Remnants of the First Earth

by Ray A. Young Bear

  “When I was young my grandparents told me not to talk too much,” he’d say with wine-moistened lips. “That’s how I was raised, to not be so talkative.” He’d explain that words were powerful, citing instances where invisible spirits were awakened and angered. “That we don’t want to cause, but many people around here seek to know what the past was like. Without me, no one would know. Still, I have to be careful in what I say. People listen. Those we can’t see, like ghosts and spirits, are listening as well. They are aware of every movement you make, every word you say. They are here in all sizes, you see, standing and swirling around us. . . .”

  With that, he’d take four Marlboro cigarettes, breaking three of them in half, and sprinkling their tobacco over the tile floor of his house. A fourth cigarette, an unbroken one, was then lit and left outside on the ground next to the lower porch step.

  “This last cigarette we leave for the invisible spirits who may have followed you here or are simply wandering around. My grandparents believed they are mostly up to no good, looking for trouble. This lit cigarette is also an offering to our relatives, those who lived long ago, for we will talk about them. May this smoke drift to their shadows and appease them. . . .”

  Carson was renowned for speaking to things other people couldn’t see. And because seemingly inanimate objects, like rocks, benches, cups, bowls, and spoons came to life by either rocking or moving at his presence or command, he wasn’t thought of as a lunatic. On the contrary, he was a well-respected community member, on occasion feared. Because of his abilities, there was solace as well as trepidation in the knowledge that many forces, “all sizes,” perpetually swirled around us en masse, watching.

  Once, on a spearfishing expedition with Winston Principal Bear and Dwayne Afraid, some friends and I came upon Carson as he was praying and waving his right hand over a stringer of huge flathead catfish, tte kwa me kwa. Although he was mumbling we could hear his words clearly over the river ice. At the point where he asked for confirmation that the subjects had readily given of themselves, the bloody catfish arched their punctured heads upward and shook. It was uncanny. They quit moving as soon as Carson spotted us. We learned they had been given to him by some spearfishing farmers for no reason.

  On the way back home, empty-handed Winston and Dwayne said Carson was regarded by the Iowa and Swanroot Rivers as an ally. He knew where the Supernaturals kept their doorways; in return for keeping this a secret, they gave him gifts. When most Black Eagle Childs asked for safe passage in life through prayers, Carson was literally bestowed with gifts. The invisible spirits gave instead of taking. In appreciation for his stories, people, white or Indian, walked up to his porch and left canned goods, flour, coffee, and canned triangles of ham. In that way, Carson became envied, but within his own Earthlodge clan, many resented his storytelling status. While he was liberal with some of his stories, he was criticized for insensitively hoarding Black Eagle Child life itself.

  Although there were ceremonies designed specifically to communicate with the Holy Grandfather, His Twin Sons, and Grandmother Earth, the mystical doorways remained sealed forever and as elusive as Carson. Everyone knew the doorways could reverse our ignorance. What nobody could fathom was why Carson Two Red Foot, a mere mortal, had unconscionably deprived the tribe of the future. As he got older, we lost a little piece of ourselves in his clouded memories until there was suddenly nothing. ...

  When the Corps of Engineers built a dam on the Iowa River in the early 1900s, it only confirmed the realization that we were bound—regardless of whatever precautions we took—to lose. Every decision or event that was aimed at loosening our firm grip on the old ways only underscored the obvious. When the gallant plan to diminish flood levels backfired, causing huge floods, it was no surprise. When the Swanroot River joined the fiasco, three cities and one hundred farms downriver suffered. No matter how many times the dikes and levees were rechanneled or reinforced, the overflow caused incredible mayhem throughout the countryside. Because of the experimental landscaping of the government, the two rivers made the Why Cheer News-Herald headlines: “TAMA COUNTY UNDERWATER!”

  Everyone in Tama County suffered. Although the tribal elders had been informed that such a structure would “reduce damage to the business and residential zones downriver,” it never happened. Instead, the tall prairie grass that once stood beside the clan earthlodges disappeared under the muddy rivers. Flood level records were broken and new ones made in astonishing succession. As expected, the dam builders attributed blame to “inclement weather” and the flooding was not a result of a suspected flaw in the design of the Indian Dam itself.

  There was something unusual about this occurrence because it affected all of what happened thereafter. The width and spread of these floods was like a giant mirror, ke tti-wa ha mo ni. In the reflection the people saw themselves, fleeing. Victimization. In clan gatherings the elders were reluctant to convey in their prayers that everything might have been predetermined, that the doorways to the underworld realm had been replaced by doorways that led instead to the loss of our culture. What our neighbor, Carson Two Red Foot, talked about before is here, said the elders. Loss of language, despondent youth amid unimaginable poverty, and the blurred face of modernity are the signals. When the people looked around they saw much of what the old stories revealed—a gradual darkening of tribal society in the future.

  “Yes,” they nodded among themselves, “this is what was said about how we would start to lose ourselves.” Even without Carson s stories no one could avoid the signs. Eventually, the verbal means to send prayers to the Holy Grandfather would be lost, proving the linguistic demise of an ancient religion was a sure portent for extinction.

  Carson, knowing they would ridicule and blame him in their sermons, rarely attended the earthlodge ceremonies. Blame didn’t reside with Carson alone. Blame among the tribal people was rampant; it made a full circle, assuming different guises and forms. Many felt they were still being punished for the past and present sales of religious longhouse property, like gourd-rattles, stone effigies of the Supernaturals, and even songs. It made sense. Lightning scarred Cottonwood Hill with regularity, and railroad tracks became final pillows for drunken relatives. Others felt it was the transgressions of youth. Or women engendered the chaos. There were suspects; no one was excluded. Many blamed the religious influentials themselves, including those who befriended academics. Whichever explanation you heard and believed, Grandmother used to recollect, the rains fell in unprecedented amounts and did not cease until the families packed their belongings and headed for the safety of high ground. Some of the young men were asked to retrieve the sacred altar mats from the dangerous debris-filled waters. When the families looked back down from where they came, the waters were said to shimmer eerily as far as the eye could see, reminding many of earth’s beginning.

  Today, perhaps for this very reason, most of the tribal households are situated atop four prominent interconnected hills that overlook the riverbottoms and adjoining prairies.

  Unearthly Manifestations

  Recently, on a spring evening in 1960, six Black Eagle Child Indian hoys—all Weeping Willow Elementary School classmates—reported seeing “tiny unknown beings” in beaded finery, clasping their tiny hands together as they traversed the railroad tracks. As the tribal elders spoke to them about the incident, the boys collectively recalled with amazement how their tiny moccasined feet leapt over the large purple rocks and the iron railings that lay atop splintered wooden ties. Held motionless by their power, the boys could only observe as their tiny moccasined feet crystallized. Suddenly, a bluish light from within set them all ablaze, reducing them in size. Next, the small round blue lights separated and hovered in wait as a train came barreling down the winding river valley. As soon as a boxcar became available, with metal screeching wheels and all, the blue lights, like some kind of supertransients, hopped onto a railroad boxcar, using it as a means of propulsion for a quick ascension to the stars. Showing off.


  Among the boys who witnessed this manifestation was Edgar Principal Bear, my sister Clotelde’s son. The other boys’ names are as follows: Theodore Facepaint; Hayward and Kensington Muscatine; Horatio Plain Brown Bear; and Pat Red Hat.

  At a predesignated point near Liquid Lake, the group of boys met for an all-night camp-out. Each had agreed to bring food, water, fishing line, sinkers, and hooks, as well as matches, small axes, flashlights, and blankets. These supplies were then stuffed into blue jeans, which were worn over the lower back, making them look like backpacks or parachutes. From Boy Scout meetings they had learned the legs of blue jeans could be tied as the straps. This is how my nephew, Edgar Principal Bear, began his account of what transpired that night, feeling as if he had just cartwheeled from the sky and landed behind enemy lines.

  —from Severt Principal Bear’s Diary*

  Edgar Principal Bear, with hardly a breath expelled, sat on the largest sandy beach of Liquid Lake, on the north side. With both legs crossed, he leaned against a homemade backpack and peered into the hill looming above. To the west, through the condensation on his glasses, he could see the last strong sunlight reflecting off the oak leaves of Rolling Head Valley. In the mild breeze he could smell the oiled railroad ties. To the east was nightfall itself. With the sun’s glow gradually fading over the darkening waters of Liquid Lake, Edgar began wondering how much time he’d have for a mad dash home in case no one else made the rendezvous. He had been warned by his grandmother repeatedly that the moments before night and day were the most dangerous. Realizing this, Edgar began to breathe rapidly, and his heart thumped loudly underneath his boney chest. He had been here before with his uncle Winston and his friends on a spearfishing expedition. In fact, this was close to the place where they had spotted Carson Two Red Foot holding a conversation with a stringer of resurrected flathead catfish. But it was daylight then, and the only fear was thin ice.

  Were there similarities between breaking ice, earth’s darkness, and what lurked within? he asked himself. Spying into the fish’s realm, underwater, was an experience he’d treasure for years. Driven by the pounding of logs over the ice, catfish in multitudes would travel under the half-submerged mossy green trees. Edgar with a long six-pronged spear in his frozen hand would lie by a hole in the ice beside his uncle with a blanket over his head, blocking out daylight. In an effort to calm himself down, Edgar began thinking how this large body of stone-encased water provided good fishing and swimming.

  He inhaled the cool fishy odor of the thriving backwaters of the Iowa and Swanroot Rivers and then scared himself with a thought pertaining to Carson Two Red Foot and the secret he possessed: If the Iowa and Swanroot Rivers were forced to reroute themselves, could the doorways of the Supernaturals shift in the landscape and arrive here? Could this also be the reason for the sightings of lights and tiny people?

  Edgar thought about the town whites who called this place a “quarry,” which was an error because no one ever dug rocks here for commercial purposes. Amid his racing thoughts of his grandmothers admonitions against coming out and being alone in the woods, he saw a figure roll out unexpectedly from the overhanging maple branches.

  “Hey, hey! Who’s there? We ne a tta-i na i-ki wi ta ta?” yelled out Edgar in a quavering voice.

  “Ed-Edgar, is-s-s that you? Ki-na a na?” came a stuttered reply. Twigs were being raked and snapped from the limbs. In the sunset-reflecting water, bullfrogs began their loud bellowing, scaring Edgar ever more.

  “Ted, is that you? Ki na a na?” cried out Edgar in despair.

  “Yes, ha-ha-have you see-seen the others? E a i ke ki tti-ne wa wa ki-ko ta ka ki?”

  The figure of Theodore Facepaint that had been crawling toward Edgar stopped mysteriously halfway up the beach and bunched up. Edgar twisted his neck in every direction to look around. Seeing and hearing nothing, he answered Ted’s questions. “No. I haven’t seen anyone. Hey, how come you’re not coming over? Akwi-me i-ne wa ki ni-ko wi ye a. Hey, ke te tta wi-e ba wi-bya wa ni?”

  “Sh-h-h-h-h ... I hear something. Listen. Sh-h-h-h-h . . . Ke ko-ne ka ske ta. Be tte tte no.”

  As the two quieted down a short distance from each other, the bullfrogs in the pond did the same. Cranes and herons, their large wing-spans in silhouette, glided across the blue and orange iridescent waters of Liquid Lake, landing with minimal noise on the willow branches. To the south, from as far away as the Stonehouse on old Lincoln Highway 30, cackling owls could be heard flying toward them.

  “Ther-there’s thr-three of-of them. Ne so wi-ta tti wa ki” said Ted in a fearful voice that began to stutter less. “It-it also seems as-as if they re getting closer. Or is someone talking? Me to tti-ke e i kike tti ni-bye wa ki. I tti ke-ko i ye a-ka na wi ya?”

  The dark hunchback-shaped mound that was Ted scuttled across the white sand sideways like a crab. Its pincers were held outward, aiming at the silhouette of Edgar, who was by then standing up, having gathered his parachute-looking apparatus, breathing more heavily. Every time the three owls cackled, the crab stopped its jerky travel and spun its shell-body in a quick circle, like an armed turret with twin machine guns, making sure nothing was thinking of taking advantage.

  From the east, along the railroad tracks, the sound of shoes grinding the huge rocks against each other could be heard. Next came the illumination of three bobbing flashlights—and voices! Edgar and Ted held their breath and looked upward toward the elevated tracks, hoping. Gradually, the talking got closer and more distinct. It was Horatio Plain Brown Bear, Hayward Muscatine, and Kensington Muscatine, jabbering away. They were noisy and totally unaware of the three owls who were getting closer.

  Edgar and Ted called out to their friends. Above, on the railroad tracks, the three flashlights froze. Just when Horatio was about to shout a question, an explosion shot up from somewhere over the water. Whh-h-oommmp! It sounded like a huge boulder had been lobbed over them from the hills. Around them, the cool water spray fell in huge drops.

  “Have you seen Pat?” asked Horatio, while directing a dim beam of light down toward the beach and into cowering Edgar and Ted’s eyes. Hayward and Kensington did the same until strange bubbling sounds echoed over the water. Together the trio swung their flashlight beams across the top of Liquid Lake, searching. Under their combined lights, strong waves were visible. Horatio, this time in a tone of worry, said, “Maybe a beaver, huh?”

  “Geez, I don’t know,” answered Hayward, whose flashlight was edging toward Horatio’s. “Maybe a family of beavers or a catfish the size of a man or even a seal, the one named Dam Monster?”

  “Whatever, there’s something out there,” said Horatio, as he slid down the railroad tracks and onto the sand. “How come you guys are so quiet?” he asked of Edgar and Ted.

  “The owls,” they both replied, pointing downriver.

  “What’s this owl business? Don’t you know something just blew up?”

  Cautiously, Horatio walked across the pale beach, going past Edgar and Ted. Near the shoreline he knelt on one knee. “But it isn’t what you say, Hayward,” he resumed. “Look, everybody, the waves are building up again!” Horatio, along with Edgar and Ted, trotted to the bottom of the tracks; they then readied themselves to climb back up.

  Hayward, who was rarely apart from Horatio, began to panic. “But. . . hey, you guys . . . don’t get scared,” he said in a spurt. With his skinny rear in the air, Hayward slid backward down the embankment, scraping his knuckles.

  “Get back to where you were!” commanded Horatio, lighting up Hayward’s butt, but it was too late.

  “Ow! Watch it!” cried Hayward upon impact with Horatio’s flashlight.

  “Well, geez, be quiet then,” warned Horatio, pushing Hayward away. With that, they lost balance over the discarded railroad ties and fell into some tall thistles. After they picked themselves up, an argument was about to ensue when Kensington began shouting. “Look at the water! Look at the water!” Sure enough, when they redirected their dim flashlight beams, ther
e was another disturbance in the water. This time they saw it. Wh-h-h-oommp! Like the “Old Faithful” geyser they had seen in classroom films, the water shot straight upward and high. And shortly afterward bigger plops of rain fell around them and onto the nearby trees. With that, they all climbed onto the tracks, scurrying away like wary crabs.

  As they stood huddled together on the tracks, Kensington whispered in a deep, excited breath and the others listened. “It could also be a bunch of geese! They’re here all the time. They nest on the stone columns where the first Settlement bridge used to be.”

  “Hey, that’s where my grandfather captured a witch,” said Edgar.

  “Now what’s this witch business?” asked Horatio, complaining. “First, you said there are owls. Which is it? Make up your mind.”

  Ted, who was standing next to Edgar, asked in a clear unwavering voice how far the old bridge was. Kensington, with one hand groping and handling something inside his backpack, reiterated that it might be geese.

  “The bridge? It isn’t far,” answered Edgar, adjusting his parachute and keeping a cautious eye toward Liquid Lake. “It’s that way.”

  Without a single word being stuttered, Ted delivered another swift sentence. “This has to be the same place where Dark Swirling Cloud received the Star-Medicine.”

  “Hey, come on now,” implored Horatio to Edgar, “don’t start scaring us!”

  Suddenly, behind them, deep in the woods, they heard leaves being parted and twigs being broken. There was movement behind the tall cottontail grass.

  “Another noise!” remarked Edgar.

  “Yeah, we heard it,” snapped Horatio. “So what?”

  “First, the three owls; second, the water; and now this! But my grandmother says that if you don’t dwell on strange occurrences, you decrease their presence.”

  “Yeah, there’s a lot of noise here. And if what your grandmother says is true, we should think about something else entirely. Ted, don’t make this any worse by your strange talk. OK? We’re here to look for spaceships. Remember?”