Challenging Destiny #24: August 2007
Page 7
She began to smoke and placed herself into a prayerful mindset while Red Feather sprinkled a pinch of the bag's contents into the fire and donned his own pelt. The pipe was simple but expertly carved from a solid piece of pipestone, the tobacco local and traditionally prepared (the taste was noticeably mellower and smoother than the store-bought Pahana tobacco that often got used for convenience). The old man watched her smoke, waiting for some subtle signal...
The walls of the hut slowly disappeared from her perception, lost in darkness and haze, but the sensation was not unpleasant.
Her body fell into a rhythm of bringing the pipe to her lips, inhaling smoke, lowering the pipe, and exhaling...
Her remaining thoughts drifted like wispy clouds in a season of drought.
Lift, inhale, lower, exhale...
The weight and unfamiliarity of the pelt no longer register. It is a second skin.
Lift, inhale, lower, exhale...
She's not sleepy or disoriented, just calm. Her mind is clear and uncluttered.
Lift, inhale, lower, exhale...
Her peripheral vision no longer picks up Red Feather, but his presence remains constant. She looks past the fire into the darkness where the door was.
Lift, inhale, lower, exhale...
Red Feather growls. A low sound from deep in his throat. Almost a purr. Her blood resonates with the sound. The growl shifts for a moment to a higher whine before returning to the deep rumbling—
The memories come, a gentle stream that quickens to rushing torrent:
{she is stands in the rain. she moves silently through the sleeping camp, mind focused on her goal. she slips into the tipi that is her target, her child barely stirring in her crooked arm as it suckles her breast. the couple lay together beneath buffalo blankets, their newborn resting in the woman's arms with its head at her throat. a glance tells her that they have drunk from the water jug with the sleeping powder. with practiced movements, she reaches down and twists the infant's neck to break it, slides the baby from the mother's loose grip, and sets her own child into its place. a pang of loss hits her and she forces it away. she must not falter now. the dead human baby is meat for her pack, her own living child is an encumbrance. this is how it must be. if he survives, he will be claimed one day by a pack of his own like she was. she must forget him. once stands in the rain is certain her baby—the baby—is properly positioned and the human couple has not stirred, she rises and steps cautiously from}
{this jesus society that remains in awatovi is dangerous to them. it will spread like a disease and bring more pahanas. it may also bring more of the blood drinkers. all those who take part in the jesus ceremonies must be destroyed. she must see to it. once deserted, the village will make a fine place of refuge for her pack and the slaughter will provide an abundance of meat. there is hatred enough against the pahana priests for the abuses they heap upon the people there. all it will take is to encourage the talk of witchcraft, fan the flames}
{fire everywhere, smoke, confusion, her senses are overloaded and disoriented. the blood drinkers are everywhere, far more than they were told. lightning wolf, where is lightning wolf?? a few long strides away, a mass of the wretched creatures leap upon two eagles—they're tearing the limbs from his body! no sign of the blood-drinker chief at all. they are betrayed! cursing herself for cowardice, she shifts her spirit to the pure wolf and runs through the burning streets. gunfire! bullets scream past}
{she watches as the trapper lays pelt after pelt upon the desk, the hides of brothers, sisters, cousins, and friends piled up as grisly trophies of slaughter and she must watch and say nothing. wanted posters with wolf faces upon them}
{she runs with what remains of her pack. the blood-drinkers are so much stronger than men and track better too. for days now they have been pursued, then escaped, only to find the blood-drinkers closing upon them again later}
{it is done. strange newcomers dead now. (scent identification) carves manmarks of close human pack in wood to confuse. he is clever. alia reads what her memory-eyes cannot: “croatoan"}
{running, running, joy and excitement, scent so strong, prey close, pack near}
{slaughtered buffalo rotting whole in fields as far as her eyes can see}
{the smoking ruins of the massacred village, stomach rumbling}
{slash, bite, tear, savage joy, frenzied celebration of feast}
{he mounts her and she gives herself to the joy of mating}
{she howls a warning into the night even as she runs}
{she is dominant male, no other will lead this pack}
{more of her kind than she's ever seen together}
{soaring inside an eagle, human camp below}
{the meat of the blood drinkers is foul to}
{human screams, drawing her}
{they lie together, content}
{her forest gone forever}
{scent of sheep on}
{must hide, must}
{raw hatred}
{all failed}
{ ... }
a gorgeous, silver full moon shines down from the clear sky above. alia stands in a lush, primeval forest lent a grayish blue cast by its light. such colors, unlike anything her eye has ever perceived before in life or dreams. she can barely breathe as her gaze takes in wonder upon wonder...
the silence is absolute...
she feels the gentle, steady throb of her heart in the trees, the sky, and the soil beneath her feet. like having a new sense, she is aware of The Wolf's presence without seeing, hearing, or smelling It. she turns to find It watching her from atop a mossy fallen log three yards away...
The Wolf looks to be the exact creature from which red feather's pelt (her pelt) was taken: an arctic species, soft and radiant white fur like newly fallen snow with darker shades visible only in the ears, muzzle, and paws. at the same time It is more, It is all wolves, the magical essence which infuses and connects the blood of all chermasu. Its eyes are like red feather's, wolf and human mixed with a knowledge beyond time shining from within. First Wolf.
you know me, It says without speech, a language of movement and innate knowledge.
do I? she responds.
you know me.
I'm not sure.
you know me.
I don't remember.
you know me, First Wolf tells her for the fourth time.
yes. you took me to see my mother.
for the briefest instant, the Wolf Qatsina stands in the place of the unearthly white Wolf. then the Wolf turns and bounds away.
stay or follow.
her heart makes the decision before she can even consider and she is running, moving with a slow, dream-like grace as if traveling underwater...
despite this, she keeps pace with the Wolf, leaping obstacles and negotiating the dense undergrowth with ease...
her every stride seems to cover ten...
the forest blurs around her, she sees only the Wolf...
up ahead, It waits in a clearing. the trees, the soil, the rocks are all topped with snow, but no tracks mark The Wolf's progress to Its place in the center. The Wolf rises onto Its hind legs, transforming as it does to become the Wolf Qatsina and, then again, to become a perfect fusion of human and wolf. It is a being of both nightmare and fantasy, a creature caught halfway between worlds.
she moves toward It, the snow softer and less tangible than expected. like walking atop a cloud. the Standing Wolf seems to look her up and down and she realizes that she's wearing a manta of third mesa design with her hair braided up above her ears, squash-blossom style: the traditional dress and hair of an unmarried maiden.
she comes to First Wolf as a Hopi.
It does nothing for a moment, then the towering Wolf-Man begins to dance. It moves faster, faster still, arms moving together in the same rhythm. then It stops, throws back Its great head and sings out to the moon above. a beautiful note layered with frequencies, the first sound to break the silence. the Standing Wolf looks to her.
she
nods her understanding, having memorized the dance.
It touches the pads of Its first two semi-human fingers to her forehead, just above her eyes. it feels similar to when the lightning struck her in her childhood vision, but the sensation is doubly intense now. her spirit power is both confirmed and strengthened.
running a clawed finger down Its chest, the Standing Wolf creates a seam in Its fur and a red glow emanates from within the creature. It draws aside Its fur to reveal Its glowing, beating heart...
light floods her vision, washing away everything...
Sees Within.
she blinks. she has yet another name now. she stands in a kiva and understands that it is the deepest part of herself. understands that this entire journey has not been a traditional dream or vision journey, but is instead a journey into herself. hanging on a peg in the kiva wall is a single white wolf pelt and she understands what to do.
she currently understands, in fact, much more than she will remember upon her return to red feather's hut. this does not worry her, however, for the knowledge will remain within her, influencing when needed. she takes the wolf pelt down from the wall and slips it on.
the transformation is quick and effortless. Sees Within moves confidently across the kiva floor on her four legs, tail swishing happily back and forth. she throws back her head and sings out a single note of exultation before running nimbly up the rungs of the kiva ladder and out...
* * * *
Alia sat up, her head snapping up from her chest. She was trembling.
Red Feather gazed at her. He nodded. “I feel in you the awakened blood. Tell me the name you received. I will not share it with any other, but it must be known to me."
The fire had died down and the Elder fed it a few more branches while she gathered herself to speak. So many memories, so much to absorb, so much already draining away...
"Sees Within,” she managed.
Red Feather let out a grunt of surprise. “A powerful name. It is as I thought, then; your vision will guide the Pack when I am done. It is for me to help you to be ready."
Only a moment ago, her feelings had been a turbulent mash but already she felt them draining away and realized that they had not been her feelings at all, rather the feelings of long dead ancestors living again in her. Alia was strangely calm, focused. The situation was still so unreal as to be more like a hypothetical discussion in the kiva than something affecting her life.
"Wait,” she said and removed the white pelt. It felt nearly alive with power now. “Some of the things I saw—some of the things I felt myself doing..."
Red Feather also removed the pelt from himself, rolled it up. “I understand your fears. It was much the same with me when the eldest brother of my blood awakened the memories."
"Allow me to tell you our story. It is not like the stories of the Hopis and Diné, passed down in words from the early times. It is a thing which I created from the memories I experienced as well as the experiences and memories told to me by my first Packmates. Others have said that it helped them in putting order to the chaos of the memories."
Anything would help, but certainly the familiarity of a story would soothe her. And his voice was comforting to listen to with its even, rhythmic lilts. He'd warned her that the things he'd show her would disturb her, hadn't he? “Yes, I'd like to hear the story."
Red Feather smiled, tucked his pelt back in his pack, and assumed the straight-backed posture and faraway gaze of the storyteller. “Ahodi'neeshnih,” he began, his voice gentle but with a subtle tension that hinted at things to come. “Long time ago—I'm not sure how long, but the world and people and animals were already around—there was First Wolf..."
* * * *
The story took hours in the telling, but it did soothe much of the anxiety that the memories had awakened in her. After the creation of the Chermasu, the loss of their changing ability, and the Twins’ effort to win it back, Red Feather told of how the blood-drinkers (the monsters in his thinking) had arrived in the land as prophesied and begun a systematic campaign to wipe out both Chermasu and Indian. The Chermasu had no choice but to ally themselves with their ancient adversary Man to battle this new threat. Though there were great victories, primarily led by the Chermasu hero Lightning Wolf, the alliance proved too fragile and too recently forged to succeed. In the last great battle between Chermasu and blood-drinker, Lightning Wolf was betrayed into a trap amid the burning city of Chicago. The few survivors of that battle scattered to the winds and took refuge among the native peoples on their reservations, occasionally daring to have children and pass along their ways to select members of the tribe...
Chermasu ways. The ways of a people she'd had no knowledge of before today, whose ways were not the Hopi way. If her Mother and the clan of her Mother were not truly Hopi, then she was not Hopi. That was tradition. Her Mother and her Father lived their lives as good Hopis. She'd lived her life as a good Hopi; it was all she'd ever tried to be.
How could she try to live now as something else?
"Grandfather,” she began, using the general term of respect for an elder. She took a breath, suddenly conscious of the offense she might give by misspeaking. They sat beside each other now, warmed by a fire she had built during the last section of the story.
Red Feather cocked his head, lowering his hands to give her his full attention.
The air itself went still, the spirits pausing as if to eavesdrop.
"I suppose the simplest way to put it is that I'm afraid that to learn how to be a good Chermasu, that I'll have to ... forget how to be a good Hopi. It's ... it's also that all those things you told me about our history were so unpleasant and kahopi that it's hard to imagine wanting to be a part of that heritage. Not that I think that you do, either.” She was already tripping over herself and it was making her angry and more awkward. Damn having to speak in English! “What I mean is that you seem to have found a way of balancing the Navajo life you were raised in with being Chermasu. I was hoping that, perhaps if you told me how you've managed to do that, it might help me find my way."
Red Feather glanced at her before turning back to the fire. His body became more rigid, a subtle tension in his bearing, even as his flame-lit expression slackened in thought. “The first thing to understand, I think, is that I do not try to be a good Chermasu. The ancestors of our blood did all kind of wickedness and built around them an evil reputation everywhere, and it was a reputation they deserved. It was Chermasu hidden among the Diné who raided the biliganas and let the clans who made treaties take the biliganas’ anger. Then, after the biliganas made them take the Long Walk, the Chermasu stayed living by eating the dead and the children of the ones who were captured. The ones who would later be my Diné clan were among the captured ones. They told me of the way things were in that place..."
She couldn't help but shudder, his revelation both shocking and saddening to her. The Long Walk: after months of conducting “scorched earth” warfare, which destroyed the tribe's ability to feed itself, Kit Carson and the U.S. Army rounded up about eight thousand Navajos in 1864 and forced them to march over three hundred miles to Fort Sumner. They were housed at Bosque Redondo, in conditions no better than a Nazi concentration camp, with thousands more Apaches. Starvation, disease, and execution took a horrible toll during their four-year imprisonment and less than five thousand Navajo returned home.
The Elder didn't show much of his reaction to these memories in his face, but she could see the uncried tears waiting in his eyes, hear the sorrow hiding within his words, and feel the grief, shame, and deeply buried anger carried from him on the air like the heat from Father Sun. Without thinking, she placed her hand lightly upon his and just let it lay there, expressing herself through the simple human contact.
He didn't look at her or respond other than by turning his hand over to gently clasp hers, but his gratitude was clear. “The parts in me that are good are the parts that are Diné,” he continued. “In my Pack, I use Chermasu traditions only when
it is helpful for us to think of our common blood. For me, the history that was passed down from my clan and hataali teachers is the true history. For me, Wolf—who was made the chief of all the animal people after the emergence into the Fifth World—is the same as First Wolf; in this same way is Black God the same as the god you call Maasaw. There are also many places before and after that part in my history when I think that the doings of First Wolf and his children were confused for Coyote's doings. Because the world is different within everyone's thoughts, there are many levels of understanding to all histories. The history of the Chermasu, as shown to me, is a true history, but it is history as seen by people who were more wolf than human. The way that I learned to live with both histories was to look with a higher level of knowledge and see how they are both true."
Just on the surface alone, there were many elements of Hopi history that allowed for beings like the Chermasu to exist if she were flexible enough to let herself see them. It reminded her of the visual illusion Mrs. Whitehorse had shown the class in school, where a picture of a forest looked empty at first, but then your eye found an Indian warrior hiding in the forest, and then another, and another until the entire forest was full of Indians. That was the first time she'd realized that your eyes and mind could be tricked into blinding themselves; her understanding of how people could have such different opinions of things had come quickly after that.
"Then you must have also found a way to make the Pahana's history true for yourself,” she said in mock-awe, feeling it was time to inject a little humor into the discussion.
Red Feather laughed and gave a dramatic sigh. “That is beyond even my power. I fear it takes the gods’ level of knowledge to make that history true.” She chuckled and he gave her hand a gentle squeeze before letting go. “But you also wished to know how I keep balance between the two worlds that I walk."
He paused to think before he resumed. “I still remember how it was when I was a boy and the biliganas came and took me away from my family to go to their school: how they cut my hair and slapped my face when I cried; how I was made to wear their uncomfortable clothes; how the biliganas would shout and make mockery of me when I could not speak their words in the correct way; how they would whip me when I spoke Diné. Most of all, I remember how I wished all the time to be home with my family again. I ran from the school to return home many times; again and again I did this, no matter how they scolded or beat me when I was taken back. I remember that I was a selfish boy and often my Mothers would scold me: ‘Evil-spirited child, you must share with your brothers! If you do not, we will have to tell the hataali about you and he will come and cut off your head.’”