Did a self-destructive shot bring remorse?
Or were lives taken in vengeance without care and emotion?
“Listen to this, No tti se ma, Grandson,” Grandmother once said to me. “I want to tell you a story. This is about apparel used and worn by ne nyi ka si a ki, sorcerers: Once when your grandfather, Jack Principal Bear, was walking home along the Sandhill Road, above the Indian Dam, he met an old woman and a young girl. If it had not been too late, like sundown, it would have been a chance meeting like any other. People anxious to get home before nightfall. Except at that particular time, as he had spent much of the night fishing, it wasn’t right for such a couple to travel on a desolate moonlit road. As soon as they realized he was right in front of them, close enough to hear their conversation about ‘travel made easy,’ they stopped with emotionless faces before turning around in a levitating manner to flee. The old woman, who was wrapped in a dark, long-fringed shawl, grabbed the girl’s hand. Apparently, he surprised them, for they took off in the opposite direction. Your grandfather, sensing the two were not ordinary people, ran after them. He never knew what prompted him to do so. At the point where he thought he was almost upon them, they bolted and disappeared from the forest road. Until that mystical act occurred, he had been unaware that their legs had been motionless. Instead of an outright run they floated and skimmed over the rounded contours of the landscape in amazing hummingbird speed. He never forgot how they seemed to skate down and above the hill. Effortlessly.”
Grandmother indicated there had been a series of sightings of this old woman and her long-fringed shawl. My grandfather suspected the young girl was a night-enemy apprentice, for there was absolutely no way a human could keep up with the old woman’s speed. Had she been a regular girl, she would have been dragged along violently over the cinder rocks and tree stumps.
Because young people liked to venture out at night, seeking to romance each other, more sightings were soon reported. Everyone who saw the fleeting shawl rarely went out alone into the warm nights thereafter. Night-enemies were responsible for amputation and even death.
The story continued.
From the village located near the confluence of the Iowa and Swanroot River bottoms, where ceremonial feasts were held, word came that the old woman often made a predawn crossing of what was then the first steel and concrete bridge.
“Through his curiosity and lack of fear as a young man, your grandfather spoke to a close friend, A se no ta ka (the One Who Understands Stone’s Talk, or Alfred Pretty-Boy-in-the-Woods in English), about this and proceeded to make plans to intercept her. That night they sat hidden on the western side over the railing and they chewed bits of root, mi ka ti a sqwi, a medicine that repels the paralysis effect sorcerers emanated in their outings. If your senses heard, saw, felt, and smelled a sorcerer, you were rendered helpless. Especially if you were in the condition of being most vulnerable—in half sleep or ill health or even after an overdose of alcohol. Several nights passed without seeing her, but they were suspicious of anyone who crossed the bridge moments before sunrise. On the fourth morning, they spotted a hunchback figure draped in the dark shawl. Your grandfather gave the signal Inhaling air through almost-closed lips and over the top row of his teeth, he made short, mouse-squeaking noises. Pretty-Boy-in-the-Woods knew this was it. She stood for a while on the other side, checking, before making the flight across. She had traveled down along the Iowa River, coming from the north, hidden by tall grass. A swooshing sound, like that of a small, dusty whirlwind, gathered at the end of the bridge. She floated across with the long fringes of her shawl waving. Just when she was parallel with their positions, they leapt out, surprising her to the point that she forgot to accelerate. They held her with their combined might. Twice, because of her power, she almost escaped. ‘Ba ki se ni ko, ha ki se ni kol Ke he tta wi ba ma! Let me go, let me go! You have made a mistake!’ she implored. After a while they began to think this could turn out to be an embarrassing mistake, holding a respectable woman by force. They equated her with a child who had been caught stealing and took pity. Were it not for the Earthlodge clan warrior songs they sang, she might have prevailed. As the sun began to rise through the cottonwood trees, she slowly sank back to the ground. The counterattacking medicine they chewed weakened the barriers, yes, but the blessings given them through their fasting made them invincible. Stunned, the old woman could not readily transform into an owl, wolf, or panther.”
Knowing it took a spiritally, ethnobotany, and fasting-blessings to subdue evil in its purest form, I could never be like my grandfather. (In one of the most memorable encounters with the paranormal, Selene Buffalo Husband and Ijwere chased away from our river-bottoms residence by an entity we call the “Supernatural Strobe Light.” It wore many masks: that of three owls, fireflies flying in V formation like distant military jets, a floating ball of pale light, a red fluorescent rectangular mass the size of a school bus, and, of course, the strobe light that became a small, pulsating star. Education left me wounded back then and thus vulnerable. . . .)
With a refilled cup of coffee and a plate of cinnamon rolls next to her, Grandmother took the artificial sweetener and stared at it as if the pink paper package was nonhuman.
We were back on the bridge.
“When the subject at last straightened up and looked directly at your grandfather and his associate, they promptly recognized her. The old woman’ was not really old at all; in fact, she was outgoing and middle-aged. She was active in nearly every aspect of Settlement life—cooking for feasts, dancing, and doing elaborate floral ribbon-work on dresses. Why she should even carry on with this evil subterfuge annoyed Jack. He released his grip and shoved her away. There!’ he said, while pointing accusingly to her face. ‘We know who you are. You won’t be able to do as you’ve been doing.’ The woman stared at her excited captors, swung her shawl back over her head, and strolled nonchalantly into the sleeping village. Shortly after this episode, the woman had a strange affliction on her right leg. The tips of her toes deteriorated from rot. Her foot and ankle had to be surgically amputated. Which most residents believed was payment for her floating carelessness.”
From then on, as Grandmother explained, she was greatly feared. Yet there were a few who dared to entrust their needs with her, for she was skilled with both good and bad medicine—the kind that healed and the kind that made others commit suicide or murder. It depended largely upon one’s needs, the amount and nature of compensation. Any gratuity certainly helped.
Grandmother also said one had to be in good standing.
“Life, as you will undoubtedly come to realize, is that way: a delicate and unpredictable balance between what is humanly good and what is sinister. It’s much like one ancient force gaining an upper hand, laying down the rules by which people should live on earth. According to this foundation, and by that alone, we are here. This existence is a privilege. Watching over us are elements of nature who took their respective places as sky, water, fire, thunder eons ago with some reluctance. Those underground, underwater, and above, we venerate them as we venerate the Creator and His Twin Sons. They have been appointed to relay our prayers. ...”
Our main purpose, the way I finally perceived it, aside from maintaining ceremonies, was to keep prophecies of world demise from occurring or at least make note of them. But it all became so damned obvious. The sparks of distant wars on the bottom side of a cooking skillet kept us well informed. The Northern Lights appeared to warn us of pending flag wars. We kept a vigil one year when President Kennedy had a showdown with Cuba. Fortunately, the Northern Lights didn’t reach the southern horizon. If they had, the horizon would have been bloodred.
We were here, after all, as a reflection of other events and past lives. We merely reenacted this constant battle of right and wrong, a promise kept and transgressions committed. We who are but Remnants of the First Earth.
Grandmother’s discourse resumed.
“When the woman finally came to the point where she
was debilitated by old age, she was near the family. My family. There was no house where she was welcome; she was without relatives. Of course, she was also quite feeble. It is strange how a person deemed evil and dangerous could interact with people who feared her the most. Years and years after her capture on the bridge, when she could no longer support herself and her elderly companion, they lived with us. This was before I met your grandfather. On occasion we’d all sell beadwork on Lincoln Highway 30.1 recall making her last days peaceful by providing her with canned fruit and crushed sausage. These were hard items to come by then, you see. During the days when she was blamed for the birth of crippled infants, missing female adulterers, and a scorching drought, I chose not to say anything because I didn’t see anything that made me believe she was involved. Youngsters here, you know this yourself, are taught not to say anything to anyone. Ka ta-na na tti-ke ko-i tti ye ka ni-ko wi ye a. Ever. That is not your place, we are told. Since her involvement couldn’t be proven, other than the time she was pinned against a metal bridge railing ‘by mistake,’ she took advantage of her alleged innocence and socialized with the tribal community as much as her debilitation would allow. Once she and her elderly companion came up to me and whispered, ‘Bya na yo. Ne ta ka wa ta be na-ni ke ki no a mo na ki-ni o te te na ma wa ni-me tti me ko na ta we ne ta mo wa na ni. Come here. We want to teach you ways for you to obtain anything you want.’”
Grandmother expressed she was interested in their proposal. She followed them into the earthlodge where the two women burned cedar incense to purify the potent medicines that were spread out over the long table-bench on a yellowish deerhide. She then described in lucid detail what her eyes beheld: the, hide itself was set on top of a long-fringed shawl. The brilliant rays of the sun hanging directly overhead stabbed through the smoky interiors and accented the red and black stone figurines holding miniature pipes—six of them. They were held in the center by four wreathlike displays. The braided strips of medicine had been arranged to appear in a swirling circular motion, a frozen moment in a catastrophic event. With blankets and tablecloth they had also taken careful measures to block out the daylight that usually came through the spacing between the boards of the summer earthlodge.
“Be ki ma me ko-ke me nwi to ta wi be na-e bi ti ka tti ya ki-e o wi ki wa ni. You have treated us extremely well by allowing us into your home,” she was told. “I ni ke-ma ni-ebya mi ha ta ki-ke tti ki we ni.
Ma ma ka tti ke nwi tta-ki na-ni o te te na ma ni-mi ska wi ke ki-na ta wi no ni. Old age is presently upon us. It is important that you receive this potent medicine.”
In remembering that particular event, Grandmother meditated out loud: “What they wanted me to keep and pass on was the dreaded knowledge of the medicine called bi na i ka ni or love medicine. I looked at the various kinds of roots and I knew from having seen my own grandmother’s handiwork that what they spoke about was truth. In the smoke-filled interior, the legless woman and her elderly companion were anxious for me to accept and keep the male and female stems and roots of their wa be ski bi na i ka ni white swanroot, which was also the English name of the river nearby. While I initially agreed to care for it, not once have I utilized it for myself or others as it was originally intended—to steal and hurt hearts, to separate and destroy families. If used without caution, I was warned, the person-target can become so overcome with lovesickness that suicide is a serious consideration. Romance can take a frightful turn. I eventually learned that if the medicine was kept in a sealed glass jar away from the main family room, it served as protection against ill-fated travels, malicious thoughts, and night-enemies.
“Of course, I was cognizant then as I am now that the people who employed this root for evil means spent an eternity on their hands and knees along the road to the Black Eagle Child Hereafter digging for a nonexistent root. Never once did I think of pursuing the contrary. My own grandmother said the trees and plants belonged to the Creators Grandmother, and that the very ground we walk on was the top of her head. Her medicinal gifts originate from strands of her lovely hair. Gifts that were meant to help. To employ them solely for the sake of harm is to ask for eternal punishment.
“There is something more you should know. Upon the footless woman’s celebrated death, as her personal belongings were collected in sacks and boxes to be given away to the funeral helpers, a necklace of dried infant fingernails was found. Many believed these fingernails were the token remains of night-enemy victims. It, along with all the morbid items in the small, antique trunk, was buried along the sandy valley of what is today called Lone Ranger Drive.
“Strangely, her death did not mean she was absolutely gone. The knowledge of the black, long-fringed shawl was transferred to someone else. A young female person, perhaps kin. So I would be cautious; she is still here. These carriers ultimately require human lives to extend their own depravity. It is known they can change any object into a bullet or pellet. If a letter is written and personally delivered to you, let’s say, and if it has been annointed with some medicine and ‘spoken to,’ the paper will actually act as the bullet itself, traveling through your bones, heart, and into your fragile consciousness.
“And you will perform as it has been wished. ...”
The Grandfather of All Dream
William Listener, a master plumber and former chair of the Tribal Council, made a significant impression upon me at Jake Sacred Hammer’s winter funeral in 1970. As a clan elder, William often had the difficult task of speaking the “Final Words to the Deceased before Their Journey West.” These words worked in tandem with those from the shadow-releasers.
It was during these grim circumstances at O’Ryan’s Cemetery that I first became aware of William’s oratorical skills. Whether in English or Black Eagle Child they were poetically embellished. Fundamental and ancient, the Final Words became a doorway to the Hereafter. Gaining passage, of course, was an entirely different matter. More than a few tribal members were willing to say in public that Jake—who spent half his life riling up Black Eagle Child people with his candor and insensivity to the Earthlodge clan ceremonies—was not deserving of these Final Words.
From the early 1930s to the late 1950s, Jake contributed voluminous information on the tribe’s religious infrastructure to academicians from Illinois, Washington, D.C., and Belgium. Jake Sacred Hammer was a paid cultural informant. Everyone in the Settlement knew that, but no one questioned his transgressions. Tribal members, as a tradition, were taught not to impose their personal views or actions upon other people.
William Listener, who was also taught one shouldn’t judge others, recited the eulogy in a tone that was at once forgiving and respectful. In addition to heing a person who assisted “shadows” and their bereaved families, William was, to quote Luciano Bearchild, “a living songbook.” When he wasn’t praying, he was singing and drumming. When he wasn’t running a complicated earthlodge ceremony, he was reading minutes at the Black Eagle Child Tribal Council meeting or installing plumbing in town. William was the first person to aptly demonstrate that one could educate himself in both worlds by first having a thorough command of their diverse languages. Possessing a shrewd, analytical but traditional outlook was also helpful.
William Listener was an older half brother of my father, Tony Bearchild. Although it could be said, judging by exterior appearances, that William and I were relatively close, we were rarely—for as small as the Black Eagle Child Settlement is—at the same places. That my parents didn’t live together until my tenth year was obviously a factor. Another reason, I must assume, was the division of the progressive and conservative factions in our families. In a sense, the question of who had the ultimate right to make decisions on the beleaguered tribe’s behalf kept us apart. Politically star-crossed, one could say.
As I mentioned before, Clotelde, my mother—who was raised in a traditional Bear King, or Principal Bear, family—was a Capulet of sorts; and from the Montagues, there was my father, Tony, a descendant of the Bearchild patriarch who lon
g ago, under blackmail from white politicians, got himself recognized as chief and thus brought education to the tribe. Somewhere therein my supposed illegitimacy excluded me from the Bearchild family portrait.
Politics, like money, divides people. Who was it that said tribal nations would be destroyed by four things? Handsome Lake. In a speech made in 1799, he indicated the dangers were alcohol, the Bible, the culture around us, and a deck of cards. Handsome Lake, way back then, was absolutely correct. But he omitted a fifth: money.
William Listener was articulate when it came to being a progressive. He firmly upheld only those values that were dependent on religiousness. Since very few operated successfully within that margin, he was able to look upon all modern factors with a mirthful grin. “We can tolerate the whites,” he’d explain to his younger half brothers. “Well never get anywhere if we don’t make an effort—no matter how shameful or futile—to use them.” Before the advent of the gambling enterprise, he would expound on where we should be going. Through his toothless mouth, he’d discuss the future. “We’ve got to do better than the grocery store, barber shop, pool hall, and bread factory we now have.”
William Listener moved stealthily between the two worlds, in a more dignified way than Jake Sacred Hammer, to achieve his goals. Being a religious leader, master plumber, and tribal chair required both diplomacy and outright usurpation of authority. In Why Cheer he had lawyer friends who wrote up grants for tribal housing needs in return for subcontracting jobs for their own relatives.
Maybe this is why we rarely met. He was many things to many people.
On the occasions we happened to be in the same place, however, like funerals and the few ceremonies I attended, I perceived myself as a blurred movement, an indiscernible face that somehow stood out in the Bearchild family portrait as a flaw.
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