by LeVar Burton
Twenty doors lined the hallway, ten on each side. They stopped in front of the last door on the right, obviously arriving at their destination. As the man with the goatee unlocked the door, his tattooed partner stepped in front of Rene and removed her handcuffs. She thought about running, but he still held the stun gun in his left hand. She didn’t know if 200,000 volts was enough to kill a person, but she didn’t want to find out.
A blast of stifling hot air billowed out into the hallway as the door was opened, carrying with it the stench of urine and vomit Rene tried to retreat from the foul odors, but the tattooed man gripped her arm tighter and held her in place. Her eyes watering, she gazed through the doorway at a tiny, windowless room—a room which contained only a metal-framed cot, a sink and a toilet. Nothing more. Rene had never been in a jail before, but she knew a cell when she saw one.
Before she could complain about her accommodations, Rene was shoved into the room and the door closed behind her. She turned and beat on the door with her fist, only to discover that it was covered with gray padding. Even her strongest blow made only a muffled thump. The walls were also padded.
After giving the door a final kick, Rene turned to study her surroundings. She was grateful for the dim lightbulb, which burned in a recessed fixture in the ceiling. At least she hadn’t been cast into complete darkness. Then again, in the dark she wouldn’t have to contend with the dreadful sights that lay before her.
The metal-framed cot lined the wall to the left of the doorway. The bed had been made, but not recently. A tattered green army blanket and dirty white sheet covered a thin mattress that sagged badly in the middle. On top of the mattress rested a caseless pillow, stained from sweat and what might have been blood. Fastened to the cot’s steel frame were four heavy leather straps, two at the head of the cot and two at the foot. Rene shuddered when she thought about what the straps might have been used for.
Across the room from the cot stood a sink and toilet, both stained the color of rotten teeth. The padded wall behind the toilet was also stained. Brown. Rene quickly looked away, her stomach turning, when she realized what had been smeared across the wall.
She crossed the room and tried the sink’s faucet, but it didn’t work. The toilet probably wouldn’t work either. Even if it did, she had no desire to ever use it. The mere thought of her bare skin touching the diseased porcelain bowl was enough to turn her stomach. Instead she turned away from the sink and slowly approached the bed.
Brought up in a household where personal hygiene and cleanliness had been preached, and with her training as a scientist, she knew that a million deadly germs existed in the world. Half of those germs probably resided in the cot’s mattress and filthy coverings. The other half million undoubtedly crawled around on the concrete floor beneath it.
Rene grabbed the edge of the stained pillow and flung it across the room. The army blanket and sheet followed. She didn’t see anything crawling on the mattress but flipped it over anyway, only to discover that one side was just as soiled as the other.
With no other place to sit, she overcame her revulsion and sat down on the edge of the cot. At least her captors had removed the handcuffs, but not before they’d rubbed a groove in her wrists. Rene knew the groove would fade in time. Other than that, she was physically unharmed. Her mental condition, however, was another matter.
Just thinking about her situation filled her with deep, black despair. She had been kidnapped and was now being held prisoner in a modern-day dungeon. No doubt her captors had some evil intentions in mind for her. Sex slave perhaps? A thousand possibilities popped into her mind, none of them pleasant.
“Stop it!” she said, shaking her head. It would do no good to let her imagination run away with her. She had to hold on to the positive. She was alive. She was unharmed. That meant something.
“Yeah, a healthy whore brings more money than a damaged one.”
If her captors wanted slaves, why didn’t they look closer to home? Why go to all the trouble of bringing her from Atlanta to Chicago? It didn’t make any sense. Not unless her abduction was for political reasons.
Rene considered that possibility. She herself had no pull in any political circles, but her father had pull when still alive. He had publicly backed the man who would be President, meeting with and mingling with those in high places. Maybe Rene’s captors had kidnapped her to get back at her father for something, not knowing that he was dead.
Then again, maybe this had something to do with someone she had met at one of the many political functions Leyland Reynolds had dragged her to. That had been so long ago. Never interested in politics, she had not bothered to remember the names or faces of those she met; therefore, she had no connections in the government, any government Rene almost smiled. If her abduction was for political purposes, they had snatched the wrong person.
But she did have connections. Correction, she had one connection. She thought again of the homeless man she had given the code disks to. The break-in at the lab, and her disappearance, would be reported. Maybe the police would question him. If only she could mentally contact him.
Doubt tugged at her mind. The man was in Atlanta; she was in Chicago. How could she even think of mentally contacting someone so far away? Such a thing had never been done before. Even with the Neuro-Enhancer attached and running, the farthest she had ever projected a thought was a few blocks. To try to project a thought a thousand miles, without the Enhancer, was impossible. Absurd.
Rene felt her spirit lift a little. It was the impossible that drove her to become a scientist, saying yes when others said no. Besides, what did she have to lose? She wasn’t going anywhere, nor did she have anything better to do. Knowing it was probably her only hope for being rescued, she again closed her eyes and thought of the homeless man, projecting her thoughts toward him.
Help me. Please, help me. I’m in Chicago.
Chapter 11
Jacob Fire Cloud tied an orange knapsack, a blanket and his leather medicine bundle to the handlebars of his old bicycle. Crossing the room, he took down a sacred wooden staff from where it hung on the bedroom wall. Carved from the branch of a willow tree that had been struck by lightning, the staff was about twenty-four inches long and two inches around. The blackened piece of wood was wrapped in buckskin and decorated with beadwork. Seven feathers were fastened to the staff: three eagle feathers and four wing feathers from a redtail hawk. Like the staff itself, which had been kissed by the Great Spirit’s fire, the feathers were considered strong medicine.
He removed a piece of red flannel cloth from the dresser that sat against the wall and slowly wrapped the staff, taking care not to damage any of the feathers. Once it was wrapped, he tied it to his medicine bundle with a length of cord.
“You’re crazy, you know that?” said Michael Fire Cloud, watching him from the corner of the room. It was the first time his son had spoken in over an hour. Ignoring the remark, Jacob opened the top drawer of the dresser and pulled out a .357 revolver, slipping it through his belt.
“That thing hasn’t been fired in thirty years.”
“Forty,” Jacob corrected.
“At least shake the spiders out of it.”
Jacob smiled and removed a box of tarnished bullets. Putting the bullets in the knapsack, he turned and studied his son.
Michael Fire Cloud was thirty-two years old, tall and thin like his father, with long, raven-black hair—the color Jacob’s hair had once been before time turned it white. But that’s where the similarities between the two men ended. Jacob, rooted in tradition, walked the medicine path, keeping alive the teachings and wisdom of his ancestors. Michael, on the other hand, was a prodigy of the modern age. Raised on the reservation, he had moved to Los Angeles shortly after graduating high school. There he had enrolled in college, learning the white man’s ways. He became a computer engineer, designing programs for a device that Jacob could never figure out how to use.
Unfortunately, like many Indians who leave the reservatio
ns and move to the big cities, Michael was never able to fit in. He felt alienated, alone, a person by himself in a world of many. He cut his hair and dressed like those around him, even got an earring and a few tattoos, but that didn’t help. No matter what he looked like, deep inside he was still an Indian.
Michael’s frustration at not being able to fit in turned to anger. He became politically motivated, joining one cause after another. He fought for racial equality, the homeless, gay rights, the environment, even to save the whales. When the riots broke out after the assassination of President-elect Everette, he too took to the streets to voice his anger, smashing windows and helping overturn cars. He was on the front lines when government troops arrived in Los Angeles to break up the riots. Arm in arm with his fellow demonstrators, he marched boldly toward the soldiers, never dreaming the Guardsmen would open fire on fellow Americans.
The soldiers’ rifles sounded like firecrackers on a Chinese New Year. The bullets sliced through the crowd of unarmed protesters like a giant sickle, ripping flesh and splintering bone, leaving hundreds dead and dying in the streets.
Michael watched in horror as the rows of marchers in front of him were shot down in cold blood. He tried to turn around and flee, but the people behind him kept pushing forward, unaware of the slaughter that was taking place. A bullet buzzed past his head like an angry hornet. A second bullet struck the woman beside him. She grabbed her stomach and crumpled to her knees, blood spurting from between her fingers. The woman’s name was Elizabeth; she was nineteen years old and three months pregnant with Michael’s child when she died.
Stumbling over the bodies in the street, Michael fought his way to the sidewalk in an attempt to flee down an alleyway. He had just reached the sidewalk when a bullet tore through his left thigh. The pain ripped a scream from his lips and sent him sprawling to the pavement. Knowing he would be crushed to death by the panicked crowd if he did not get back up, he struggled to his feet and limped into the alley. Halfway down the alley, he collapsed and passed out
He would have bled to death if one of his fellow demonstrators, a black man whose name he did not know, hadn’t come along and tied a tourniquet around his leg to stop the bleeding. The man then carried Michael to a hospital, where the bullet was removed and his wound treated. He remained in the hospital for nearly a week. When he got out, he no longer had any desire to march or protest. The bullet that pierced his leg, and the horrors he had witnessed, had taken all the fight out of him. Heartsick, disillusioned, he had withdrawn into his shell—and into a bottle.
One year later, Jacob Fire Cloud found his son passed out drunk in a tiny, roach-infested apartment. With the help of a neighbor from across the hall, he carried Michael down the stairs and placed him in the back of his pickup truck. He brought Michael back to the reservation where he belonged, brought him home, saving him from the bottle, the city and the war.
The days following his return were not easy ones for Michael as he struggled to fight off the demons that infected his soul. Jacob had been there for him every step of the way, taking him through sweats to cleanse and strengthen his body, teaching him wisdom to clear his mind, and performing sacred ceremonies to heal his spirit. He was there when Michael awoke late at night, the demons of his city life torturing his dreams. On those lonely nights, when the wind howled and Michael cried, he would hug his son until the shaking stopped and the tears dried. It hadn’t been easy, but in the end Jacob had won. The evil that claimed Michael’s soul had finally given up the fight. He had his son back.
“You’re crazy,” Michael said again. “How can you be sure the White Buffalo Woman has returned? You can’t just go running off, not at your age!”
“We will talk,” Jacob said. He took his son by the arm and led him outside. They walked around to the back of the house and up a tiny hill upon which grew purple wildflowers and sage. At the top of the hill a simple wooden headstone marked the resting spot of Emma Fire Cloud, Jacob’s wife. They had been married for over thirty years, and he was as much in love with her the day she died as the day they married. Earlier, Jacob had climbed the hill alone to sit by his wife’s side and speak of the things he must do.
Reaching the top of the hill, Jacob pulled his small personal pipe from the pocket of his denim shirt and loaded the bowl with tobacco. Michael remained silent, patiently waiting, for he knew his father always smoked first before talking of important matters. Tossing a pinch of tobacco into the air, as a gift to the Great Spirit, Jacob lit the pipe with his lighter. He smoked for several minutes before speaking.
“What do you see?” Jacob asked, pointing toward the refugee camps in the distance.
“Tents, shacks …” Michael said.
“What else?”
“People.”
Jacob nodded. It was the answer he was looking for. “Hundreds and hundreds of people. They have all come here for a reason. Most come here seeking cures for their illness: medicines for their oozing sores, magic for their blindness and withered limbs. They have heard that I am a man of medicine, so they come.”
He turned and looked at Michael. “I have no cures to give them. Gone are the plants which used to grow wild on this land. The white man has destroyed them with his pollutions and poisons. Grandmother’s womb is bare; she can no longer produce the little plants which heal.”
He again pointed at the refugee camps. “Those who are not physically ill come here seeking cures of the spirit.” He shook his head. “Again I have nothing to offer them.”
He smoked his pipe in silence for a minute. “It is written in the Hopi prophecies that there will be three shakings—”
“Haven’t there already been three?” Michael interrupted.
Jacob shook his head. “There have only been two.”
“What about the war, and the earthquake in the Midwest?”
“Those were only warnings,” Jacob answered. “The third shaking is still to come. When it does, our people will be no more.” He looked at the sky, searching for something that could not be seen in the daytime. “It is written that the shaking will occur soon after a house is put in the sky. That time is now.”
Jacob looked his son in the eyes. “But it is also written that before it happens, the Great Spirit will send down a messenger to try one final time to bring the four races of man together. That messenger has been sent. It is her voice I hear calling me, asking for help. I must go to her.”
“But what of the people who need you here?” Michael said, alarmed that his father was serious about leaving. “Who will they go to for guidance or medicine?”
Jacob laid his hand on his son’s shoulder. “You. They will come to you.”
“Me? But I’m not a medicine man. I don’t know anything.”
“You know more than you think.” Jacob smiled. “You have learned a lot since you returned from the city. The people will come to you and you will help them. You’ll see.”
Michael shook his head. “I don’t know all the words to the ceremonies. I’ll mess up.”
“If you do the ceremony with a good heart, and for a good reason, it does not matter if some of the words are forgotten. The medicine will still be honored by the Great Spirit. That is a promise He made to our people long ago. He has never broken that promise and will not do so now. You will do fine.”
Jacob patted his son’s shoulder and walked back down the hill. He went inside and got his bicycle, leaning it against the side of the house. He waited until Michael came down the hill, and then gave him a hug goodbye.
“You’re not coming back, are you?” Michael asked.
Jacob shrugged. “I don’t know. Grandfather has not allowed me to look into the future to see how my journey will end.” He smiled. “But I am like an old dog that nobody wants. I think I will be back.”
Jacob Fire Cloud climbed on his bicycle and started to slowly pedal away. He was still a little weak from his vision quest, even though he had eaten twice since returning from the ordeal. Michael watched his fathe
r for a moment, and then called after him.
“The voice you hear. How do you know it’s her? How do you know it’s the White Buffalo Woman?”
The old medicine man looked back over his shoulder. “The elders said she would return one day. They said she would reappear in the east … and that is the direction from which the voice comes.”
“From the east?”
Jacob nodded. “From Chicago.”
Chapter 12
Amy felt as dirty as the waters of the Mississippi looked in the early light of day. The rich bald-headed man had tried to do something terrible to her: he had tried to rape her. She could still feel his touch upon her skin, his rough hands as unclean as a dead rat. The thought of him pulling her pants down, touching her, made Amy’s stomach churn and her throat tighten. She bent over and threw up, emptying her stomach of what little food she had eaten the day before. What was left of the peanut butter and jelly sandwich, given to her by the rich man, was sprayed over the weeds poking through the cracks in the pavement.
She had cleansed her stomach, but she still couldn’t rid her body of the lingering touch. Nor could she free herself from the fear, loathing and guilt that she felt. The man had tried to rape her, true, but she had cut him with the jagged edge of a broken beer bottle and that was also wrong. Maybe she had even killed him.
Amy thought about it. Had she killed the bald-headed man? If so, that would make her a murderer. The police would be looking for her. They put murderers in jail, locking them away until they died of old age and rat bites. Sometimes they strapped them into an electric chair and fried them until their eyes popped out and their skin sizzled like bacon. She had never seen anyone electrocuted, but the older kids in the shelter told her that’s what happened to people who committed murder. Amy didn’t want to go to jail, or have her eyes pop out of her head. She had to hide.
