As the crow flies wl-8

by Craig Johnson

  When I became aware of the teepee again, I realized that I was the only one in the circle speaking.

  The Road Man raised an eyebrow at the Drum Carrier and they both nodded. “ Haho.”

  The entire group chanted the one word back, me included.

  The Fire Chief collected the butts from around the circle and carefully placed them alongside each other at one end of the crescent-shaped berm. It was then that I noticed a groove along the ridge of the altar and remembered Henry’s remarks about “sitting behind the moon” and “traveling around the moon.” I assumed the ridge was meant to represent the road itself.

  The Fire Chief stoked the flames, and I watched as the sparks rose and ascended through the opening at the top of the teepee like lightning bugs attempting to escape into the cool dark of night.

  When I looked down, there was a bowl being held under my nose that contained a powdered substance with clumps. I’d seen pictures of the stuff, but never seen it live and up close. I took the bowl and watched as the person next to me placed a spoonful of the powdered substance into his mouth and then handed me the ornate spoon with a carved bird on the handle.

  I sat there, an individual whose experience with drugs had so far mostly been limited to those in pill form-aspirin, Benadryl, and the occasional Vicodin.

  Staring at the powder, I took the spoon in my hand.

  It wasn’t so much that I was intimidated by the thought of taking a psychoactive drug that held me still; I’d known Henry my entire life and knew he wouldn’t allow me to be involved with anything that might harm me in any way.

  It was me.

  The dried cactus is said to set the user on a reflective road for eight to ten hours, and I wasn’t sure that I wanted to meet me there. It was all a question of letting go, of allowing myself the freedom to see who and what lay on the other side. My experiences on the mountain had prepared me, and in some ways superseded anything the peyote might provide, but-

  There was no pressure from the faces surrounding me, just smiles and looks of reassurance. Even the Old Man Chiefs who sat on the back of the altar were specifically there for my protection.

  Henry’s words kept thrumming in the back of my head, “It is a great honor.”

  I looked around at the faces again. Taking a small amount of the powder onto the spoon, I slipped it into my mouth.

  It tasted horrible, bitter and dry, and my first response was to spit it out, but I figured that would’ve been worse than not ingesting the stuff at all. The saliva in my mouth began reconstituting the powder and, if possible, it started tasting even worse. A moment later, the man to my right handed me a small cup and filled it with a dark liquid, steam rolling from the opening of an earthenware jug.

  I studied the small cup with a blue and white stripe near the lip and especially the brewed contents, and figured it had to taste better than what was in my mouth.

  I was wrong. It was worse.

  Swallowing the contents, I fought back the urge to gag and quickly handed the jug and cup to Albert. If I was going to throw up, I preferred not to throw up on the sacred items. Taking a few deep breaths, I felt a little better.

  I found myself looking at the people in the circle and thought about the honor that had been bestowed on me. I felt an odd familiarity with the light; the glow from the fire filled the teepee like the golden one that sets off the sunset on a high plains summer evening. We were well past that time of day, but I basked in its warmth as I looked at the Cheyenne circling the teepee, with their heads bobbing and their mouths uttering the sing-song rhythm of prayer.

  Other than a mild sensation of nausea, I really wasn’t feeling anything, but I’d heard that that wasn’t an unusual response to the stuff I’d ingested. Just a slight stomach upset. I was beginning to think that my size and possibly a natural tolerance to the stuff were going to make the whole experience a bust. The nausea kicked in a little harder, and I belched; when I glanced at Albert, he was watching me and laughing.

  I was thankful I’d had the elk dinner, in that it was probably dampening the effects of the peyote. On the other hand, I have to admit that I was a little disappointed; it was about then that I became aware of the grain in the knotholes in the teepee poles.

  The tempo of the singing had quickened and was reinforced by the beat of the Drum Carrier, who had joined the chant. I listened to the music and allowed my eyes to rest on the Fire Chief as he stoked the coals of the central fire again, the flurry of sparks flying up and away as before in an attempt to join the stars.

  The warmth of the fire reached out until I could feel the ends of my fingers and toes glowing of their own accord. It wasn’t a bad feeling, and certainly not the kind of thing I’d expected from a form of mescaline, but my knowledge was limited to what I had read, not what I had experienced. It was a good feeling but certainly not earthshaking. Once again, I was a little disappointed.

  At this point, I think I was trying to make something happen, hoping for anything.

  I studied the patterns in the spire-like poles that supported the teepee, willing some faces to appear in the wood, but they stubbornly remained knotholes.

  My thoughts circled around to my daughter, who would be arriving in less than fourteen hours, and I hoped that Henry was making more progress in the wedding preparations than I. It was possible that I was going to have to leave Chief Long to her own devices in attempting to solve the puzzle surrounding Audrey’s death. I didn’t like the thought of leaving the case unsolved but maybe it was all for the best.

  It was about then that I lowered my face to look around.

  And everyone was gone.

  7

  I blinked my eyes and stared around the interior of the teepee just to make sure what I was seeing was what I was seeing-nothing.

  The dirt altar that had made up the center of the ceremony floor was still there, even the indented road of the moon, the cigarette butts, the drum. The peyote bowl, spoon, and jug of tea were all there, all of it untouched, as if the participants had suddenly been called from the teepee and had left me behind.

  The fire was blazing away as if it had very recently been stoked, but everyone was gone.

  I continued to breathe deeply and sat there waiting for I’m not sure what. I blinked a couple of times and started to get the feeling that I was being made the butt of a joke. I found it hard to believe that the Old Man Chiefs would just get up and head out, but evidently they had, leaving the white guy in here to think about things.

  I started to think about standing up when I noticed something on the ground leading to where I sat. Leaning forward, I poked a thumb and forefinger into the dirt and picked up a piece of rough twine, the kind that merchants used to use to tie up brown paper packages. I remembered the stuff from my youth on spools in dry-goods stores but hadn’t seen it in years. Where had that come from?

  I picked up the end of the twine and watched as it traced its way across the floor, underneath the teepee flap, and out.

  Leveraging myself into a standing position, I lumbered toward the center of the circle and stood there beside the fire with the piece of twine in my hand. It was strange, because the fire didn’t appear to be putting out any heat. I did a half-circle in both directions just to make sure that I hadn’t missed anything or anybody, but I was definitely alone.

  I stood there for a moment and then noticed more strings lying on the ground, each one leading to where someone had been sitting, all of them disappearing under the flap.

  I moved toward the door, kneeled down, and put the twine between my teeth-I could swear I could taste the peyote in the jute-so that I could have both hands free to open the flap. The job was made easier because the tips of my fingers were glowing. I pushed the flap away.

  It was daylight outside, which explained everything-I must’ve fallen asleep, and the others had left me there in the relative safety of the teepee. I lowered myself into a three-point position and pushed my way through the opening.

  I was
no longer in the land of the Northern Cheyenne.

  Sand dunes, strangely red, furled into the distance like rollers in an ocean. The sky was a pale blue, and there was moisture in the air as if the sun had just risen even though it stood at midday.

  I took the twine out of my mouth and looked to the horizon, but I couldn’t see anything except the wind-drifted sand. I turned back-the teepee was exactly as it had appeared last night, my hat with the sidearm inside still next to the door with the handkerchief draped over the top.

  I was just about to reach over and pick up my things when the forgotten string in my hand gave a tug. Startled, I almost dropped it but then saw that it made a beeline over the nearest dune and disappeared. I glanced around and could see the other strings that had come from the teepee-they traced off in all directions, but none of them appeared to be moving.

  The string yanked at me again, so I started following it, the sand potholing under my boots as I wound the twine around the flat of my palm.

  The going was surprisingly easy, and I could see the perfect outline of the Bighorn Mountains with the brutish hump of Cloud Peak and the jagged molar of Black Tooth in the distance; but there was nothing else except the red desert and the frosted sky.

  The twine tugged at me again, this time strong enough to pull my arm away from my body. I stood there looking at it and noticed that the line appeared to be heading toward the dominating marker of the mountains.

  I set off again, the roll of twine getting larger around my palm as I walked up and down the gentle slope of the dunes, developing a rhythm not unlike that of the drums I’d heard last night. I’d even started to hum the chant in the back of my throat as I continued on.

  I wasn’t sure what was really happening but figured it had to have something to do with the peyote. I guessed this was what happened when you took the stuff. It wasn’t entirely unpleasant, but I felt disassociated, as if I were outside myself and watching my actions from far away.

  I stopped singing, but the song continued. I listened to make sure it wasn’t some sort of echo, but the tune persisted without mine. Standing there at the point of one of the dunes, this one knife-edged by what must have been a powerful wind, I turned my head and could see what looked like a swale that curved like the crescent of a moon; at the top, an enormous black bear was hunched over and striking at something.

  It was only when my hand was drawn from my side in sharp yanks that I realized he was pawing at the twine attached to my hand. I froze and then began backing down the opposite side of the dune, rapidly unwinding the string.

  I felt the pull again and started untangling myself at a higher speed, when I heard someone speak to me in the standard Cheyenne, man-to-man expression.

  “ Ha’ahe!”

  “ Ha’ahe!” Having used up a good portion of my formal Cheyenne, I spoke again, this time in English. “Hey, I’m not sure where you are, but there’s a bear over here, so I’d be careful.”

  “Is it a black bear or a white bear?”

  I remembered that the Cheyenne old-timers used to refer to grizzlies as white bears and yelled back. “He’s a black one, but as big as a grizzly.”

  The twine that I had unrolled in my scramble to get away began retracting at an incredible pace as if it were on a fishing reel, yanking me toward the summit of the dune where the gigantic bear towered on his hind legs.

  “Good,” the bear said. “For a moment I thought we were in trouble.”

  The bear sat next to the crescent dune and grunted to himself as he wove the twine between his enormous claws like a cat’s cradle. “The line is connected to you.”

  I was still trying to get used to the idea of carrying on a conversation with a bear, but he was pleasant enough. I stared at him and figured that it was all a part of some kind of dream. His voice sounded familiar, but I kept getting distracted by the fact that it was a bear talking.

  He grunted again. “Of course, it is only your line in the sense that you picked it up.” His massive head turned toward me, and I was struck by the smallness of his eyes in the context of his enormous head, but the eyes seemed familiar, too. “Why did you choose this string?”

  I shook my head, unsure. “It was the closest.” I studied him for a moment as he played with it. “Do you mind telling me where I am?”

  “What?”

  “This place, do you think you could tell me where it is? I mean, I can see the mountains, but I’ve never seen sand dunes like this out in the Powder River country.”

  He nodded but said nothing.

  “Are we in the Powder River country?”

  He shrugged.

  “I mean, from the angle of the mountains…”

  He suddenly growled and shook his great head. “How should I know; I am a bear.” He glanced around. “This place is not mine, it is yours.” He nodded at the string, threaded through his claws, and I noticed that he did not hold the end of it, that the one end was wrapped around my hand but the other disappeared over the next dune. “Perhaps it is the one that interested you the most?”

  “What?”

  He sighed. “The string.”

  I answered carefully, aware that I might not want him agitated. “I suppose.”

  The furry hump shifted. “Have you considered what is on the other end?”

  “Not really.”

  He smiled with close to fifty teeth, some of them exceedingly large, and I noticed that there were strands of gray in his fur. “This is the strength of your character, and you do not know?”

  I looked down at the twine still wrapped around my palm and closed my hand into a fist. “The strength of my character is string?”

  “The strength of your character is in following this string.” He adjusted his forelegs, and the twine sprung loose. Then he rolled onto his front legs and lifted himself up on his hind ones like a running back, turned toward the direction of the disappearing twine, and sniffed the air. “The string is like the bread crumbs in your mind, consumed until the mystery of this thing becomes a part of you. You have no choice but to follow it until it gives a secret up to you or reveals another mystery, both equally irresistible-it is your nature.”

  I stood and walked past him, taking up the string as I went and thinking about what he was saying. “What if I don’t like what I find?”

  His voice echoed through me. “There is always that chance.”

  I nodded. “This quest you are talking about is not why I’m here, you know.”

  He studied me but said nothing.

  I took a deep breath and climbed up the side of the dune, pulling the twine out of the sand. “I don’t have time to follow strings; I’ve got things to do. My daughter is getting married.”

  “Yes, she is.”

  I turned back to look at him, now only a couple of yards away. “And I’m standing in an imaginary desert with a talking bear.”

  He nodded but now refused to speak, his feelings hurt, I guess.

  “What if I just let it go?”

  This got a rise out of him. “You will not.”

  “But I could.”

  “It is possible, but what would become of the living thing that is on the other end-have you asked yourself that?” His wide head canted in a quizzical manner. “The mystery, the story of whatever is on the other end, would be lost forever.”

  I was traipsing around in my own head, both the conscious and the unconscious, and pretty sure that the events of late were all products of my mind, but they seemed so real that I was becoming distracted. He was watching me when I looked back up. “Have you ever heard of a fellow by the name of Virgil White Buffalo?”

  His smile broadened. “I knew him well.”

  “I bet you did.” I chewed the inside of my lip. “How about Henry Standing Bear?”

  “I know him, too.” He grinned, but I’m not sure if it was a smile or if he was just showing his teeth. “But not as well.” He looked off into the distance, away from the mountains.

  I had a feeling tha
t our time together was coming to a close and I was sorry for that, in that I was enjoying his company, cantankerous as he was. I held up the hand with the twine wrapped around it. “So, you’re saying that whatever I do I shouldn’t let go of the string?”

  He shrugged again.

  “Well, what use is a talking bear if you’re not going to carry on the conversation?”

  The lips curled back, and he continued to smile.

  I lifted my hand, clearing the string from the edge of the dune. “Are you coming?”

  He shook his enormous head and finally spoke. “That is not my nature.”

  I nodded. “And if you don’t mind my asking, what is your nature?”

  He lowered himself to all fours and slowly ambled back in the direction from where I had come, pausing at the top of the dune to look over his shoulder. “To question.”

  The bear picked up his pace, and I was left there with the twine wrapped around my hand, trying to fight the feeling I was a puppet. I could follow him, I could stay, or I could go on. I stood there for a moment more, knowing there really wasn’t a choice in all of this-the decision had been made when I’d picked up the end of twine in the teepee. As the Bear had said, our natures are our natures.

  Kneeling down, I tried to get a general idea of the size of the bird that had made the tracks-something not too small but not too large either. The bird moved easily on the ground, which led me to believe that it was comfortable walking, and there are only a few of those.

  There was a hop, however, and this time the bird’s talons were buried deeper in the sand. There must have been some sort of threat, and I could see where the wing tips had brushed the ground and where the edges of the pinfeathers had swept the sand.

  Bigger than I first thought-a large wingspread, two and a half feet at least.

  There were no more tracks-it must have taken to the air-so I just followed the string. Sometimes you just had to follow blind. Beyond the next few dunes I saw an outline of a burned-up cottonwood, rising out of the sand like a grasping hand.