? Then I thought again: Maybe not.
Gradually the thumping against the walls and crash of objects slowed, then stopped. In the air around the house you could feel that a huge burden had been lifted.
After an hour, Tiny Man came out with the family. The boy still looked like any young man, but something was different. His eyes were clear, his gaze direct, his manner calm.
As the truck and van headed back down the road, Old Man and Agnes stood at the door. They looked tired, but Old Man’s smile said that everything was fine. Later, an exhausted Tiny Man came to share the story.
“It was the worst case of a Wild Spirit possession I have ever experienced,” he said. “Walking Bear Medicine was so angry with the young man for running away with his daughter that he sent a Wild Spirit of a bull into the boy,” explained Tiny Man. “He did it in a clever way, knowing that the young man would listen to the girl he loved. First, Walking Bear Medicine tricked his daughter into telling the young man the story of a boy who had turned into a bull. Then he gave her a charm, carved into the shape of a bull, to pass on to the young man. The young man listened carefully to his love and accepted her gift. Gradually he was so filled with the spirit of the bull that he became one.
“Each night as the sun set the boy’s face swelled, his nostrils flared, and his eyes turned into black orbs. He grunted and made deep, in- human sounds that vibrated in your chest. He flew into a blind rage, and all his brothers and uncles could barely hold him down. He was no longer the boy but the spirit of the bull. Each morning he returned to himself, but his family knew that one day soon he would not come back.”
I was silent for a while, taking it in. “How did Old Man get rid of the spirit?” I finally asked.
Tiny Man looked at me knowingly. I could tell this was a secret he couldn’t share. “All I can tell you is that Walking Bear’s medicine is evil and it represents hate and fear. Old Man’s medicine is good. It is filled with love, and in the end, love is stronger than hate.”
The Lost Hunters and the Skudakumooch’
A TRADITIONAL MALISEET TALE, TOLD BY MRS. SOLOMON, MALISEET, NORTHEASTERN CANADA
An undead ghost-witch called Skudakumooch’ (skuh-deh-guh-mooch) haunts tales of the Maliseet, Micmac, Passamaquoddy, and Abenaki (the Wabanaki tribes) of northeastern Canada and the United States. Skudakumooch’ comes alive after an evil shaman—a kind of magician—dies. The body refuses to stay dead, and it allows a demon to possess it at night. Then it rises as a ghost-witch to roam the Earth, looking for human victims. If you are unlucky enough to hear the voice of Skudakumooch’ or look into its eyes, it will cast an evil spell over you. Then it will kill you and eat you. Skudakumooch’ can be destroyed, but only by burning it to ashes so it can never rise again.
Living Ghosts and Mischievous Monsters Page 5