The warm summer night descended. It was the night of the full Thunder Moon and it bathed the meadow in a silver light as it rose above the trees to the east. The rising of the moon increased the baying of the wolves. How far away are they? He rose and paced the circle, shivering despite the summer heat.
As he gazed out into the meadow, he saw shadows emerge from the trees. His heart pounded in his ears; his mouth went dry. He strained his eyes to make out which animals were cautiously making their way out onto the grassy field.
“Deer,” he said aloud, surprising himself with the sound of his own voice. The herd stopped, evidently hearing him as well. The sight of the deer herd calmed him. If the deer were on the meadow, the wolves were not close. Yet, the presence of prey could also draw them to this place. For now, however, he relaxed. The behavior of the deer would alert him to danger.
He sat once more and watched the animals begin to graze, their silhouettes highlighted by the moon. The silver outlines of the deer, along with the twinkle of fireflies, transformed the meadow into a place of magic. The wolves had stopped their baying. The more soothing sounds of night replaced them once more. The boy smiled, his fear slipping away.
Small Hawk’s stomach growled. He took a sip of water from the deer bladder. He lay down on his back and stared up into the starry, moonlit sky through the leaves of the old oak. He heard the rustle of the hawk chicks as they shifted in their nest, safe under the watchful eyes of their parents. The sounds of the hawk family caused a feeling of security to steal over him. He curled up on the ground and slept.
* * * It was the screech of the hawk that woke him. Small Hawk sat up, stiff from his night sleeping on the bare earth. He stood and stretched. Everything was damp with dew, and even he was coated with a film of water. It gave him an odd sense of connection to the grass and earth. He walked to the edge of the circle relieve himself. He looked up into the branches of the old oak. The hawk was looking down at him, staring intently. Small Hawk was tempted to shout good morning, but the thought made him feel silly. He watched as the bird took to the air to hunt. It reminded him of how hungry he was. He took a drink of water. Laying the deer bladder at the edge of the circle, he looked around the meadow. All was quiet. He sat and sighed deeply.
All morning the sun shone directly into his small space. At noon, the sun was high overhead. He moved to the very edge of the circle, in order to find a bit of shade that was now becoming available from the oak. He wished he had better planned where to draw his circle. The day was hot; he was sweating profusely. He drank again, tempted to pour some of the water over his head to cool himself. Knowing he had little left, he resisted. As the sun moved behind the oak, the area of shade increased. It was welcome relief.
By mid-afternoon, his hunger was intense. All he seemed to be experiencing was hunger and discomfort. He began to wonder if he was doing something wrong, not emptying his mind, not focusing on his inner self. He tried sitting in the center of his circle and concentrating on finding his soul. He fell asleep.
When he woke, the circle was almost completely in shade, but the heat and humidity were intense. If he were home, he would be swimming in the river with Fox Cub and Young Otter. He drank again. Rides the Wind said a quest could last as little as two days. Well, this was the second day. Maybe he should just give up. Nothing seemed to be happening except he was hot, hungry, and now, sunburned.
He was bored. Maybe he would pleasure himself to make the time go faster. That did not seem to be right, not on a vision quest. But he needed to do something. He was beginning to feel anxious, almost panicky at the thought of remaining there much longer. He decided he would dance. Dancing had spiritual value he knew. The people danced all the time to celebrate the hunt, the harvest, to mourn the dead. He would dance.
He began a slow, rhythmic stomping of his feet. He increased the tempo and began to chant. Around and around the circle he went, faster and faster, twirling and spinning, stomping and chanting. Suddenly, he felt something soft beneath his feet. He heard a low pop and felt a rush of water. He opened his eyes. To his dismay, he saw he had burst the deer bladder. Now he would have thirst to add to his other hardships. He cursed himself and his stupidity.
Night came again. Still nothing he would consider spiritual had happened. He still hadn’t found his spirit guide. He felt the shame of returning to the village and admitting he had discovered nothing about himself, and that no guide had come to him. He curled up for his second night on the ground and fell asleep to the sounds of the night. Maybe the wolves would come. Somehow, he didn’t seem to care.
The sound of thunder quite close by roused him. He sat up. A flash of lightning illuminated the meadow. Another peal of thunder followed. The wind began to blow. More flashes of light and more deafening cracks of sound surrounded him. Then the rain came. Not a gentle, cooling rain, but a deluge. Big heavy drops pelted his body. He rolled into a ball. Within seconds, he was soaking wet, his hair plastered to his scalp. The rain was cold and driving. The wind moaned in the trees. For some strange reason, he thought of the hawks in their nest above him. He hoped they were safe. Suddenly, he felt as if rocks were pummeling him. Hail, as big as a man’s thumbnail, beat down upon him. He cried out in pain. He had to get away.
He stood up and took two steps toward the protection of the old oak tree. Lightning flashed, and there before him in the silver glare stood Lean Bear, beckoning him to come to him. A second flash revealed the man had turned and bent over, leaning against the sturdy trunk of the oak. The boy dropped to his knees and covered his eyes.
The storm passed. The rain continued, but the sounds of thunder and flashes of light were moving away. Small Hawk uncovered his eyes. He could barely make out the trunk of the tree. No one was there. He sank into the wet grass, doing his best to protect himself from the cold rain that still fell. He shivered with cold. Soon all was darkness.
* * * When Small Hawk opened his eyes, the rain had stopped. He rolled onto his back and looked up into the sky. It was grey and cloudy. He sat up. A wave of dizziness swept over him. He felt he was going to be sick. Turning onto his hands and knees, he crawled to the edge of the circle. There he retched and coughed. Though his stomach contracted violently, nothing, save a brown, vile tasting liquid, came forth. Trembling fiercely, he sat back down. He was past the point of hunger, but his thirst was terrible. Why had he not thought to drink of the rain that had fallen so abundantly the night before? He lay on his stomach and licked the wet grass. As he did so, he felt something with his hand. It was the pouch the shaman had given him. Sitting up, he opened the deer hide. Inside, he found a handful of dried leaves. What was he supposed to do with these, he wondered. He brought the pouch to his nose and inhaled. They smelled sweet. The aroma made his mouth water.
Am I allowed to eat these? Is that why Rides the Wind gave them to me?
His hunger made him ignore any hesitancy, and he emptied the contents of the pouch into his hand and ate, licking his palm to be sure he got all he could. It tasted as sweet as it had smelled. He wished there were more.
Taking a deep breath, he rose and returned to the center of the circle. Sitting with his legs crossed, he made a concerted effort to let his mind go blank. This was the third day of the quest. Something, anything, had to happen. He could not stand the thought of failing.
As he sat, he began to feel strange. As he looked out across the meadow, the scene went in and out of focus. He squinted his eyes and shook his head. The meadow seemed to be undulating like the waves on a lake. The movement was making him feel sick again. He closed his eyes and bent his head forward. When he opened his eyes again, he was looking down at the space between his crossed legs. He could see his flaccid penis resting over his sac. He reached down and petted it as if he were petting a dog. He smiled and giggled.
Something caught his eye. Looking closely, he saw a small beetle crawling in the triangle of grass created by his crossed legs and body. He giggled again.
“Hello, little bug
,” he said, his speech slurred. “Are you my spirit guide?” He snickered.
“No, brother beetle is not your spirit guide,” said a voice from directly in front of him.
He looked up with a jerk of his head. There in front of him stood the hawk.
“I am your spirit guide,” it said.
“That has yet to be decided,” said another voice from off to his left. This one was deeper and more guttural.
Looking in the direction from which the second voice had come, Small Hawk saw a large black bear walking toward the circle.
“I am sorry, brother bear, but you see, you are outside the circle, and I am in it,” said the hawk.
“That can be altered,” said the bear. “The boy can invite me in.”
“Since I am in the circle,” the hawk retorted, “he has already invited me.”
Small Hawk’s head swiveled back and forth between the two as they engaged in their conversation. He realized he did not think it strange for him to be able to participate in the discourse.
He addressed them both. “Am I to have two spirit guides?”
“Are you of two spirits?” asked the bear. “For if you are, then you shall have two spirit guides, one to guide each spirit within you.”
Before Small Hawk could answer, the hawk said, loudly and firmly, “He is not of two spirits.”
“Very well,” the bear said, “but I still should be given consideration. Look at him. Hair covers his body and there will be more as he grows. He’ll need the guidance of a bear to know how to handle that part of his life.”
“That’s nonsense,” the hawk returned. “But it is his choice.” The hawk looked directly at Small Hawk and commanded, “Choose,”
The boy looked from one to the other of his two candidates for spirit guide. There was something that drew him to the bear, but in the end he said, “I choose the hawk.”
“Suit yourself,” said the bear with a growl. “But remember, there’s something within you that recognizes me.” He turned and lumbered into the forest.
Small Hawk watched him go and then turned to the hawk.
“Now that is settled,” said the bird. “Let us begin.”
The two sat and stared at each other for a time. Then Small Hawk said, “What am I supposed to do?”
“Anything or nothing,” it replied.
“That does not make sense. Rides The Wind told me I’m to learn about myself from you. How can I do that if I do nothing? And if I do just anything, without guidance, I still will not learn.”
Small Hawk was beginning to think maybe he had chosen the wrong guide. Maybe the bear would have been more helpful.
“Then ask me a question,” said the hawk.
“All right.” Small Hawk thought for a moment. “Will I grow to be a brave, marry and have children?”
“I cannot predict the future,” said the hawk. “I can only reveal what is inside you. I know you want to have someone in your life to love.”
Somewhat frustrated by this, Small Hawk thought again. What is it that I most want to know about myself? “You told the bear that I’m not of two spirits. Was that true?”
“You do not believe it is true? Do you think you are of two spirits: one man, one woman?” asked the bird.
“No, I don’t believe it’s true. I believe I am of one spirit,” said the boy.
“Then why did you ask me?”
Small Hawk snorted in dismay. This was getting him nowhere.
The hawk seemed to see his confusion. “Small Hawk, understand this. I am not separate from you. I am you.”
“What?” the boy said, more confused than before.
“I’m your inner self, in the form of a spirit guide. I reveal what you believe to be true of yourself. What I say to you is as you see yourself. That is how I help you learn who you are.”
Not sure he fully understood, Small Hawk shrugged and said, “Then what would you have me know about myself?”
“You are not of two spirits. But the one spirit that dwells within you is not as other men’s are.”
Small Hawk considered this. “You are saying I’m not like Lean Bear, but I’m not the same as other men either?”
“That is correct,” the bird said. He waited for a moment before continuing. “The spirit that dwells within you longs for love, but not the love of a woman. It longs to love and to be loved by a man. However, it does not want to be used by other men merely for their pleasure, but to share that pleasure as a man does with his wife. To be one with another man, as a man is with his wife.”
Small Hawk reflected on this. The revelation did not upset him since it seemed to be true. What he had seen of Lean Bear and the men of the village had aroused him, but had also disgusted him. Now he understood. It was not the acts themselves that offended him, but the manner in which they took place. Realizing this gave him a feeling of peace.
“Is such a life possible—a life where two men can love one another and be together as a man is with a woman?”
“I do not know the answer to that question,” the hawk said.
Again, Small Hawk pondered. And although it bothered him that there was no answer to the question about two men loving one another, he felt a peace knowing he was not a squaw inside a man, ikoueta, but a man, fully and completely.
“Can I know more about myself?” the boy asked.
“You have within you honesty, courage, kindness, love and loyalty. You are a man of strength.”
“All very well and good,” came another voice, “but let us make sure the boy knows the full story, shall we?”
Small Hawk turned and saw the bear had returned, although he was still outside the circle.
“A man can have but one spirit guide,” the hawk broke in.
“That is not altogether true,” the bear rejoined. “But, for now, have it your way. I will wait and, when the time is right, I will let the boy know what I can reveal about him.”
Once more the bear lumbered off into the forest.
“You really don’t want to hear what he has to say, do you?” said the hawk.
“I…I…don’t know,” Small Hawk answered.
“Well, it would be better for you not to know. My time is up. I will leave you now.”
“Wait,” Small Hawk cried out. “I want to know more about where I can find the love you have spoken of.”
“Remember,” said the hawk, “I can only let you see what is inside you. The answer to that is not within.”
With those words, the hawk rose into the air.
“But,” cried the boy, getting to his feet, “my name, and the token of which Rides the Wind spoke. When shall I receive these?”
The hawk did not answer. It flew off over the meadow.
Small Hawk watched until the bird was out of sight. He sank back down to his knees. He felt good about what the hawk had revealed. It answered so much of the turmoil that had been within him. Yet, it left him wondering how what he longed for would ever be possible. He wished he had received his name and a token to remind him of this day.
And then there was the bear. What part did he play in all of this?
For the rest of the day and into the night, Small Hawk sat and pondered these things. The clouds cleared and the stars came out. A warm wind blew over the meadow from the south. The night sounds began, the fireflies dotted the landscape and the deer shadows appeared from the trees. Small Hawk looked up and saw the silhouette of the hawk return to the nest. Was this his hawk? Or just a hawk? Another thing to ruminate on as he drifted off to sleep.
* * *
Morning on the fourth day dawned. The wind, still blowing from the south, promised another hot day. His thirst had returned. He felt weak and, despite his sleep, tired.
He wondered when he should leave the circle. This was the fourth day. Yet he had the feeling something more needed to happen. He was not sure he could return to the village with the revelations he had received. He didn’t even have a man’s name.
He heard a scr
eech overhead. The hawk flew above him. It seemed to be purposely remaining over his circle. Around and around it went. Small Hawk thought it to be a beautiful sight. Higher and higher the bird flew, soaring on the warm south wind. A feather detached itself from the wing and floated downward. It came directly into the circle, into Small Hawk’s outstretched hands—a feather from his spirit guide, a token from a soaring hawk.
“All right,” came the now-familiar growly voice, “the quest is over. Come out of the circle, Soaring Hawk.”
He turned and saw the bear. “Over? If the quest is over, how can I still see you? And what did you call me?”
“Soaring Hawk. Don’t you even recognize your name? Or would you rather be called Small Hawk for the rest of your life?”
Soaring Hawk smiled. He had received his name after all. “No, Soaring Hawk is a good name. I will bear it with honor.”
“That’s better,” said the bear. “Now come out of the circle and we’ll find you some food and water.”
The young man looked around the circle that had been his home for four days. He took the pouch which Rides the Wind had given him. He placed the feather, his token from his spirit guide, inside and hung it around his neck. He felt a wave of happiness tinged with curiosity as he prepared to step across the line. He looked up at the nest, then at the bear, and stepped out.
“Come on,” said the bear. “This way.”
Soaring Hawk started to follow the bear, remembered his breechclout and returned to the oak to retrieve it. Trying to put it on and keep up with the bear made for a hard go. The beast kept urging him on. Finally, he gave up trying to dress and just trotted behind the bear.
Rounding a bend, he came to a small lake. The water looked so inviting. He hesitated on the bank.
The Search for Soaring Hawk Page 3
