by T C Donivan
Who was I before this? I have glimpsed a face, in dreaming, its mind, its joys, its prejudices, but I cannot grasp it. Its culture is a mystery; the corners of its existence rounded where mine are square, its language was richer, its convictions surer. Who was this? Where was this? Sadness descends. Do not think too long on it. Let it go, live in the moment. This is eternity. It consumes me, this obsession with what I was before. I stood alone with it until she came to me. And now we share it. She is the other half of my soul. It makes us stronger, our confidences united, our experiences joined. And we share our fears. They stalk us like jackals at every turn.
The children must be protected. They must be brought to adulthood that they may defend themselves. But we forget they exist in this eternity of moment as well, full of innocence and joy. We should not wish for the future to come too soon. It pursues us, preying upon our moment of existence, seeking us until we are no more. We were children once too. Those moments live, in our memory. They sustain and create us and they frighten us. In that, we have lost faith. We become like the talkers who paint circles in the air. Keep them, protect them, I beg the spirits I know exist, mother, aunt, parents, all those who have been swept away from this moment. Where are you? Do you hear me?
I look down and see the rocks at my feet. Shall I be like them? Shall I exist only in the fabric of stone, unmoving for a millennium? My toe kneads the dirt, pushing it up into a tiny hill that puffs away to dust in the wind. Or shall I be as grains of sand that scatter to infinity? Will I know my name then? Will I remember who I was? No, because I cannot remember the face in my dreams. As he is lost to me, so shall I be lost to the one I will become. But I shall bear onto my essence of being, that which creates me as I conceive myself, my hopes, my fears, my belief in eternity.
We are as drops of sunlight that splash on the rain, full of light and energy, connected, all to the other, separate and one. That is what she said. I was slow to understand, reticent to accept.
I am unique, I am apart. I am not. We are one.
One sphere of energy, the creator’s gift to the universe. And energy cannot die; only shift its shape and container. God is energy, God is the universe, God is an impossible conception because our mind cannot contain it. It exists only at the edges of our perception, a phantom that slips away when we try to grasp it, lost in the unbearable immeasurability of time and space. Language is come to me and the written word is my grail. The more I know, the less I understand. Knowledge is my religion and my act of faithlessness.
Steel and glass towers have risen and fallen upon the cemetery of forests. Cool winds blow. Birds soar upon their currents, gulls cawing out, the storm gathers. I know them, the feelings they evoke in me. I long for that unknown familiar place. We dig the tomes of learning from dirt encrusted mounds, gleaning words, here and there. The world died and the world was made whole.
There is peace here now where only torment reigned. The ages have turned and we have burrowed out once more into the light. She says that we may return, riding the light, into the ages past, those of us who understand, those of us who are willing. We may set things right, bringing chaos into order and experience beauty without ending. But I mourn, for I cannot remember my name.
****
A hundred Ogallala dressed in feathers and skins circled a bonfire, singing and dancing with varying degrees of abandonment and reverence. The smell of unwashed bodies, men, women and children, burnt buffalo meat, animal excrement and hides, formed a pungent odor unique to that moment in eternity. Spencer sketched furiously at his pad, attempting to record the scene, flickering shadows casting elfin shapes across the figures of his work that scattered like mice disappearing into the tall grass. Mozart tooted out a melody upon his harmonica matching the rhythmic dance. Zenobia and Sebastian were huddled with a Sioux medicine man attempting to discern holistic cures for strengthening the lungs and genitals. The stars hung in the stygian sky like pinprick holes in a dark lantern while the moon chased phantom clouds into the distant mountains. My mind swam grudgingly from the murky smoke of Tree Owl’s dream.
We had left the immigrants just west of Chimney Rock. Sebastian, Zenobia and the scouts had gone south to hunt along the Platte River while we went north with Tree Owl. Our host, Na’he Hinhan, or Tree Owl in our language, was a wanderer in search of the fruit of knowledge and adventure. He had learned English while camping with a band of Hudson’s Bay Company trappers and their priests for a winter in the far north along the Great Slave Lake in Canada and Spanish from Mexican traders in the Sonoran Desert.
Spencer and I spent the better part of a week hunting with Tree Owl. This was a leisurely affair in comparison to the blood sport practiced by Sebastian and his hired hunters. Our new friend had taught us the bow and demonstrated his own prowess by piercing the heart of a rabbit with an arrow from fifty yards distance. We had, in turn, helped down two buffalo cows and a calf with our modern firepower, which had provided enough food for the feast at which we were honored guests.
Sebastian and the others had rejoined us, though Bog Trotter had tried to discourage him after the ransoming of Sheepskin and Mutton. The boy would not be put off and rightfully so, the sights of a Sioux encampment in summer being a novelty few white men had experienced.
Life had become an extended holiday from which I hoped never to return. I sat, leaning against a buffalo robe, drifting in and out of sleep amidst the din of the Sioux gathering. I drifted, the dream still clawing at me, seeking to pull me into it forever.
Rachel lingered at the edges of my hallucination. I had gone to her thrice in the days after our assignation for rapprochement, but like Peter on the day of Christ’s crucifixion, she had denied me without recourse. I doubted we would meet again, but still clung to the hope she would, one day, see the error of her ways and take me again into her loving bosom should our paths cross again.
Forcing my mind from the torpor of its musings, I asked Tree Owl how he had acquired the two sets of scars on his chest. Their uniqueness and uniformity indicated some sort of ritual, I was sure.
“When a Cheyenne comes of age, he is initiated into the Sun Dance.” He poked the scars on his chest. “Two holes are made on each side of the chest and leather thongs are strung through the skin and muscle. Then you are lifted off your feet and tied to a pole that you may experience the vision of God.”
The explanation seemed impossible, but from his demeanor, I knew he was serious. I sat back and contemplated the scene he had described.
“And how long are you suspended thus?” I asked.
“For a day,” he replied.
“Did you see your Great Spirit God then?” I wondered.
“I did and he gave me a grand vision.”
“Tell me more about your God.”
The Cheyenne Dog Soldier blew smoke rings as he exhaled a draught from the long, carved pipe he held in his hands. “The French priests from Canada who taught me your language, told me that your God has no name. Ma’heo is the name of the Cheyenne God, the creator of all things including the spirits of the four winds.” He picked up a stone from the dirt at his feet, measuring it in his hand as if it were an opal. “They had pictures of your God in a book they showed me, He was an old man with a long white beard who they said lives in the sky. Ma’heo is without shape and lives in everything. He is in the pebble in my mind and the sky above our heads. He is in men and beasts and the buzzing insects.”
“Is he greater than our God?” I asked without prejudice.
Tree Owl thought for a moment. “He is neither greater nor poorer. He simply is.”
I nodded knowingly. A girl brought us another platter of meat. I declined as my belly was already over full. Tree Owl picked among the pieces, carefully selecting a long sliver of buffalo liver. The girl smiled at Tree Owl invitingly. Her features were distinct like the others of her tribe, broad at the jaw with prominent cheekbones, no great beauty by our standards, but she was not un-pretty either I thought. I got out my tobacco. Tree Owl
refilled the wooden pipe and passed it to me. I examined it. A small frog was carved upon its barrel. The apparatus was lit and I puffed at it copiously before passing it to Spencer. As I stared at Tree Owl, I again saw him at the head of the great table surrounded by books. I tried blinking away the illusion but it would not fade. Had the wall between worlds actually broken down I wondered? Had I stepped into the perception of what Berkeley foretold, or had I merely taken leave of my senses?
“What was the vision?”
“Another time. Tell me again about the Berkeley dream that we live in,” Tree Owl asked.
I replied, my words painting water colored landscapes of delirious incongruity. When not hunting during the previous days, Spencer and I had spent much of our time attempting to explain the myriad theories of reality and dreaming to Tree Owl. The native had seemed to grasp the concept, our conversation inspiring him to the explication of his own beliefs. The exchange of philosophy had been invigorating.
“There, done. What do you think?” Spencer asked holding out the finished sketch he had working on. . “But don’t burn it, please! I plan to use it as a study for a painting,” Spencer begged.
Tree Owl took the drawing and turned it round in his scarred hands, holding it to the light of the bonfire. He nodded his approval and returned it to Spencer who winked at me.
“I think I shall call it the Lost Tribe of Israel, or perhaps Wandering Jews.”
I weathered the jest in good humor. Spencer’s betrayal of me to Rachel had sat in the pit of my stomach like a sour apple for some time, but I had not been able to sustain my anger at him for long and we had returned to our usual good humor. The escapade with the girl was a mystery to me in many ways. Why had she so easily submitted to me? I could not fathom it.
“Call the picture Berkeley’s Dream,” Tree Owl intoned, his stoic face betraying the no trace of comedy.
That an intellect as primitive as Tree Owl’s could grasp the basic concepts of our philosophy had come as a revelation to me. Though I knew that our host was an uncommon man, still, it said something about these people that they could produce such a specimen. I studied the drawing in turn, absorbing the sensuous curve of the half-naked bodies with a pornographer’s delight.
“It’s natural selection that makes the natives of North America such an agile race, so ideally suited to their terrain. Aristotle himself wrote of it,” I pronounced grandly.
“You’re drunk with exhaustion,” Spencer said.
Zenobia and Sebastian joined us. “How went the consultation?” I asked.
Zenobia seemed pleased as he thrust a rawhide bag of stinking herbs at me. “He claims if you make a tea of these roots and drink it once a day, it will cure all weaknesses of the lungs.”
I tried looking at young Sebastian, but my eyes kept rolling up in my head in search of repose. “Wonderful,” I said.
I noticed Mozart put away his harmonica and join the dancers, his dusky form blending in perfectly with them. I thought of Pan and would not have been surprised to see his feet had transformed into cloven hooves. At some point, my mind slipped off again into the ether. I lay against the buffalo robe, watching the dancers, my mind sliding deliciously between consciousness and dreaming.
My eyes shuttered and I found myself among the willows of a river. My body took flight and I darted upward as if conveyed upon invisible wings. Blue mountain peaks soared before my eyes as my body drifted through cotton white clouds. Below me lay a valley of rivers. An owl’s gray wings formed my arms and a feathered beak my nose. Beside me were two other owls. We dipped precariously among the peaks, gray wing tips brushing rock and tree, lungs screeching out in ill matched harmony.
Another appeared among us and then one more, white doves scattering our avian union. One of the doves drew close to me and I felt a wondrous joy overtake my soul. A great storm appeared suddenly, its thunderheads building like black pillars upon the heads of the mountaintops before us. Gale force winds began to blow, tugging at our wings with the weight of anchor chains, and yet we flew on. Finally one of the doves and I broke away from the others, finding shelter among the trees.
As I craned my feathered neck skyward I called out, “Na’he Hinhan!”
The great owl that flew into the eye of the storm did not look back but cawed in response. My heart cried out wanting to join him. The white dove covered me with her wings and I slept.
****
Sometime in the night, I awoke to the sound of contentious voices, the words in Sioux, of which I knew little. It was strange to awake thus after so restful a dream. I lay upon the buffalo robe, an army of fleas leaping about me as if possessed of St. Vitus’s Dance. The fire had burned down to little more than sparking embers, its blue glow offering a ghostly illumination that was swallowed up by the ebony sky. I wasn’t sure where Spencer and the others had disappeared to.
Tree Owl stood nearby, back erect, feet firmly planted wide apart as if ready to fight. He gesticulated wildly, his foreign words guttural and harsh. Running Wolf, who had threatened to murder Sebastian and me on the first day, stood before him, his face painted with red and black stripes that made him look like a demon. A small group of similarly painted warriors milled about them. I remembered that Running Wolf had been absent from the feast and wondered where he had been. I fought desperately to free my limbs of the lethargy that had chained them, knowing if at that moment one of the savages had chosen to approach me with cudgel in hand; I could have made no protest, only smiled in wan acceptance as he split my skull. My efforts proved in vain, the combination of too long in the saddle, combined with gluttony, had robbed me of my vitality. Knowing I was thus paralyzed, I determined to observe, as was my profession, that I might write it all down later should I survive.
Sebastian stepped out of the shadows wearing only his long underwear and inserted himself between Tree Owl and Running Wolf. He became animated, swinging his arms in wide, crazy arcs. I heard him swear at Running Wolf in both English and Sioux. The Indian struck him on the arm and Sebastian hit him back. The boy was no fist fighter, I could see that. I feared for his life, but still could not rouse myself to action. The Indian pushed him to the ground and put a hand to the long, skinning knife at his belt. As if by magic, Zenobia appeared, Colt Revolver in hand.
The argument reached its crescendo with surprising alacrity. Running Wolf pulled something dark like the pelt of an animal from his belt and shook it in Zenobia’s face. Tree Owl turned his head and spat on the ground. Running Wolf motioned to his followers. They swooped down upon the remnants of the feast that yet remained from our previous night’s debauch, reaching with greedy hands into the pile of bones and fat, stuffing it into their faces like starving animals. Once they had finished, they retreated, belching and wiping greasy hands upon loin cloths and leggings. Running Wolf paused, spying me for the first time. His lips parted and a malicious grin crossed his evil face. He pulled out the hairy pelt and shook it at me, then chuckled and stalked away. He and his cronies climbed aboard their ponies and rode out of the camp.
By now I was finally able to make my limbs work and I pulled myself up from the robe, my head as great a throbbing mass as it had been the day I had fallen into the buffalo herd. I steadied myself then groped about for a drinking gourd to clear the dust from my throat and splash the sleep from my eyes. The first rays of a crimson dawn had begun to show upon the horizon. Despite the ache in my head, I felt a tumultuous joy rising in my soul at the sight of the returning sun and memory of the dream.
Tree Owl came to me, his anger only partially quelled. “What was that all about?” I asked.
“Running Wolf has camped with the carrion eating Shoshone. He is a sneaking dog. I would have fought them, but for the pledge I gave my brothers, the Ogallala,” he replied, contempt coloring his words.
“Hmm, yes,” I answered unintelligently.
I hesitated to offer more of an opinion as I knew from experience, that even in white society; those involved in a blood feud one day
were likely to be bosom chums by the following. Instead, I chose to relate my odd dream of the owls and doves hoping for interpretation. As my tale unfolded, wonderment replaced the harsh emotion that had colored Tree Owl’s dark visage. At its conclusion, he clasped me about the shoulders with both hands and danced me around making me nauseous.
“It is my dream!” He exclaimed.
“Yours?” I asked in confusion.
He gripped me even tighter between his enormously strong hands. “This was the dream I had when I was a boy when I entered the Sundance. I saw the Owls and doves. It is my name, Na’he Hinhan!”
By now Spencer had roused himself, emerging from a teepee and rubbing his great mop of hair. “What’s all the commotion about?” He asked.
“I had a dream. It was the same one that Tree Owl had when he was a boy!” I told him happily.
“Quite nice, I’m sure. How I’d love a cup of coffee about now,” Spencer said sleepily.
He looked about, surveying the scraps of the desiccated feast as if a cup of the Columbian brew might magically appear in the debris. When none did, he pried open his eyes a bit further and peered out at us.
“So what does all this mean?” He asked.
“I’m not sure,” I stammered.
Tree Owl looked from one of us to the other and said grandly, “We are the three Owls. We are meant to embark on a great adventure together. This, I have suspected since first we met. Now, I know it to be true!”
Spencer seemed unimpressed. Resigning himself to the fact no coffee was to be had, he picked up my drinking gourd and took a great swallow, pouring the rest over his head. Zenobia joined us as Sebastian went off to get dressed.
“What was that racket I heard earlier, what was Sebastian carrying on about?” I asked.
Zenobia shook his head in disgust. “The boy amazes me sometimes. He wanted to start a fight over the theft of Sheepskin and Mullet. That ignorant bastard Trotter put him up to it.”
“I saw you take out your gun. You protect that boy like a mother bear her cub,” I said.