“Excuse me, I think we’re caught,” said the child traditional dancer who wore an eagle head in the center of the circle of feathers mounted on his lower back.
When I looked behind, I saw the open beak of a stuffed eagle’s head stuck in my belt loop. In the crowd we had somehow backed into each other. It was a relief to see this kid and his eagle feather bustle instead of a giant red rooster. I became less tense, knowing I would not relive a spur kicking that led to the nickname “Ed Chickenback” bestowed years ago by my uncles, Winston and Severt Principal Bear.
For fear of breaking the delicate feathers, I backed up carefully and unhooked the stationary beak. It was odd, this unfastening of a stuffed eagle head. For a second I thought its eyes blinked at a certain angle in the sunlight. The young boy dancer was humored by my spontaneous comment, as were the dancers who surrounded us. We all sort of chuckled and went on our ways.
Later, as the war dances started up again, I saw the same young boy standing directly across from Luciano at the White Spotted Shirts drum, staring. No longer a youth, his whole demeanor had altered to a hideous state. More than before, I took attention of his appearance: Half of his face was painted bright yellow, and it came up right to his eyelids—maybe even stinging him, for he blinked. Constantly.
The kid stood as if in a near trance, watching every movement we made. His shiny eyeballs stood out behind the yellow paint. When he caught us looking back, he would break into a wicked, broad smile, baring his teeth like a ferocious animal.
This demonstration of supernaturalism nearly scared the shit out of me. Literally. After the long travel and strange-smelling food, and minus the luxury of real toilet paper at most rest areas, my stomach churned at the bizarre spectacle. (Linda Blair, the cinematic child demon in The Exorcist, would be virginal compared to the metamorphosis we beheld.) As we observed, our muscles shook involuntarily from fright mixed with sheer exhaustion.
Whatever compelled us, Luciano and I each went in the opposite direction around the drum, walking toward the child-entity, stalking him. I must have thought about my witch-capturing grandfather in wait under the first concrete river bridge of the Settlement. The big difference with us was that this encounter was in full daylight, with the sun and clouds hovering high above and songs resonating in the brisk glacier-cooled air.
Before we reached him, the child-entity made a physical gesture, like the kind a long-distance runner makes as the starter pistol is raised into the air. He held that half-crouching, about-to-leap motionless pose and then zipped away through the unsuspecting crowd at hummingbird speed. His legs did not move, however.
The people never took notice as he made abrupt right angles, zigzagging through them. The back view of the eagle’s head and the feathers resembled an actual eagle, hopping away backward from something unknown. Its beak opened and closed as if gasping in excitement.
(That same year at a well-to-do Indian family’s party I recoiled at first glance of toy football players who held that same motionless runner’s starting pose. Witches in teams and uniforms skated across the tin field that hummed loudly from the electrical power. I stood back and looked around the room.)
We ran after the young boy through the unsuspecting crowd before he disappeared into a row of distant pine trees. Far from the celebration, large black birds with long tail feathers squawked at the intrusion and fluttered frantically from limb to limb. Their fluttering wings made the pines seem alive. We circled each tree amid crow protestations until we cornered the child-witch between two of the largest trees.
In our presence the lifelike sheen and texture of the child’s skin began to harden in the cool breeze. At the point we grabbed his arms, he began to deflate like the rubber inner tube of a tire that had been punctured with a dull penknife. In our hands the small human disguise collected and then became brittle. In the silence we stood with our arms and palms extended in the air, hold nothing but bits of a memory that we thought was aliye there. . . .
Ne kwi no ma-a be i-na i na-e we bi-ta ne ne ma ki-ne tti se e ma. I long for my older brother (Luciano) whenever I begin to think about him. Ke te na me ko-te we bwe wa—Leslie Silko— e na tti mo tti-ne tti: na e bye i ke wa ni-ne tti ka ki na-ki ma tti ma wa ki-ki tti be ma te si tti ki. It is true what Leslie Silko says: that if you know how to write, you inevitably deal with those who once lived—by yourself.
A human presence is forever. Even Luciano’s. Even if he didn’t quite die. Whether in the act of storytelling or fond remembrances. The mere virtue of being alive, permeable and free, rang throughout the physical totality of the person who was Luciano Bearchild. He sought and was able to experience new ways to see things, to live them and not be complacent. While we were startled by the Blackfeets and their mystic landscape, we realized that earth and humanity were immense. Both of us were also aware of inexplicable phenomena.
In thinking back, I realize it may all have been a dream. Maybe. For me, ever since the supernatural manifestation at Liquid Lake, I didn’t look boldly toward the galaxies nor did I sit listening for unusual night sounds. They were there. All kinds of forces, like the whirlwinds of lost souls or shadows, whipped across the plains and prairies. Some were mischievous, others demanding. For Luciano, they came down from the stars, wrapped him in a brilliant shroud of light, and abducted him. Forever . . .
Braided Strips of Medicine and Paper Bullets
Through the watchful, transforming fireflies of Liquid Lake to the nightmarish experience with the supernatural disguised as a child traditional dancer, and through the animistic personification of all living, moving and unmoving, seen and unseen, known and unknown entities through my grandmothers stories, I hegan to develop an inordinate, premature sense of regard for air, water, fire, the four seasons, plant growth, and wildlife.
From a star I had seen explode above me as I stood in my plastic imitation cowboy chaps and hoots with tin spurs, teeter-tottering on a small mound on the path where I thought I saw my late grandfather change into a winged being, along with my two uncles and their cousin, I equated myself to the sparks that slowly fell to earth. Parts of me were therefore scattered over the forest floor that was covered with a glistening blanket of umbrella-shaped plants.
Being afraid and cautious of nonordinary things and happenings was a natural part of being Black Eagle Child. Realizing this took a long time, though. I was consumed for the most with naïveté, my euphemism for having no direction. It was only when I saw these supernatural manifestations in person that I began paying attention. The strength that could make household furniture gasp and come to life or the strength to make fireflies fly in V formation before expanding into a bus-sized fluorescent craft was an ancient night-enemy secret. That or something else entirely.
It was Grandmother who brought this awareness about early on. Clothed in a tight flannel shirt, perforated jeans, and church-donated shoes, my cherubic innocence did not sit well with Grandmother. Through the Six Grandfathers’ Journals she wanted to expedite the maturing process. Through something no normal human could fathom, she introduced me to invisible forces. I was so young, though, that a bulk of her wisdom and wizardry—real or imagined—went unappreciated.
Because of the enormity of what I was expected to digest, compromises were made. There are indications, even now in adulthood, that I was spoiled. But that in itself, in a variety of ways, was to my advantage. I could at least look forward to gifts in the form of candies, toys, movies, and trips to the local carnival and circus. The downside was that if I had tirelessly recorded Grandmother’s entries for half a day and my overtures for a movie were not taken kindly, I had tantrums.
But even they were made into lessons.
Without anyone really saying point-blank that my Grandmother was responsible, tree branches at night were made to whip about by themselves, making my demanded walk to the Why Cheer Theater more frightening. At first sign of a tree’s tremors I learned to bow my head unflinchingly toward the gravel. But about a mile from home, a
s we sat on the bridge by the Barber Shop and Pool Hall, my small, shivering legs convinced me the cinema and the enchanting fragrance of popcorn wasn’t to be. (Later I learned how to prevent the unnerving “whipping tree branch” phenomena from taking hold. It was a matter of herbal “persuasion” concoctions—and mental control.)
While the image of swaying eerie van Gogh-like trees silhouetted by the stars is easily revisited, the undetected presence of upper-level wind and a wild, unbounded imagination deserve equal consideration. Nevertheless, without answer or reason, unusual things would occur in my childhood, like the green ball of fire that danced in the yard one evening at the height of a fever: in my delirium I was told that the same person who had touched my infant face, leaving a trail of chicken pox scars, was responsible. Anything that was glowing green at night was a sign of evil. Somehow I understood that the dancing ball of fire had manipulated the Spanish galleon’s green mass to pass right through the kerosene-darkened cardboard ceiling. Inundated with gravity, the scratched-in image of a sad-faced baseball player and the name “EMILY” came down, forcing my liquified meal out into a bucket.
The women who had been summoned to my aid—all of them knowledgeable in good medicine—took alarm, but that was it. My symptoms were accepted as a sign that either I had broken free of the spell or the worst was forthcoming. My mother and grandmother were present that night. Like doting mother hummingbirds they flitted in and out and in between the cluster of helpers—their neighborhood friends and their daughters: Betty and Sarah Anne Red Boy, Sophia Ribbon and Rose Grassleggings, Mary Ellen MacAloon and Alice August. Nothing could be done with the green dancing light except to keep it at bay with the cedar incense that was being sprinkled over the red-hot embers inside the iron skillet.
Rendered speechless, I saw the sails and flags of the galleon dissipate amid the gentle-smelling wisps of purifying smoke. The anchor at last broke free from my chest. No longer was I being dragged along the rim of a bottomless chasm where tunnels had been bored in the side by the shiny tan pincers of giant crabs.
I was relieved but I still couldn’t communicate. I lapsed into a half dream.
On the exact grassy spot in the yard where a light green hall of fire danced the night previously . . . ;
With the window curtains closed, the women were back in their chairs. Without anyone saying it there was a sense of resignation that extraneous factors were involved and nothing could be done. When they say I “almost died,” I believe it wholeheartedly. Foremost in my recollections were the washcloths presoaked in boiled herbs being wrung over my palpitating belly. After that, this:
On the exact grassy spot in the yard where a light green hall of fire had danced the night previously—an omen of imminent death—I saw the shape of a large, muscular man standing absolutely still in the shadow of a thick thorn tree. At first, he appeared very normal as he came forward along the clothesline, walking a few steps whenever the wind whipped the colorful clothes into the air. But when he got to a distance where I could see his face, I saw a grotesque heing who was part-human and part-fish. He came out into the bright windy daylight and returned my gaze with shiny demon eyes. Without a neck of any kind, the fish-headed being in a dark gray suit, vest, and slacks was a grotesque rendering of someone’s nightmare.
“Has your illness subsided any?” questioned the suited demon.
I elected to close my unbelieving eyes and ...
“Did you hear my question?” repeated the demon more loudly.
I kept my eyelids shut but almost opened them when I heard sloshing footsteps come to the moldy edge of the window. My own cries for help through clenched teeth were drowned out by the women and their daughters who chatted idly over coffee and day-old sweet rolls in the next room.
“Listen to me, then,” he said. “That Spanish galleon, that loathsome ship that hovers above you like a buzzard is more of a threat than me.”
The mere thought of this wooden ship, especially its compressed night-enemy power and mass, floating just below the ceiling, caused nausea. It could roar like a revved-up tractor engine, and the black smoky afterburn clogged my nostrils.
Upon my opening of one crusty eye, the physical enigma that stood near the window shook my body with such intensity that my once-limp arms flopped about and accidentally spilled the two basins of boiled medicine extract onto the blankets and floor.
The chatting of the woman and their daughters stopped.
“I have nothing to do with the galleon,” stated the demon in a necktie hanging askew. “Nor do I have anything to do with the green, dancing light.”
My tongue watered and the putrid odor of a long night’s worth of throwing up made my stomach muscles cramp in pain. I was able to grab and dam up my mouth before it filled with bitter-tasting fluid. As I adjusted my rigid body over the bed’s edge, I emptied myself of the galleon’s strength.
“I’m not the one to blame for its choice to be with you,” continued the demon.
When my stomach and mind finally had no more to give, I sat upright and groped desperately under the mattress for my knife. It was the knife I had received as a prize at the carnival downtown. Surely, I thought, such a balanced sharp Made will whistle and find its mark through the slimy gills of the demon-fish. But shortly after I released the knife from my fingers, I saw my uncle Winston dodge the airborne weapon. He had been there at the foot of the bed all the time. And my weapon, a spoon, careened off the woodstove and exited through the door’s window. Exhilarated, I could feel the small house’s stale air rush out. As I laid back down, I sensed the departure of an unwanted boat and an inquisitive fish-faced being. My uncle, with a smirk on his large brown face, swept up the fine pieces of glass with a broom and dustpan. . . .
Long before I saw oceanic vessels on film, I dreamt about them. The Spanish galleon, in spite of its horrific overtones, along with Grandmothers stories and awesome demonstrations, established in me a clear understanding of animism. I could see the intricate and subtle interrelationships of the prairie and woodland life-forms as they materialized from a pool of clear water. Underneath the sky was the wintry earth and its long blades of dry grass, pale twigs, and smooth pieces of multicolored stone. Held still as if in a photograph, this was the serene reflection of Grandmother Earth herself, the universal microcosm of the person I loved the most. “She was the earth herself. ...”
With a five-foot, three-inch frame, Ada Principal Bear was a small Black Eagle Child woman. Her attire consisted of loose blouses and long skirts she made by hand or with an antique Singer sewing machine. Her color preferences were simple: black, dark green, and purple. She also wore scarves around her neck or over her head. Black ones. Silk in the summer and wool in the winter. For Earthlodge clan ceremonies or the tribal field days, she was adorned with German silver jewelry on her thin wrists and fingers, including her neck and earlobes. For these special occasions she wore traditional-style skirts and blouses that were designed with beadwork or ribbon appliqué in floral patterns. These would come out from storage in suitcases and trunks. Here, the colors were dazzling and loud. We knew when a dance was in the offing by the regalia that swung from the clothesline. On windless days we walked up to them and studied their traditional Woodlands designs. Depicted on the skirt panels were medicinal plants and their stems, vines, and leaf formations; these were meticulously outlined with either beads or silk material in a liberal array of colors.
When I became conscious of my surroundings, at around five to seven years of age, Grandmother, No ko me sa, was nearing her sixties. Accustomed to walking, she would leave early in the morning for work downtown. In color and black-and-white 35 mm photographs I took between the ages of ten and sixteen, Grandmother is often shown squinting through her glasses. On the picnic table in front of her is a plastic dish containing beads* and her hands are caught in midair as they prepare to scoop up the beads one by one. Matching her physique was her small wrinkled face with friendly eyes and a faint smile.
A
nd she loved to talk and reminisce. She recited stories that made one think of what lurked outside the house at nightfall. Sorcery cannot exist without human suffering, Grandmother used to say. Enemies with “daylight-seeing vision at night” were summoned and they took their evil services seriously. Just as a vulture spots a potential meal, the gradual dying of someone could be seen from afar, and the methodical wait and timing of a nourishing, life-prolonging meal became an art. Among the abilities and assets of these enemies were night-seeing, flying through thick brush with short wings, and prying open windows with their sharp talons.
Ancient accipiters?
The fact that the practice could thrive for centuries without depleting the entire pool of potential victims was never contemplated.
Was the life-taking craft ever expertly controlled, like the taking of bounty?
Was there a quota for the number of people who could be executed from a rival clan or family?
Was there a silent agreement, a code, a course taken that determined a boundary?
Was it four avenged deaths from the beloved family of a rival sorcerer in a lifetime, or was it anyone from the namesake?
If the spell ricocheted and came back to its source,” did the spellshooter know his or her family was in jeopardy?
Remnants of the First Earth Page 12
