by Cotton Smith
“I hope you do, too.” Lockhart took her hand and she pumped the handclasp vigorously, still trying to catch his eyes.
Across from her, Bertha McCormick sat stoically. She merely nodded at both Crawfish and Lockhart, keeping her hands in her lap. An ivory brooch adorned her thin neck; a dark green crepe dress hung on her frame.
Dr. Milens took a seat with his back to a black curtain that hung the length of the room. He motioned for Crawfish and Lockhart to take the two remaining open chairs. Lockhart’s was directly across from Dr. Milens.
From the floor beside him, the Great Spiritualist took a lone candle well set in a silver bowl, lit it ceremoniously, and placed the flickering flame in the center of the table.
“Let us begin with a word of prayer,” he said and folded his hands upon the table and shut his eyes. “O Heavenly Father, this night grant us the special connection to those who have gone on before us to the next world. Open the veil of eternity—for this precious moment—and let the spirits come close. Let us give ourselves to this night of all nights. Let us open our minds and hear. Humbly we beseech Thee in Thy name. Amen.”
“Amen,” repeated everyone around the table. Even Lockhart.
“Now, please announce the spirit you most wish to contact,” Dr. Milens said in a low, soothing voice. “Remember, such contact can often take numerous sessions, because the spirit may not be close, or may have reasons for not wishing to communicate.” He looked to his right. “Mrs. Wilcox?”
“Oh yes! Abigail Swanson. My sister. Oh yes, please, spirits, please.”
Earnest Wilcox wanted to speak to his father; Crawfish, to his late wife, Almina.
Lockhart thought for a moment. “I hope the spirits find all of you to night. If they want to find me, I am here.”
Dr. Milens smiled. “Already a spirit is close wishing to talk with you, Mr. Lockhart. She made her presence known while I was praying. A Sioux princess, I believe.”
Eagerly, McCormick selected “Abraham Lincoln,” adding he wanted advice on the best way to lead the city as statehood neared.
Mrs. McCormick glanced at Dr. Milens, then at Lockhart, and whispered she would like to speak with her mother.
With that, Dr. Milens began to slowly wave his hands across his eyes and down his face, around the candle flame as if his hands were waltzing with it. Again and again, he repeated the sequence, holding his fingers together. Rhythmically, he moved. Enchantingly. Slowly. Gradually, ever so gradually, the hand motion tightened until his fingers circled only his vacant eyes. The room would soon be his, and his, alone.
Lockhart looked around the table. Everyone’s eyes were closed. He frowned to hold back the light-headed sensation that rocked him, as if he were on a ship in a gently swaying ocean. A soft moan came to Lockhart’s ears. Barely audible.
Just behind the black curtain, a pale shape appeared and disappeared.
Lockhart closed his eyes. It wouldn’t be right to ruin this for the others. He was tired from the long day. So very tired. Drowsy. Drowsy. He opened his eyes with some effort and Dr. Milens’s gaze was upon him. A sense of sweetness filled him, flowed through him. He watched himself pass into darkness.
“She is coming now. Abigail. Yes. Yes. I hear you. Let your sister hear.” Dr. Milens’s voice was strained, barely a whisper.
A woman’s voice slinked into the room; its thin vibration was like that of someone speaking through a long pipe.
“Cleta, my dear Cleta…”
Mrs. Wilcox shrieked and began to giggle hysterically.
“I am well, Cleta. Happy. Your son, Abraham, was here. Earlier. He is very happy, too. He left to be with his grandparents. Our momma and poppa.”
Her eyes closed, Mrs. Wilcox gurgled, “Oh, Abigail, what is it like? Heaven?”
“Like your most sweet dre—” Crackling crowded out the rest of the words.
“She is gone. She is gone.” Dr. Milens choked out the words.
Mrs. Wilcox started to cry, but Dr. Milens hushed her like a mother quiets a baby. “Shhhh. Look at me now. Look at me. Shhhhh.” His hands swirled around his eyes; then he slowly lowered them to the table.
Mrs. Wilcox was quiet again.
“I believe I can reach her again. Another time,” Dr. Milens intoned.
Moans surfaced from the northwest corner of the curtain. Deeper. Raspy.
“Yes, he is here,” Dr. Milens said in a hushed voice. “Earnest Wilcox is here.” He stared at Mrs. Wilcox. “It is your mother, Eleanor.”
A woman’s voice, more throaty than the other, began to talk, but the crackling came again. A long extended sigh, then nothing.
“She, too, could not stay. Ah, but another spirit is close. She is patient. She is here to speak with Vin Lockhart.”
Dizzy. So dizzy. He was peaceful. So peaceful. Over there, see? Young Evening was smiling at him. Now she was coming toward him. Oh, how he missed her. He would join her now. It would be good again. But she disappeared in the growing mist. Knots of thick fog emerged from the silent ground beneath the floor. The walls held the billows close. He tried to peer into their hazy whiteness but could see nothing.
Wait! A flicker of light! Then another, and another, and another! Tiny campfires. Hundreds of them in a big circle, all around him! All around the opening where he watched. Hundreds of fires! No, thousands! The campfires looked endless. As far as he could see into the haze, there were twinkles of campfire light. He closed his eyes and rubbed them. This couldn’t be. He was surrounded by an army! A huge army! How could they have sneaked up on him so quietly in this small room?
He hurried to take out his pistol. But no shots came at him. Only silence whispered at his ears. He took a deep breath and studied the campfires more closely. Around each one were gathered warriors and women. Sioux! Oglalas! He began to recognize a few. There! There was Five Deer. And Star Arm. And look, it’s Swift Hawk. And Black Bull. And, oh God! They are dead. Dead! He could recall the death of each one he recognized among the nearest campfires. Why were they here?
He stood unevenly, intending to go to them and discuss the strange situation. Upon rising and nearly stumbling, he realized their campfires were not on the ground anymore. Below them was the dark endless sky. The clearing where he once lay wasn’t visible, even as a speck. My God! He was on the Ghost Road! The Ghost Road? Wagaci Tacanku? Here all the dead waited after a year of special ceremonies by their families. Here their campfires caused the aura of what the white man called the Milky Way.
Solemnly, each dead person waited at this, the end of the wagaci tacanku, for the Old Woman. Methodically, she would stop at each fire and assess each person’s earthly deeds. The good people would be passed along to the other world that mirrored the first in many ways. To the north it was. A land of sweetgrass, pine, breath and forever life. The bad people would be pushed over a cliff; their spirits would return to roam the earth and always be a threat to the living.
Lockhart desperately tried to recall what Stone-Dreamer had told him about Oglala beliefs of the hereafter. They were now mixed with the wasicun Heaven in his mind. He did remember that the wanagi of humans and animals lived on buttes far to the west prior to coming here. Of course, all of them would have stayed close to their families for a year or so before that. Some would have tried to entice other loved ones into joining them in death. Once the ceremonies were over, though, the spirits would have begun their trail to the other world. Of course, some Oglalas believed spirits of the dead lived forever near where they died.
But why was he here? He wasn’t dead, or was he? Even if he were, he hadn’t been dead for the required time. Perhaps the Old Woman would help him. She would understand his problem and realize he shouldn’t be here, at least not yet. In the distance, he could barely make out her walking through the campfires, pausing and talking. When she was finished at each gathering of spirits, the seated wanagi rose and departed. Some did so joyously, arm in arm singing loudly. Some were dragged away, crying insanely.
Ten campfir
es back, he caught a glimpse of Young Evening once more; she was talking with others, a man and a woman he did not know. She had not seen him yet. She would be happy to see him here. The gold glow from the small fire made her face clear to him for an instant; then it disappeared into the bleak mist. He began to run toward where she had been.
“Young Evening! Young Evening!” he called out but his voice had no sound.
A voice like thunder cracked through the murky black and stopped him with its fierce intensity. Even the Old Woman turned to the northernmost point of the hanowakan, sacred night, to see the menacing North Wind approaching angrily. As he passed, campfires hissed into icy ashes, food vanished from hands and pouches—and some wanagi froze in their blankets. Lockhart frantically looked for Young Evening, but could not see her anywhere.
Before the North Wind reached the Old Woman, two of his brothers—the East Wind and the West Wind—came forward to quiet him. Neither could slow him, even though he was as cowardly as he was cruel. East Wind was too lazy, anyway. West Wind, loud and boisterous himself, brought along Thunder-Beings to help. Although he was the first to be given a direction, the West Wind could not control the North Wind. He laughed at the Thunder-Beings and made them rain ice and sleet upon the waiting spirits.
Large and swarthy, the red-clad North Wind talked with the Old Woman briefly, then turned and pointed at Lockhart. The face was Vinegar Farrell’s! Lockhart felt the chill enter his bones. The North Wind’s eyes caught and held Lockhart’s eyes like lightning momentarily freezes the night sky. From Wakan Akanta’s shoulder flew his messenger, the magpie, who in turn swooped into Lockhart’s face and screeched its hatred. He swung and missed the bird, and its head turned into the half-breed killer Valentine’s leering face, then flew away, cackling loudly.
Lockhart was suddenly aware of someone tall standing next to him, someone dressed in white. The South Wind! Warmth of his presence pushed back the terrifying cold. An aroma of sweetgrass filled Lockhart with renewed hope. Lockhart tried to gaze into the South Wind’s face but it kept changing. Eveywhere the South Wind looked and smiled, the campfires glowed again, the clothes became decorated in bright colors and the food returned; and when eaten, replenished itself endlessly.
Where was Young Evening? There! She was farther away than he first remembered. She was waving at him though; she had seen him at last. Wait! It wasn’t her. It was her sister. Morning Bird was waving at him. Smiling.
The South Wind put his hand on Lockhart’s shoulder. “My brother, it is well.”
“Aiiee!” Lockhart shouted and jumped up, making the table go sideways.
Startled, Crawfish grabbed his arm. “Vin, are you all right?”
Lockhart’s arms dropped to his side. He was disoriented; his mind struggling to leave a world that didn’t exist outside of his head.
“Uh, sorry, folks, I was…dreaming.” He looked around at the others at the table, now in varying stages of alertness.
Dr. Milens coughed and jerked. “Give them time to leave…the spirits. Time. They must have time. Stay quiet. Please.”
Minutes passed and the group sat quietly, yet impatiently. Finally, the spiritualist announced, “The circle is broken. The spirits have returned to their world. The spirit world.” He stared at Lockhart, still standing. “I’m sorry, but this happens. It is a very fragile connection. Always.” He shook his head as if very weary. “Some nights they shun me. Some nights, they become frightened. Some, angry. Those are the nights I fear the most.”
“Oh, it was magnificent! I heard my sister. My sister!” Mrs. Wilcox gushed.
Smirking, Mrs. McCormick turned in her chair toward Lockhart. “And you, Mr. Lockhart, did you hear from someone…dear?”
Breathing deeply, Lockhart looked at her. Hadn’t she heard Young Evening’s voice? Seen her run away? Hadn’t she seen the same images from the spirit world as he had?
“It has been a long day for both of us,” Crawfish said and stood beside his friend. “I think we should call it an evening.”
Quickly, the evening ended in a disjointed manner with Dr. Milens inviting them back whenever con venient. Conversation among the participants was scattered as the couples headed for waiting carriages.
Within Crawfish’s carriage, the red-haired businessman clicked the black horses into an easy trot and waited for his friend to speak. Even at night, the silver studs lining the clean lines of the carriage top snapped in the moonlight as the black fringe swished their private dance. Polished walnut and silver accents gleamed against black, padded leather. Red and silver spoked wheels clattered against the uneven dirt road.
“What happened, Crawfish?”
“Well, I doubt we experienced the same thing.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, he’s good. Some wonderful parlor tricks, you know. Hoax-and-haircuts!” Crawfish said, watching the dark road. “Some woman talking through a pipe. Behind the curtain. A silver cloth pulled across back there. Noises.”
“But I heard Young Evening. I saw her. She was…”
“You were mesmerized. That came later. You heard yourself. In your mind,” Crawfish explained and adjusted the reins in his hands. “Like a dream. Nobody heard anything like that.”
“What do you mean mesmerized?” Lockhart’s eyes narrowed.
“It’s a way of making people do and say things they might not otherwise. Magic-and-muscle! It’s sort of like sleepwalking.” Crawfish studied his friend for a moment, then returned his concentration to the horses. “Gidyap, Blackie. You, too, Ace.”
“You mean he was able to make me do that?”
“Yes, and everybody else in the room.”
Gazing out at the darkened houses as they passed, Lockhart asked, “So, you think he could’ve made me do something…anything?”
“Others, yes. Not you.”
“Why not me?”
Crawfish snapped the reins again. “Well, first thing, you were tired—or it wouldn’t have worked at all. I think your mind’s too strong otherwise. Horns-and-cowhide, you popped out of the trance awfully fast. He didn’t bring you out.”
For a minute, Lockhart was silent, watching the fringe along the carriage roof wiggle in time with the moving horses. “My…people believe the real world is behind this one, and everything we see here is something like a shadow from that world. Crazy Horse travels back and forth to that world where there is nothing but the spirits of all things.”
He folded his arms and leaned back against the carriage seat, feeling its leather softness. “So, were you mesmerized?”
“Yes, I heard Almina’s voice, but I snapped out of it.” Crawfish frowned.
“What are you supposed to say to a ghost?”
“Who knows? Never talked to one myself.”
Lockhart permitted himself a thin smile. “Guess you can’t count Newton.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
By the early days of the Moon of Ripening Berries, hundreds of lodges of northern Indians had slipped away from their respective agencies and joined together once again in the sacred Black Hills. Oglalas. Brules. Miniconjous. Hunkpapas. Cheyennes and Sans Arcs. All bent on rejoining their still wild brethren, led by Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse. Gathered along the Little Missouri in the eastern lip of the sacred Black Hills, the tribes rejoiced in seeing old friends and separated relatives.
Six thousand strong converged on the bottomland with a thousand lodges. Their singular goal was the annual Sun Dance. Wi wanyang wacipi. The ceremonial and social high point of the entire year. A time of spiritual renewal and special prayer for the welfare of the tribes so gathered. A time to assure the buffalo would be plentiful once more. A time of dancing and gift giving and gratitude.
Men of honor pledged to give themselves to the Sun Dance and pray for their people. To participate in the Sun Dance was an act of courage and selflessness, seeking spiritual knowledge directly from the Great Spirit through personal sacrifice and asking for blessings on the tribes.
&n
bsp; Some would be fulfilling vows made during the year that kept their individual tribes safe from cholera, measles, small pox, drought, prairie fires or enemy attacks. At the heart of each chosen dancer’s requests from the Great Spirit would be the power to stop the white man from taking the Black Hills.
This year was especially urgent as all warriors were aware of the dangers inherent in leaving their reservations, made more apparent by the constant updating by scouts of Sheridan’s pincer movement trying to find them.
Yet, it was like old times.
The putrifying ways of reservation life forgotten for the moment.
Black Fire’s tribe was among the honored bands of Oglala who had not submitted to agency life. The steadfast leader had chosen to keep their village out of the way of the expanding wasicun, warning his warriors of the consequences of their raids upon the white settlements. So far they had listened to him. Much of his political strength came from the support of Stone-Dreamer. In quiet counsel with the holy man, however, Black Fire expressed his growing inclination to lead his people to reservation life.
Agreeing to the eventuality, the holy man walked about the busy circle of Oglala lodges—Cangleska wakan, the sacred hoop—within the greater circle of the other encampment circles of other tribes. A magnificent gathering of the Northern Nation. His shoulders were slightly stooped and his hair, more gray now, than black. Across his shoulders was the ever-present strap of his white elkskin bag containing the sicum from dead warriors and animals. Each sicum was held in a special stone for healing.
He paused at the edge of a Lodge of Isolation, Isna Ti Ca Lowan, where a girl celebrated her first menstruation, becoming a woman in a special ritual, guided by her mother and a favorite aunt. It felt right that such a celebration was occurring. Here. Now. He continued his walk, focusing on the advance of two men from his left.
Coming directly through the camp were Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse. They were clearly in charge of the Northern Nation and this gathering. Both were dressed simply with no visible signs of their singular leadership responsibility. In contrast to Stone-Dreamer’s dramatic white buckskin shirt and leggings, beaded cape of white elkskin and winter wolf headdress. The holy man’s attention was briefly interrupted by a passing warrior with vermillion circles surrounding his Sun Dance scars. His mind went to Vin Lockhart who had performed the dance years ago and then to the late Sun Wolf’s son and Lockhart’s former brother-in-law, Touches-Horses, who had been selected to perform it this year.