As the crow flies wl-8

by Craig Johnson

  She paused for a moment and bent her head just a bit, her gaze landing on the base cabinet.

  “I went and got baptized on the egg-dyeing day, but after a while somebody told one of the priests that I had been seen at a peyote meeting. One day at my confession, the black robe asked me if I was still praying to that dried-up old peyote and calling it God.” She smiled. “I told him no, that I pray to God, but that I sometimes still use the peyote medicine for when I am sick. He said that the peyote was a church and that I could not go to two churches, so I stopped going to the black robe church.” She continued to stare at me. “Do you go to the churches, Ahsanta?”

  “No. My wife was the religious one in our family.”

  She nodded. “My religion became my own. I would go visit sick and hurt people-that’s when people need religion, not just on Sunday mornings or Thursday nights. Some people got better after I visited with them and people started calling me a medicine woman, and after a while, I became one, I guess.” She pushed off from the sink and turned to face me more directly. “I tell you these things because I have had a two-part vision about you, and I would like to talk to you about it.”

  I wondered what the old woman’s motivations were. “About me?”

  “Yes.” She struggled with what she had to say but finally spoke. “There’s someone who would speak to you, but I don’t know who he is. He comes to me in my visions in a great bear shape; does this mean anything to you?”

  I could feel the scouring of wing tips against the insides of my lungs. “Could be.”

  “You have other family?”

  The next words came out carefully. “I do; a daughter, and she’s expecting my first grandchild.”

  She worked the chew in her jaw as if the words were tough and needed tenderizing. “The bear-person tells me that you must keep your family close; that there are those who would harm them.”

  I thought about my experiences on the mountain a few months back, an adventure I wasn’t sure I’d ever be over. I thought about Virgil and the bear headdress he’d been wearing the last time I’d seen him, and about how I still wasn’t sure if he was alive or dead. I thought about his grandson, Owen, and how I knew most certainly that he was dead. Virgil or Owen had delivered a pronouncement upon my future or that of those close to me, some warning of impending disaster that I had put out of my mind-until now.

  “Where is your daughter, Ahsanta?”

  “Philadelphia, but she’ll be on her way here tomorrow.”

  Her head nodded as she thought. “That’s good; it will be easier for you to keep an eye on them when they are here in the good country.”

  Boy howdy.

  “What’s the second part of the vision?”

  “That you should come to church with me. Tonight.” She nodded.

  I leaned an arm on the kitchen sink and lowered my head to look at her a little more closely as Henry, Lolo, and Nate entered through the kitchen door. “Go to church with you tonight?”

  “Yes, the bear-man says that you should do this.”

  I looked up and could see Henry looking at me, his eyes a little widened. I glanced back at the old woman and asked. “Which church?”

  She grinned at me with the tobacco between her teeth.

  There is a federal criminal penalty exemption for the religious use of peyote by members of the Native American Church. The consumption of the small, dried button cactus is older than the Controlled Substances Act by about five and a half thousand years.

  Fair is fair.

  I’d heard about the ceremony but had never taken part in the rituals, let alone in the mescaline-based substance itself. Henry said that he had been behind the moon four times and around the moon innumerable times; he also said that it was like driving on the highway, then rolling down your window and tossing your head out, which didn’t sound like something I wanted to experience.

  The Bear dropped us off at the trailhead and sat there in the driver’s seat of Rezdawg. “I was not invited.”

  The medicine woman was waiting by the grille guard of the truck, her head bowed and her hands stuffed into the folds of her skirt.

  I leaned an elbow on the door of the vehicle I hated more than any other and twisted the ring on my little finger. “That means you can’t go?”

  “No.”

  “Can I invite you?”

  “No.”

  “Can I get her to invite you?”

  “No.”

  I nodded and glanced back at the ninety-pound woman who was taking me hostage. I turned to the Cheyenne Nation and could see just the slightest smile on his otherwise stoic face, which was pressed against his fist.

  “Chief Long is not going to report me to the DEA, is she?”

  He shook his head. “She is going home and going to bed.” He glanced at the watch on his wrist. “I was not invited there, either.”

  “She doesn’t like you.”

  “No.”

  “Any idea why?”

  “No.”

  “You’re just a font of conversation tonight, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  I sighed and looked at the old woman again. “Big medicine.”

  He shrugged. “It is a great honor to be invited.”

  “I don’t want to have flashbacks.”

  “You will not have flashbacks.”

  “I don’t want to start going to Grateful Dead concerts.”

  His eyes sharpened on mine, the twinkle there a little off-putting. “You definitely will not do that.”

  I nodded.

  “Unless, of course, it is something you have always wanted to do.” He lowered his hand and let it drop to the sill. “It amplifies the heart.” He reached out and thumped a curled fist into the center of my chest. “And I know this vehicle; it is a good one.”

  I took a deep breath to steady my nerves. “Thanks.”

  “There is no guarantee that you will even be offered peyote-you may simply be there to observe.”

  I lowered my voice to a whisper. “I think there’s more to this than a simple come-to-Jesus meeting.”

  The shards of obsidian glinted toward the corner of the truck, to where the medicine woman had moved off a few steps and was studying the trees the way she had before. “No doubt about it.”

  “Where are you going to be?”

  His eyes returned to mine. “Close.”

  “Good.” I stepped back. “Don’t let me go off into the forest and follow the little animals, okay?”

  He nodded and ground the starter on Rezdawg, which sputtered, coughed, and sat silent, the surrounding chirp of the crickets the only sound. “She only does this when you are around.” He patted the dash and ran his fingers through the eagle feathers along with the medicine bag that hung from the truck’s rearview mirror. I recognized the ritualized gesture. “Rezdawg knows you do not trust her.”

  “She’s right.”

  He hit the starter again, but this time the motor caught, fumbled a little on the lobes of her cam, and then cleared her tailpipe of a little soot and ran relatively smooth. “She feels your distrust and it causes her pain. You should apologize.”

  “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again-I’m not apologizing to your crappy truck.”

  He jammed the aged three-quarter-ton into gear and pulled the steering wheel toward the road. “Good luck with the little animals.”

  I watched as the single dim taillight with a lack of brake lights bumped down the wallowed-out dirt road and disappeared over a rise. Sighing, I stuffed my hands in my jeans and turned to look at the old woman patiently waiting for me at the trailhead. “I guess it’s time to go to church?”

  She held out a hand, and I wasn’t sure if it was for her or me.

  I took the hand and started up the trail with her following a little behind; she was careful to walk in my footsteps. The trail was pretty well worn and she was still holding my hand, but I was amazed at how well the old girl navigated by the stars at night. The moon
remained hidden, and I was just regretting having not brought a flashlight when I felt her tug at my hand.

  I stopped and leaned down. “Something?”

  She nodded and gestured with her left hand toward another branch of the trail I hadn’t seen.

  “That way?”

  She nodded.

  It was about the third time she did this that I started wishing I’d brought not only a flashlight but bread crumbs. I figured if I kept the logistics in my head, I’d be able to orient myself with two lefts, a right, and a left and still have a fighting chance of discovering the road if I had to.

  We got to a flattened area in a small clearing where there was a powerful glow from a large teepee with a fire inside. It was family style, painted around the edge with a brownish reflection of the individuals ringing the inside perimeter; at the apex, where the light didn’t reach, it was dark.

  Mrs. Small Song’s hand tightened in mine, and she began leading the way. In keeping with tradition, the opening of the teepee was facing east in order to welcome the rising sun, and these flaps were tied open. The old woman paused at the doorway and spoke in a strong voice to the assembled within. After a moment, a collection of voices responded and, still holding my hand, she stooped at the entrance.

  I followed, ducking my head through the opening, and stood, a little hunched in line with the angle of the canvas, my hat in my hands. I glanced around at the all but three smiling faces and didn’t recognize anybody. This was rare-I usually knew a percentage of folks in any Cheyenne gathering-but I guessed that these were highly religious people and it was possible that we’d never crossed each other’s paths. Some stood and approached me, but the three ancients who did not smile stayed seated.

  I finally recognized one of the participants. It was the same man who’d ushered Chief Long and me into the casino, the ex-chief of the tribal police; he patted my shoulder. “Longmire, it is wonderful to have you with us this evening.” His hand touched his chest. “Albert Black Horse.”

  “Yep, I remember.”

  “I am to be your sponsor tonight. Is that all right with you?”

  “Um, sure.”

  He misread my confusion, “You would rather have someone else?”

  “No, no.” Like an idiot, I patted his arm back. “I’m happy to be sponsored by you, Mr. Black Horse.”

  “Albert.”

  I patted some more. “Albert.”

  Others smiled as I glanced toward the three very old, very solemn men, all of them seated behind the fire and in front of a slight, crescent-shaped berm that half-circled the perimeter. “I guess not everyone is happy to have me here?”

  Black Horse shook his head. “No, it isn’t that they are unhappy to see you, but they have important sacred duties. The first is the Road Man; he is responsible for making sure that nothing interferes with the ceremony and that you are well taken care of-lives are in his hands, so he must take all of this very seriously.” He gestured toward the men seated next to the Road Man, one of whom held a #6 or #7 Dutch oven with a skin stretched across the top. “This is the Drum Carrier; he is the advisor to the Road Man. The other is the Cedar Man, and it is his job to keep the air purified during the ceremony.”

  Someone spoke from behind me, and there was a palpable pause and a sudden silence. I turned to see who it was that had spoken and could see another man seated by the opening who was pointing toward my back and talking rather quickly in an animated fashion. I turned to look for Artie Small Song’s mother, but she had already made herself comfortable across the perimeter.

  All of a sudden, there was a great deal of discussion, and this time I was pretty sure it wasn’t pleasant. Albert’s grip tightened on my arm. “Are you wearing a weapon?”

  I’d forgotten about my sidearm and was now aware of the cause of the fuss. “I am.”

  “You will have to take it off; it is strictly against the rules of the church.”

  “What should I do with it?”

  He gestured toward the opening. “You will have to leave it outside.”

  I nodded, not so pleased with the idea of just leaving the Colt out there unguarded, but not wanting to be insulting by insisting that it would be dangerous if left unprotected.

  Excusing myself with a strong nod to the assembly, I stepped outside, ejected the clip and piped round and placed them in my shirt pocket, and then unbuckled my belt, slipped it through the loops, wound it around the pancake holster, and carefully put the bundle in my hat. I put the lot of it a step away from the door against the canvas and then pulled a folded handkerchief from my shirt pocket and placed it over the Walt Longmire Collection. I’m not sure why I felt compelled to cover the whole thing with what looked like a shroud, but the idea of leaving the. 45 laying there in plain sight just didn’t sit well.

  When I reentered, things had calmed down.

  The man who had started the discussion nodded a tight-lipped response as Albert took my arm again. “He is the Fire Chief; he and the young man next to him will tend the fire all night, keeping it strong.” He gestured toward an open spot along the wall and invited me to sit beside him. I did as instructed and watched as the conversation died away. After a few moments, the Road Man spoke to the Fire Chief, who closed the flaps.

  As I sat there, the features of the old men became more recognizable to me.

  I knew the man with the drum; he had been a friend of my father’s-of course much younger at the time-and the reason I remembered him was that every time he saw me as a child he had given me a shiny wheat penny. James Woodenlegs.

  The Cedar Man also began looking familiar, and I recognized him as Willis Weist, who had disappointed my mother; she had observed him going to as many as four white-person church services each Sunday. A confirmed Methodist, she’d finally asked him which one he liked the best, to which he had responded, “Pentecostal.” My heartbroken mother asked why. He’d shrugged, “Because they have the best potluck dinners.”

  There were four big chiefs in the Cheyenne nation and three of them were here. The Old Man Chiefs were a kind of loose Council of Elders, of which I knew Lonnie Little Bird to be a member (Lonnie most likely purposefully avoiding the ceremony because of his close association with me). Like Lonnie, when asked if they were chiefs, they would deny being such; they must exemplify modesty, and you could bet that if a Cheyenne told you he was one, he was pulling your leg.

  It was a life of service, which few could live up to and from which many resigned. The old joke was that if you wanted to know who was the real chief of the Northern Cheyenne, look for the guy with the empty wallet on the road standing beside a car that was out of gas. That would be the chief: broke from giving all his money away and broken down from running food from home to home and providing a sounding board to the people’s miseries.

  This is not to say that the Old Man Chiefs had no power-their word was final on any subject of contention because they had proven beyond question that they had the people’s best interests at heart. Big Medicine.

  A few more words passed among the three men, at which point the Fire Chief approached the Road Man and received a number of bundles that included sage, tobacco, and corn husks, and a dried, powdery substance of which I could only guess.

  The Fire Chief passed the sage around the circle first, and I watched as the members drew the bundles across their limbs, the trunks of their bodies, and then their heads in an initial purification ceremony.

  I did as I’d seen the others do and watched as Albert smiled a nod of approval, did the same, and then passed it on. When everyone had smudged themselves, the Fire Chief took out papers and a simple tobacco pouch which he passed to the others, who in turn scattered a little of the tobacco into one of the small sheets and rolled themselves a makeshift cigarette.

  It had been a while since I’d tried to roll with fixings and attempted to remember how Hershel, the old cowboy back on the Powder River, had rolled his. I fumbled with the paper. Albert’s patient hands took the assembly from
me, deftly rolled the thing up, and licked the edge with spit that was like Super Glue.

  “Thanks.”

  He nodded and handed it back to me as the Fire Chief stoked the flames and pulled a short log, about four inches in diameter, from the fire. He handed the smoldering stump off to the participant to his right, who lit his home-rolled cigarette and passed the “lighter” on to the next.

  I was able to light my ceremonial smoke without assistance and carefully handed the glowing log to Albert.

  The others were now talking in subdued voices, and I could make out from the tone that they were praying. The older man curved his shoulder into me and quietly spoke. “These are the prayers of smoke and are a way of clearing your intentions for the ceremony.”

  I nodded. “What if I’m not sure what my intentions are?”

  He smiled, the wrinkles in his eyes joining with the ones around his mouth like the ripples in a pond. “Then you need to think about why it is you are here.”

  “I guess I’m concerned for my family.”

  Albert’s eyes played around the circle. “A lot of people are here because they have concerns for their families, including the woman who brought you.” He studied me. “You don’t have to lend voice to these prayers; you may keep them to yourself if it’s more comfortable for you.”

  I nodded and focused on the fire, trying to remember when I’d last prayed for anything. My mind went back to the spring before last, and a time in Philadelphia when I’d sat in a hospital at my daughter’s side. I’d prayed then-like a theological car salesman, I’d made deals, counterdeals, and threatened the very heavens themselves if they didn’t release my daughter from the swollen solitary confinement to which a terrible accident had sentenced her.

  Thinking about my daughter and her daughter, I found my lips moving. The words weren’t important, but the thoughts were of hope that their lives might be spared the kind of trials that mine had held; that somehow the prices that I had paid in losing my wife and numerous others would balance the bill in their favor. Just keep them safe was all I finally asked, just keep them safe from all the things out there that would do them harm, and if that was not possible, at least give me a crack at those things before they had to deal with them.