Wondering if the adult monkey was alive, the hunter prodded him with a stick. There was no reaction, except for the slightest movement of his head. Takwa looked around for the infant’s mother, saddened to see her lying on the ground dead and covered with ants.
The other men patiently waited while Takwa gently lifted the monkeys from the tree, setting them beside one of their fallen comrades. Takwa knew that if the adult monkey was still alive when they returned, the women would tend to his wounds, believing it would please the spirits.
At dusk, the men arrived in the village carrying their solemn load. The women wailed at the sight of the dead hunters, who were laid in the communal hut. There the women began lovingly washing the bodies, arranging trinkets, stones and flowers around them. The unconscious male monkey was placed in a corner with a poultice on his wounds to prevent an infection. The baby monkey was given to a woman, who would breastfeed the little one alongside her own infant.
When the moon appeared, the chief and elders joined Conchita and Pahtia inside their hut, solemnly sitting around the small fire pit. They all closed their eyes. Soon a white mist appeared and their spirits rose out of their bodies, entering the spirit realm where the totem animal, Taslia, waited for them.
The black jaguar’s outline shimmered in the moonlight as she guided them through the shadowy rainforest, heading toward the waterfall. Birds screeched and clucked. Monkeys hooted. Insect noises radiated from every direction. The group traveled on, intent on reaching their destination.
When they arrived at the waterfall, Pahtia stood at the edge of the dark lake summoning the spirit guide.
Maka appeared floating over the black water. She lovingly gazed at them, saying, “Greetings!”
Pahtia replied, “Greetings! Thank you for helping us.”
“It is my pleasure. For three moons, we will combine our energies to manifest a different destiny. Are you ready?” The Nawatia tribe members nodded. “Let us begin.”
The next morning at the Resourcex camp, Randy woke up ready to start the workday, but the smile left his face when he heard the rain hitting his tent. Annoyed, he put on his jacket and boots, stepping outside. He didn’t see anyone, except for his right-hand man, Pete, who solemnly greeted him, “Morning, Boss,” raising his cup of coffee as rain dripped off his hat.
“Damn it! Does it ever stop raining?” Randy scowled.
“It is a rainforest,” Pete pointed out.
“Yeah, as soon as this storm stops, we’ll get back to work.”
“Well…we got a problem. The locals left in the middle of the night and took their dead with ’em.”
Randy cursed, “God damn cowards!”
Lightning streaked through the sky, hitting the bulldozer. Sparks flew out of its engine. Randy and Pete instinctively crouched down. The other crewmen rushed out of their tents to see what had happened.
Still holding his coffee mug, Pete looked at the blackened bulldozer. “Well, looks like we got another problem.”
Thunder clapped and the rain began coming down in buckets. The men hurried inside their tents. A soaked Randy punched a number on his satellite phone, planning to inform his boss of the weather delays, but the reception failed, so he decided to catch up on his paperwork while he waited for the rain to stop.
However, the rain didn’t stop. By nightfall, the saturated ground caused the tents to collapse, forcing the men to seek refuge in the SUVs, making them a surly bunch.
When the crew awoke the next morning, the rainstorm had worsened into a torrential downpour. They sat in the SUVs unable to see out the steamy windows. After hours of staring at each other, everyone had an extreme case of cabin fever. “I can’t take anymore!” Randy bellowed, “The next guy who farts is a dead man!” The men snickered.
A groan erupted from beneath the vehicle. “Shhh! What’s that sound?” Pete asked. The groan came again. He tried to open his door, but it wouldn’t budge. He asked Randy to turn on the power, so he could roll down the window. Pete stuck his head out. Rain pelted his face. He could barely see a few inches, much less the ground. To get a better look, he climbed out the window. His legs quickly submerged into the soupy soil. “Oh, my God! We’re sinking!” he shouted, scrambling to get back inside the SUV, but he was stuck. “Help me!”
Randy pulled on Pete’s arms, slowly easing him out of the quicksand. A sucking sound erupted as the earth released its hold on him.
Covered with mud and soaking wet, Pete sighed with relief as he closed the window until he heard another groan and felt the SUV shudder.
“We’re screwed!” one of the men cried out. “We’re sinking with no way out!”
“Let’s get on the roof and pray the rain stops before…well…you know,” Randy suggested. “Whatever you do, don’t fall!”
Climbing out the window, each man scaled the slippery vehicle, blindly grabbing the luggage rack, pulling himself onto the rooftop. There they sat soaked, hoping for the best.
In the morning, the sun’s hot rays shone through the clear skies, baking the topsoil of the campsite that was void of any signs of life, tents, vehicles or the bulldozer. It didn’t take long for the porous sand to drain away the excess water, creating a crusty surface that concealed what lay below.
Pahtia, Conchita and the elders returned from the spirit realm. Chief Jebero spoke first, “Pahtia, you were right. The spirit’s power is great! May we live in peace again!”
Pahtia praised Maka for her help, but voiced a concern to the chief, “I fear more intruders will come.”
The chief thought this over. “Let us put warriors near the trail. If outsiders come, our men will warn us.” The elders seemed satisfied with this solution, however, Pahtia remained worried, but after three days with no food, he and everyone else were famished.
When they returned home, the women told them that the two monkeys had survived, then prepared a bountiful, celebratory breakfast of fruit, berries and smoked meats, served with a fermented beverage. The tribe feasted. For now, they were safe.
The Tipsy Buffalo Pub
ZACHARY NERVOUSLY DROVE his parents’ pickup, slowing down as he entered the city limits. A robotic voice from his phone instructed, “Turn right onto Meadow Street.” Zachary followed the directions wondering why he was entering a residential neighborhood. “Turn left onto Industrial Drive.” The street came to a “T” at the railroad tracks. He turned left. Within a few blocks, the houses became sparse as the district gave way to a lumberyard. “You have reached your destination.” The Tipsy Buffalo Pub was discretely tucked between two commercial buildings.
Zachary swallowed hard looking at the shabby building surrounded by heavy-duty work trucks and hog motorcycles. He pulled into the gravel parking lot, found a parking spot and turned off the engine. He took a deep breath before getting out, then hesitantly walked toward the entrance trying to decide if he had the guts to enter.
A sign over the doorway read, “If you don’t know if you belong here, you don’t.” He disregarded it, as well as the faded plastic sign nailed to the door that stated, “You must be 21 to enter,” and went inside.
He waited for his eyes to adjust to the dark, smoky room, trying to appear confident, which was difficult with a half-dozen, tough-looking men staring at him. Zachary recognized the man from his vision sitting at the bar, holding a beer. The man turned toward him, tipping his black hat. Zachary took a seat next to him.
“What’ll you have, kid?” the man asked.
“A Coke,” Zachary answered, trying to ignore the snickers from the other men.
The bartender poured the soft drink while the man in the black hat introduced himself, “Name’s Billy White Smoke.” He held out his hand.
Zachary shook it. “I’m Zachary Thompson. Nice to meet you.”
Billy began the conversation. “It seems the world’s gone crazy. Never been a sane place, but now they’re not content to just kill people. Now they’re killing everything in sight...the trees, water, air. Jesus help us.
It’s gotta end.”
“Jesus?” asked Zachary, “I thought you guys believed in the Great Spirit.”
Billy smiled, causing the dangerous look on his face to disappear. “Jesus, the buffalo, the trees, our ancestors...all are teachers. Wisdom is wisdom.”
Zachary glanced around the bar. “Why’d you choose this place?”
“It’s one of the few places the government spooks won’t enter.”
Zachary suddenly became concerned that Billy wasn’t mentally stable.
Billy noticed the expression on the young man’s face. “Think it’s a conspiracy theory? Once you’re labeled a rebel—someone protesting corporate greed and abuse of power—you’ll notice the dark, unmarked cars following you.” He lit a cigarette. The smoke calmed him. “Freedom is an illusion. Try walking along the road with long hair and it won’t be long before a sheriff pulls up asking questions.” The smoke curled around his face. “Try living your life in touch with nature. The government’s made it illegal to use our sacred plants. They’re afraid we’ll use them and remember how powerful we are. Meanwhile, they destroy the earth for profit and offer us chemicals to heal ourselves. Enough is enough. It’s time to take back our land, our way of life. The white man has proven he can’t handle the responsibility.” Billy looked at Zachary’s light complexion. “No offense.”
Zachary fidgeted with the straw in his drink unsure of what to do or say.
“Look, I want to help you and your family, and maybe, just maybe, there’s still time, but even if your land is doomed, there are others that can be saved. That’s my mission—to help what’s left and stop this insane destruction.”
Zachary’s heart ached over the possible loss of his family’s beloved farm where he had hoped to work all the days of his life.
“You’ve gotta admit, you suddenly got a lot of time on your hands,” Billy commented, snubbing out his cigarette.
The words stung Zachary, who thought, No shit, dumbshit.
Billy drank the last of his beer, setting the glass down. “Kid, if we’re going to work together, you’ve got to watch your language.”
Visiting the Tree
IT WAS A sunny, crisp morning when Billy knocked on Zachary’s front door.
Marilyn answered, “Yes? Can I help you?”
“Morning, ma’am. I’m here to see Zachary. Name’s Billy White Smoke.”
She looked at the man’s long, braided hair and black hat wondering how he knew her son. “Just a moment.”
She shut the door, then went upstairs to Zachary’s room. His door was ajar, so she peeked inside expecting him to be asleep, but instead she found him sitting by the window gazing down at the fields of the family’s farm. “Zach, there’s a man here to see you. Says his name’s Billy—”
“Yep!” he interrupted, briskly walking past her and down the stairs before she could ask questions.
Zachary stepped outside.
Billy was kneeling on the porch petting the dogs. He stood up, smiling. “Good morning! Let’s go honor the tree.” He held up his fringed, deerskin medicine bag.
The two men strolled in the field alongside the woods. The dogs tagged along until they caught a whiff of an enticing scent, wagging their tails as they ran in a different direction.
Zachary kept searching the edge of the trees for the deer path that would lead them to the weeping tree. When he finally found it, he motioned for Billy to follow him.
Trekking through the forest, Zachary kept a close eye on the obscure trail that often melded into the underbrush. Billy broke the young man’s concentration by tapping him on the shoulder, pointing to a herd of deer grazing in a patch of sunlight. The men enjoyed the transcendent moment until a doe raised her head, cautiously looking around with her big, brown eyes, sniffing the air. Suddenly her tail flipped up, exposing the white underside, signaling danger. She bounded away. The rest of the herd followed, leaping over bushes and dashing around trees, disappearing from view.
“Wow! That was amazing!” Zachary exclaimed.
Billy nodded.
They continued walking through the woods. When the path came to the tree, Billy opened his medicine bag, taking out a pinch of tobacco that he sprinkled at the base of the trunk while invoking its spirit, then he listened. After a moment, he said, “She’s agreed to let us sit in her branches.”
“You asked a tree for permission!?”
Ignoring the question, Billy climbed the tree, sitting on a branch overlooking the hills below, then closed his eyes. Zachary followed his lead, finding a strong limb.
Billy unexpectedly sang out loud, “Ne, we, can, e, tepa, we, sphe, ma, mi, too...” He had become a conduit for the ancestors who used his mouth to sing the old language. Billy didn’t understand the words, but he understood the meaning as he lifted his voice, “The Great Spirit is a friend of the people. Let us call on our brothers to remember we are one...the land, the water, the air, the four-legged, those that swim, those that soar. The Great Spirit loves us all.”
The heartfelt song mesmerized Zachary. As he listened, he felt part of an ancient journey begun long ago and saw his destiny unfolding before him, filling him with both fear and awe. I hope I have the courage to fulfill my purpose, he thought.
Billy opened his eyes, smiled ever so slightly, gently saying, “The Great Spirit never asks for more than we can give.”
After spending the morning meditating in the tree, Billy began telling Zachary about his native heritage. “Life on this land was different before the white man came. We only took what we needed. There was no poverty like you see on the reservations today. We shared from our abundance. We hunted together. We ate together. We sat around the fire at night and told stories that explained how we came to be and how to live as one with nature. When an animal was killed, we thanked it for giving its life…so that we may live.”
Zachary asked, “In the vision…when I first saw you…you were on a cliff. What were you doing?”
“I was journeying to the spirit realm. There I commune with spirits of the living, the divine and my ancestors. My spirit wanders among them…learning, listening, asking questions. Sometimes, I go just to remember that I am one with the universe.”
“Oh,” Zachary responded.
“Would you like to learn?”
“Really!? But I’m white!”
Billy laughed. “Everyone can do it. Although, there are some who have a special gift. Their visions are so strong…they can heal. That’s powerful medicine.”
The Miko
IN THE MISTY foothills of the Ōu Mountains stood an ancient Japanese temple surrounded by a meditation garden filled with bonsai and plum trees, lavender and cultivated roses. Wisteria vines clung to the walls and cherry trees draped over the moss-covered stone steps that led to an exquisitely crafted entrance decorated with ornate, yet faded, carvings.
High on the third floor, Haruto gazed out of an open window while basking in the sunlight. She wore a white silk blouse and scarlet flowing trousers with a white sash tied around her waist. Straight, black hair cascaded down her back. Black liner adorned her eyes that had a flourish of red powder on the outer corners. Like her mother, grandmother and great-grandmother, Haruto was a Miko, a tradition dating back thousands of years to when female shamans mingled with the ruling class, acting as healers, mediums and ritual dancers. Over time, the women had been diminished to the role of assistants under the male shamans, which was unacceptable to some of the Miko, such as the women who lived in this temple.
Smoke from Haruto’s slender pipe danced around her face, drifting outside as she surveyed the city of Fukushima in the basin below. The hustle and bustle of the metropolis was tempered by the surrounding majestic mountains etched with rivers flowing into the emerald sea tugging at its shoreline.
In the distance, she saw the nuclear power plant that had been damaged years earlier. A record-breaking earthquake had erupted deep in the Pacific Ocean, demolishing houses, structures and roads, and knocking down the p
ower lines, but fortunately, the nuclear plant crew had been able to start the backup generators, avoiding a meltdown. Everything was under control until the tsunami hit, twice. The massive waves killed 20,000 people and flooded the plant, damaging the generators. The lack of electricity caused the reactors to overheat, then explode. The melted cores leaked radiation throughout the facility, making it nearly impossible for anyone to remedy the situation. Fixing it had become a suicide mission. A few brave souls raced in and out, trying to open vents and flip switches, resembling mice retrieving pieces of cheese while a hungry cat lurked in the room. Over time, the situation grew worse. The outside containment areas deteriorated, allowing radioactive water to leak into the sea. The Japanese government had refused offers of international assistance to remedy the disaster, and suffered ever since. Now the sea surrounding the nuclear plant boiled like an oversized cauldron brewing poison.
Tears came to Haruto’s eyes. She turned away, moving across her sparse room to a table that held an ancient teapot, tea tin and porcelain cup. She poured hot water into the cup, then dropped in tea leaves, watching them sink to the bottom. Green swirls rose from the leaves, conjuring a replica of the city below. The scene within her cup whisked past rows of houses and the shopping district to where the nuclear plant stood. Outside the facilities, the workers wore white protective suits as they scampered around the leaky containment bins. Their busyness kept them from feeling helpless.
Haruto felt the loving presence of the Spirit surrounding her with divine energy. She heard It whisper, “You are loved, as we love all things. What you see before you is the fear within you, reflected outward.”
She winced at the blunt message. “Would you rather have all of us killed by radiation? I must defend the earth!”
“To defend is to believe you are mortal. Only mortals would believe anything has power over them.”
Earth Sentinels Collection Page 3
