Barbara continued her work on her Following the Path of the Buffalo Foundation after Big Horse died. Many who knew her remarked that she worked at a feverish pitch, constantly flitting about the world, raising money and giving presentations about the foundation’s work and the beauty of wilderness and native grasslands. She made Chief’s former ranch her headquarters. There she regularly invited children from participating schools to come visit for a week on the prairie.
On one such day, Barbara was sitting on the ranch’s massive porch in her rocking chair. She covered her legs with a shawl when she rocked that summer day because her thin legs noticed the cool afternoon mountain air. Her hair was gray now and her face showed the wrinkles of her age and tireless dedication to her work, but her eyes still glowed with the fire of a woman determined to make the world a better place for her family and her people.
Off in the distance, children were playing a game of capture the flag in the high prairie grass. There was a soft breeze from the mountains to the west dancing through the grasses. The corral near the ranch house held several wild mustangs Barbara adopted. She saved them from slaughter so they could be tamed and eventually ridden by the children, or given away to new owners and outfitters Barbara knew would be good to them.
One proud, well-muscled mustang caught her eye and held her gaze. He was a big horse, a chestnut-colored sorrel stallion. His ears turned forward toward her as if he noticed her for the first time before he moved closer. The big horse eyed her steadily from the nearest edge of the corral. Now it seemed as if the big horse was inviting her to come and ride with him. Just then a little sparrow wren alighted upon the log porch rail in front of Barbara. It chirped and flicked its tail twice, and then it flew off to the corral. It alighted a second time upon the rail of the corral right next to the big horse and chirped a long melodious warble call. It seemed the sparrow was calling to her.
Barbara smiled at the wren at the same time the tightness in her chest seized hold of her heart. Her last vision was the little sparrow chirping a few final notes as it hopped onto the back haunches of the big horse. She saw that the sparrow belonged with him. It faced her once more and chirped again, and then it flew away over the grasslands. Little Deer, Barbara’s granddaughter, was laughing and running through the prairie grasses apart from the other children. She was a natural leader whom many said was much like her grandmother, Little Sparrow. Her beautiful soft hair lifted on the breeze as the little sparrow flew over her head and disappeared into the late afternoon twilight. Barbara knew the Great Spirit had given her a final sign and called for her to come away. It was her time.
Little Sparrow’s body departed from her life that day and her spirit went away to join the spirit of her beloved Big Horse. Over her last eleven years, Sparrow missed Big Horse terribly. Many nights she cried in her terrible loneliness. Nothing could ever replace a love like theirs. She held fast to her wonderful memories with Big Horse, which gave her strength to go on with her work. As she surrendered to death’s grasp, she knew with certainty that her spirit would be reunited with his in some other place and time. A foundation worker found her sitting in her favorite rocking chair with her eyes closed and a faint smile on her face. She’d lived the life chosen for her by the Great Spirit and lived it well.
Hud and Deb arranged to give their extraordinary mother an extraordinary remembrance. A bronze statue of Little Sparrow standing next to Big Horse was erected on the ranch, now the foundation’s headquarters where the work she began continues to this day. A memorial service was held two weeks after Sparrow died. For the service, Hud and Deb arranged to have the entire Plaintown Philharmonic Orchestra flown to Montana to perform on the lawn of the foundation’s headquarters.
The music selected was Symphony Number Nine in E minor, opus ninety-five, From the New World by Dvorak. The first movement recalled the forest funeral of the Indian princess Minnehaha, or ‘laughing water.’ Deb loved that piece because it so personified her mother who, like moving water tumbling down a mountain stream, was high-spirited and life-giving. The ‘going home’ theme of the second movement helped everyone reflect that it was finally Little Sparrow’s time to rest. The finale represented the frenzied energy and boundless spirit of Little Sparrow, which would continue the work she started.
When they heard the final movement, the animals and birds that lived on the surrounding prairie all stopped what they were doing and listened with rapt attention. They sensed something special and wonderful had changed their fortunes for the better, and all the animals were happy. More than a thousand people from all over the world attended the service to honor the life of Little Sparrow.
Barbara’s body was flown to Milltown and buried next to Bob’s. Her headstone also bore a Star of David, along with an inscription. ‘Here, together with her beloved Big Horse, our beloved Little Sparrow is reposed with the Great Spirit.’
The Milltown Cemetery is a quiet peaceful place on a small plateau above Cedar Creek with views to Cedar Mountain and Broad Mountain. The rains somehow fall more softly there than they do on other parts of the surrounding valley, and the raindrops linger longer on the leaves of the occasional maple trees than they do in other places before they fall quietly to the ground. Pleasant breezes gently caress the gravestones in the spring and fall, their force blunted by the bluff as they rise from the valley floor below. Birds sing their tweets and warbles there, and honeybees drone about the perennials which seem brighter and more cheerful than the flora in the valley. Rabbits hop about and mate there, and squirrels scamper about, gathering up their nuts from the assorted pine and acorn trees that surround the grounds.
The spirits of the original German settlers and the Hackatopas Indians, who died together with them in the bloody horrors of the Great Segan Treffpunkt Massacre, knew that Bob and Barbara came home and joined them in eternal peace. The bodies of the two true and faithful lovers and their good souls were warmly welcomed by the ancients, and all the bones were pleased.
SPIRITS AND WONDERS
It was a still half-moon night with passing clouds. The barn owl flew up to the Milltown Cemetery from the forest beyond and perched high above the grounds on the outstretched limb of a maple. It was a good spot to hunt mice and small squirrels. Off by the ringed mass grave of the settlers and Indians, there were two high school boys, about fifteen years of age. They were sharing a quart of stolen beer when a strange wind came up. It came at the boys from all directions. Some said the bluffs caused it sometimes, but it never happened anywhere else.
The boys crouched behind a headstone and peered over it as they heard the eerie sound of people talking. The owl hooted when he saw something rise up from the ground. They were white, misty figures that wavered in the air. There were two of them, a naked man and a naked woman. The spirits shimmered magically in the light breezes. The woman took the man by his hand and made a whooping sound, like an Indian woman calling her children. The spirits spiraled together upward into the sky for a bit, and then they flew away in beautiful graceful flight toward the northwest.
The boys ran from the graveyard that night, shaken to their core. No one believed them when they told what they saw. The owl lifted off and followed the spirits for a bit before he returned to his limb, but he knew what only an owl of the night could know. The spirit of the Indian woman took the spirit of her man with her to the happy hunting ground that night. The owl knew that only happened when there was true love, and he knew those two spirits would live happily together forever.
A few days later, Slim and Wayne, two grave diggers, were sitting on the ground with their backs against the cemetery’s equipment building. They’d spent the entire day digging three graves for a family who died in an auto accident. Wayne pulled out a bottle of whiskey while Slim took off his shoes to air out his feet. They faced the setting sun and the warmth of the cement wall heated their backs. As Wayne took a sip, he observed a Monarch butterfly come up from the creek below and flutter toward the northwest section of the cemete
ry.
“See dat butterfly?” Wayne said.
“Where?”
“Dere,” Wayne pointed to the northwest section.
“What of it?” Slim was rubbing his feet.
“I seed it befur. It comes up from the crik late afternoons. I knows it’s da same butterfly. It’s one of dem Monarch butterflies, bigger and purtier den da rest of ‘em. It comes up with da oder butterflies like its ones of ‘em, den it seprates from da oders and it goes to da same place about dis time. Den all oder butterflies is gone for da night, but it stays a while. I watched it real close after I seed it come up about four times befur.”
“You’re nuts. Dere’s lots of butterflies.”
“No, I’s ain’t nuts, Slim. Dere’s somepin goin’ on about dat butterfly. Watch. It will go to dat one headstone, the one of dat guy dat had the Injun wife. Watch it.”
“Oh I sees it. You’re right. Der it sits on dat headstone, like you sez. It’s like putting on a show for all to see. How’d you know it’d do dat?”
“It always does dat. Fans its wings open and closed like a whore opens ‘er legs. I went there once and it leaves behind a drop of moisture, a tiny drop on that headstone. Then, just as the sun sets, it flutters off west and goes back down to the crik. I think it’s got somepin goin’ on with that headstone or the body dat’s in dat grave, maybe.”
“All dem headstones in dat plot is fucked up. Mudder and fadder gots crosses, son and Injun wife gots Chew stars. How’d dat happen?”
“Maybe mum went into da hospital an’ dey got a Christun baby mixed up wid a Chew baby. Maybe it’s da Suckulists.”
“Whatcha mean Sucultits?”
“Not Sucultits, Suckulists. Pay ‘tention ‘for I smack you upside da head! Suckulists is dem dat don’t give a shit ‘bout religion. Dem’s da ones dat want all us dumb shits mixed together, like fish in a big fuckin’ food blender machine. Ya goes in Christun, ya comes out a Chew. You’s a Christun or a Chew, you marries an Injun. You’s an Injun and you switch to Chew. You can even goes into da U.S. Senate as Christun and you flips a switch in der, in da Senate, and presto, you’s an Injun!”
“No shit! Dey can do dat? In U.S. Senate, dey cans do dat?”
“I tink so. I heered it on da raddio. Some gal gots herself ‘lected into U.S. Senate, an’ when she gots dere, she flipped a switch an became an Injun!”
“What? She change her name too? Is she Pocahontas or Sacawageesus?”
“Nah, dis gal is totally fucked up. She’s an insult to real Injuns. She’s jest nuts is all.”
“No shit. Cans we go dere to dis Senate place too an becomes sompin oder dan whats we is?”
“Maybe. I heerd it on da raddio bout dat switch in da U.S. Senate all dem Senators do. We’s could flip dat same switch an becomes rich!”
“Yah, why’d she flip the Injun switch instead of da rich switch? Why da fuck she wanna be an Injun anyway?”
“How da fuck do I know? Maybe she jest likes to fuck Injuns. Like I told ye, she’s all fucked up. Some people jest don’t know der own minds is all.”
“You’s drinkin’ too much whiskey. Gimme some.”
Wayne handed the bottle to Slim, who took a swig.
“You think dem butterflies got brains, Wayne?” Slim asked.
“More’n you got, dumb fuck. Hell, you’s so dumb your wife bought you dat motion movie pitcher kamer and you put it on da tree wheres you was huntin, and you fell ta sleep dere whiles deers walk by right in front of ya. Dey even hump-fucked and made house right in front of ya an ya dumb shit slept through it all. Then ya dropped a lit c-gar in da woods and torched evra thing up. Lucky ya wasn’t jailed. Ain’t no butterfly dumb as you, Slim.”
“Yeah, well, yer kid bought ya a compooter an’ all ya use it fer is to sit your ammo reload ‘quipment on it. You ain’t smart, neither. What makes ya think dat butterfly’s smart?”
“I tink dat one’s got a brain and it’s got somepin in its head dat it can’t lay off and go aways from. Maybe it’s had a life frem befur and it’s come back to somepin it didn’t git right in its oder life. Here, gimme dat whiskey back. I needs a swig.”
“You tink so?”
“Could be. Dere’s a story about dat guy buried der. Before he married the Injun, he was hot and heavy with some high-class hooker way out west somewheres. Maybe the butterfly is her. Gimme back dat whiskey.”
“Why ya tink it leaves a water drop on da headstone?”
“It ain’t water, you asshole. I smeared my finger in it once’t. It’s sticky, has a spicy sweet smell, like dem gardeenya flowers. I tinks it’s pussy juice. I tink dat butterfly is somehow dat hooker’s pussy come back to life, an’ it still wants to fuck ‘im.”
“You knows a lot about da bodies in here, don’t cha?”
“Yep, I doos. They’s all got stories. Dat’s why I tinks like I do. Dere’s stuff goes on in here dat makes me knows dere’s other lifes dan da ones we’s got now.”
“Dat so?”
“Damn right dat’s so. Dat butterfly proves it to ya right now. Know how I’m sure it’s ‘is long-lost lover?”
“No. How can ya know?”
“Dat butterfly does other things dat dem other butterflies don’t do. It opens an’ spreads its wings real wide like, holds ‘em opin fer da longest time, like she’s a whore spreadin’ her legs wide ‘cause she’s itchin’ to fuck. Den when it leaves dat headstone, it always flies away to da west.”
“I never seed butterflies dat way. Why ya tink it goes west?”
“It keeps comin’ back to ‘im ‘cause it wants ‘im to go wit her. Wants to take ‘im back west.”
“Well, how’d ya know he ain’t gone with it just now?”
“I don’ts know. I just figure he wants to be with da Injun girl. I heered she was out-of-dis-world beautiful, even more beautiful den ‘is whore.”
“‘Cause they’s buried together?”
“Yeah, I tink so. He loved her, he loved the Injun.”
“But da Injun girl got buried next to ‘im, years later’n ‘im.”
“Well, maybe spirits can love two womens, be in two places at once’t. Maybe his spirit waited for the Injun and finally she came to ‘im. But anyways, I knows dat butterfly proves one thing fer sure.”
“What’s dat?”
“A great pussy never quits! Ha Ha!”
“Yeah, you’re right! Pass back the whiskey.”
MIDNIGHT AT MOUNT OF OLIVES
Susan’s soul continued yearning for Marvin forever after they died. Every Shabbat evening, and every evening during High Holy Days, her soul’s spirit wisped across the hemispheres to the Mount of Olives Cemetery in Jerusalem. There it hovered over Marvin’s grave and beckoned his soul to arise and join with hers.
“Be happy. Know my eternal love. Hold me in your arms and kiss my sweetness,” it whispered to its dead spirit companion.
Occasionally, a bird would hear the haunting disturbance and would startle from the sounds of the whispering spirit, but the bird could not see the maker of the sounds. Then the bird would jump up and look around, for the spirit’s urgings were answered by the faint voice of yet a second spirit. It was Marvin, calling to Susan to wait for him, saying he would try again to arise that very night, as he had tried so many nights before.
Then, the bird would hear the faintest, almost indiscernible rattle of a chain. It was Marvin’s chain which bonded his soul to Eloweiss’s as they waited to be called up together at the end of days. Marvin’s soul tried mightily to follow its yearning heart to Susan’s soul. But despite its exertions, it could not break its chain, not that night. It told Susan’s soul it would try again soon. Then it fell back into its grave to suffer in torment next to Eloweiss.
The bird cocked its head when it heard a moan of exhaustion, an anguished whimpering cry from a soul that was condemned to be joined to its betrothed, wedded both in life and forever after in eternal paired suffering. And then, like the ghostly Shabbat visitor, the bird flew away.
COYOTE ON A RIDGE
Some ranch hands were in their bunkhouse playing poker one night. It was a full moon and the air was cool, with the Rocky Mountain stillness and light breeze coming from the west teasing the fall aspens on the mountainsides above the valley floor.
Suddenly, a coyote howled.
“Listen to that fella. He’s a bigun. Howls deep and mournful. Didn’t hear ‘im last night,” said Big Jim, the first hand, looking at the other three hands through a dim cloud of cigar smoke.
“I heered he’s the same coyote, real big fella, comes ever night when dere’s a full moon. He yelps up on da ridge top. Rancher Bud says he’s seen da animal early in da mornin up dere sometimes. Bud says there’s a huge lobo up on the ridge, half wolf and half coyote, that wasn’t around these parts before dey found those bones up there. A ranger saw it too, said it was a monster lobo from Wyoming, a killer, come down from Canada or Yellowstone through the Wind River Basin an’ down here to Colrada. Ranger said the lobo must have smelled da poor devil’s body all the way from Wyo and comed to feed on it. Sometimes dey’s three or four of dem coyotes in dat same spot wid da lobo. They runs round in circles and yelps like dey’s insane, and deir eyes flashes red and yella in da moonlight, like da devil’s inside ‘em. Bud says dey do dat ‘til mornin’ twilight gits bright. Dey runs in circles round in dat aspen grove up on top, dat spot where they found da bones of dat poor bastard dat got killt up dere,” said John, the second hand.
“You don’t say. I never heard this. What guy?” asked Jack, the third hand, as he popped open another can of beer.
When The Butterflies Come Page 50