by John Hansen
I could hear some chanting and beating drums as we exited the van and walked towards the entrance. Intermixed in the noise was some rock music playing in the distance.
Greg and I got through the entrance after giving our names to a couple of ladies at an entrance booth. Mine was on the list thanks to Thunderbird, and Greg’s was on it thanks to Dee.
As we meandered through the crowds, I occasionally caught people staring at us; a young guy with a Mohawk eyed me warily, an older wrinkled face gazing just long enough to show that we stood out. I looked for Thunderbird but didn’t see any sign of him.
As Greg and I milled around, at this point with no particular plans or destinations, he explained to me the program of the powwow, gleaned from what he knew of years past and from what Dee had told him. There were to be traditional dances, he explained, and singing to start things off, the chanting and drums we heard were part of that. Then there was an equestrian show (a rodeo), then music and food and just hanging around, and then finally more traditional dancing.
“There’s also a sweat lodge ceremony for a chosen few,” Greg explained. “It’s a special honor to be included – and they can only fit so many in the little enclosures they use, anyway. It’s a big deal – very serious and spiritual for them.”
“Ah,” I said, nodding. “I got invited to the sweat lodge thing by Thunderbird. He made it seems like it was imperative that I go.”
Greg stopped walking and stared at me. “Will, only like ten or so people go to a sweat at a time, and they only do it twice during the entire two-day powwow – and this kind of gathering is only once a year. I’ve never been… Why did Thunderbird invite you?”
Greg’s concerned look worried me; but as I thought about it, he just shook his head grimly. “Never mind – I don’t want to know...” he said. “Thunderbird just does whatever he wants, I think. Hopefully it was just his idea.”
He began walking towards the far end of the field. I followed him, feeling nervous about the impending ceremony. Didn’t people die sometimes in those sweat lodges?
We walked over to a large crowd near the bleachers who were watching a group of men singing and drumming. The singers were all men, in a circle, most of them short and very fat, wearing plain clothes, jeans, sweatshirts and a few sports jerseys and hoodies. One guy had on a Raiders cap, a couple of them wore cowboy hats too. They were all beating a fast and steady rhythm in perfect unison on a big animal-hide drum. They were drumming with thin, small wooden sticks that were wrapped with string and colorful weavings. A few stick had feathers or beads hung from them and they made a “whooshing” and rattling sound between the drum beats.
As the monotonous, rhythmic pounding of the drum continued, a man began singing and shouting in a high-pitched screech. He then was answered by the men in the circle in unison with raspy and loud voices rising up to the same wail. All of the men stared down at the drum the entire time with expressionless, blank faces.
While they were singing, a couple of women, who stood off to the side, both carrying toddlers in their arms, shouted some Indian words intermixed into the song. Their words sounded more like shouts, but it was clear even to me that they were speaking words from the native Blackfoot language.
Like other Native American singing I had heard, this song had a tragic, desperate sound to it. It was at once fierce and intimidating, and also sad and meek. It was wild, but also had a compromised sense to it – especially when you viewed the large, fat men who sang it. They did not seem fierce, more like a conquered, reluctant foe now made docile.
I walked away from the group and left Greg at the circle, who said he wanted to stick around and talk to a couple of people he knew, but that I should “watch my back.” I walked on and came to a large clearing where traditional dancers were just beginning an exhibition. There were about fifteen men in full dress with very vivid and elaborate costumes – so outlandish in fact that it reminded me of the New Orleans Indian dresses of the Mardi Gras parades.
The dancers were forming a circle which slowly revolved around a center pit with a fire just beginning to burn in the middle. The day was still cloudy and cold and I could feel the heat reaching me from beyond the ring of dancers.
Around the dancers were a crowd that was sitting, standing, some filming, and others eating on picnic blankets. Lots of women with children were watching, also lots of teens. The procession of full dress dancers started moving in a line.
The drumming and singing came from a stereo this time, not from a live group. Over the broadcast chanting and signing, the dancers whirled around – each doing a different style. Some were stomping in a slow circle as they moved, some were spinning frantically. It was enchanting to watch the circle slowly revolve, a circle made up of whirling vivid shapes and colors.
As I watched I began to feel drawn in to the spinning mass of energy. I watched mesmerized as the circle stopped rotating and expanded outward, then with a loud shout from the dancers, began circling even faster and closing in on itself.
Like staring at a display case with carvings in a museum, I stood entranced, imaged the scene playing out hundreds of years ago, before the intrusion of white man, wild and utterly natural. The costumes would have been much more sedated, I assumed, toned down to leather and feather, bone and beads. And the crowd would have been a thin group of Blackfoot, watching with casual, somber expressions. The meaning of the dance would have been as significant and relevant to the people as eating, sleeping, and dreaming; a specific purpose and message to the dancing would have been known by all in the tribe. I wondered, as I stood there hundreds of years in the future, what the dancing did mean, what it had been for. I looked around at the crowd and wondered if these Blackfoot knew anymore, either.
I gazed at the dancers moving in a rhythmic circle, and I pictured Alia standing next to me, watching her ancestral dancing spinning in dreamlike circles before her eyes. Again I wondered what my summer would have been like not having met her. I looked at the leather strap on my wrist. Two spirits indeed… is she here with me? I felt a shudder pass through me as the dancers spiraled inward in a perfect circle.
Suddenly the circle broke off and the dancers formed a line that led out of the clearing and off into the crowd, where it eventually dissipated. No one clapped, the music and singing just continued with the empty circle and the fire burning. A couple of little children ran out into the clearing gleefully, but their parents quickly waved them back and hushed them. It was if the circle was sacred, and the clearing was to be used only for solemn, special purposes. The crowd did not seem to be leaving.
As I looked around at the crowd I suddenly spotted Jake, sitting in a circle of men some distance away from the clearing. He was leaning against a large cooler and had a bottle of Jack Daniels in his hand – just a bottle, no glass to drink from. He was wearing the mirror shades, as always, and sitting perfectly motionless, as always, frozen behind the glasses; you couldn’t tell if he was awake, or even alive, as always…
I was watching him when a big hand suddenly slapped me on the back. It was Thunderbird. I felt a wave of relief slide over me to see him. “Big Will!” he shouted, and then gave me a bear hug. I hugged him back. “You came!” he said.
“Of course I did,” I said, smiling back at him. “But I was warned to stay away…”
Thunderbird looked concerned, and reached out and put a hand on my shoulder. “I know, I know, I know, there’s a bad spirit about this place today – there’s something different in the air.” He looked around at the crowd and up at the sky. “We have to clear all this up once and for all. Come on.”
He led me off towards the far end of the powwow, where some tents and teepees had been set up. I walked past Jake’s area and he was still there, sitting stock still and watching me. His head moved slowly as I walked past, I kept my eyes on his mirror frames until we passed by him.
Thunderbird walked me through some people picnicking on the lawn near the teepees and further back towards the re
ar of the powwow. A large tent was set up near the back, with two large tree-carvings on either side of the tent entrance – an owl on one end and a bear on the other.
Thunderbird waved me over to a group sitting under a large picnic-style tent, which was mainly just a roof structure made of nylon fabric and metal poles. There were about eight men sitting around a table, with lots of food and beer and other drinks spread out before them. The men were older, very wrinkled and most of them fat. Large bellies, grey hair, tan wrinkled skin, and button down shirts with bolo ties and cowboy hats were the uniform of the group. I saw only a couple of young guys sitting around the table, and one was Clayton.
Clayton saw me and I nodded over to him and he nodded back, his expression was unreadable.
“Guys, this is Will,” Thunderbird said to the men in general, pushing me slightly in front of him. “Will Benton.”
A couple of the men nodded vaguely but most just glanced at me and then went back to their lunch, which consisted mainly of fried chicken and potato salad.
Thunderbird smiled encouragingly and escorted me over to one man in particular, a heavy-set middle aged man at the far end of the table.
“This is Floyd Crow, Will,” Thunderbird pointed a stubby finger down at the man. “He’s on the Blackfoot council. I told him about you.”
I couldn’t imagine what Thunderbird might have told him. I smiled very slightly and held out my hand. The man reached up and shook it, and then back to eating without saying a word. Floyd Crow was a short man, old, probably about seventy, and had long, thin grey hair over very dark tan skin. His back was hunched over and he had a broad, portly frame. He was wearing a western, cowboy type shirt with an open button-down shirt. Thunderbird turned around and led me over to a spot nearby, where we sat down on the grass.
“Just hang out for a bit here,” he said, and sat down next to me, folding his arms like Buddha.
I sat back in the chair and watched the men finish their lunch, wondered if I was intruding and if Thunderbird had just made a social error. The men’s conversation was low and unintelligible from where I sat. Clayton’s back was to me now, but I could see that he didn’t contribute to any of the conversation, he just ate in silence.
I was worried about what Greg might assume from my sudden absence, and I leaned over to Thunderbird. “I came with Greg, the Ranger, and he’ll be wondering where I am.”
Thunderbird nodded and stood up. “I’ll go tell him where you are.” He sauntered off without another word before I could stop him, leaving me sitting alone on the edge of the council. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly, looking around the group.
After a while Floyd Crow stood up heavily from the small table and walked over to me. He turned to Clayton and waived him over to me. Clayton nodded and got up, and followed the man over to my spot.
“Will, let’s walk a bit,” Floyd said quietly. I got up and followed him as he walked away from the edge of the powwow. He kept a slow pace, with Clayton and I on either side of him. Clayton said nothing.
“I’m an Elder of the Blackfoot Nation in Montana,” Floyd said in a deep voice, apparently not remembering that Thunderbird has just introduced us earlier. “I have been told about you, and I wanted to meet you.”
I didn’t know what to say so I just nodded.
“This is Clayton Red Claw, who you already know, I believe.”
I acknowledged Clayton with a nod, and then none of us spoke for a moment as we walked. One thing I had noticed about the Blackfoot was their habitual silence, their comfortableness with being quiet and not speaking. It was their natural state it seemed. I rarely ever heard a loud Indian.
“Have you ever been to a powwow before?” Floyd asked.
I told him that I had not.
“Among the many purposes of our coming together at this event, Will, are that we gather together to help each other, in hard times. We come together, each of us, to offer our skills and whatever abilities we possess… put them to work to help each other, so we may live together peacefully, just as ‘iit-tsi-pah-tah-pii-op’ intended.”
I nodded and glanced at Clayton, who now looked bored and irritable.
“Thunderbird has told me about you,” Floyd continued. “He has a certain skill and ability and he uses it to help the tribe – as we all should – and his ability is to see and hear the spirits, to hear what they say to us.”
He looked at Clayton and then at me and smiled. “Thunderbird may seem… different, but it is not for us to judge why the spirits talk to one and not to another.”
We got to a gravel path that led along the main road and we walked down it in silence for a minute, crunching the stones and dust underfoot.
“Thunderbird knows, however, that there are some serious problems in our tribe in Browning, and that things are getting worse. He’s been our eyes and ears in the park and elsewhere.”
At the “Candi Factory? I wondered to myself.
“He has told the council a great many things, things like this drug business.” He looked at Clayton. “Your father kept this tribe in constant turmoil and trouble during his tenure, Clayton, despite what people think. And with you running for Council Chief you have a lot going against you because of the trouble your father was in. But I admire what you’re trying to do.”
“I know you do,” Clayton answered.
Floyd looked back down the path we were on and stared at the approaching forest, “But we are hearing things – things that make me worry. There’s a new tension between the tribe and the police and they say that it is because Canadian drugs are moving through Browning again.”
I saw a tired kind of sadness in his eyes. “I have asked Clayton about this, Will, and he swears he is not involved, but he says that someone in Two Medicine Campground is, but he is not sure who. And there’s only a few of you at Two Medicine.” Floyd stared at me a moment, as if searching my eyes and my face for some sign. Floyd’s eyes were wrinkled bags that overhung his pupils, almost hiding his brown eyes from view. It was like looking at a topographical map of someone’s life, on their skin. He looked back down at the path and continued to walk. “This is not a time to be holding secrets back, boys.”
“And we’ve been told about Alia Reynolds, her murder, the resulting investigation,” he continued. “We all knew Alia, Will. Thunderbird told us about her final days, and that someone in Two Medicine was with her before she died.” Floyd stared straight down the path; his manner of speaking was like his manner of walking: plodding, steady, slow, and deliberate.
“And so you see why I wanted you to come to the powwow, Will.” Floyd Crow looked over at Clayton and then at me. “Between the two of you young men, there is a lot that could be answered that could help us out in these bad times – a lot you can answer. You both need to come clean about what you know to help us move beyond these bad times.”
We walked on a moment, stopping when a bald eagle suddenly flew overhead and towards the trees. Floyd Crow watched it in silence for a moment. “And then there’s the spirits…” he said. He then reached over and held my wrist – the one with the beads. His hand felt dry and rough like sandpaper. “I don’t see spirits – that’s not my gift. But I’ve been told you are struggling with a spirit that is not yours, Will, and Thunderbird says you are to attend the sweat this evening. I think that’s good. I want Clayton to be there too.”
Clayton looked up. “I was going anyway,” he muttered.
“And when you’re done,” Floyd continued, “I want you both to come see me. I keep an office in the VFW – I’ve heard you’ve been there.” He reached out and took my hand again. “I’m glad you’re here,” he said, staring me in the eyes. “I think it will be good for you.”
He released my hand and began walking back towards the crowds. “I’m at my office after three on weekdays. Let’s talk about all this next week.”
Clayton still hadn’t said a word, but as we approached he reached out a hand and touched the old man on the shoulder. “I�
��m going to help get the sweat lodge ready. I’ll see you later.” Floyd Crow just nodded and kept walking.
Clayton walked off alone to a different part of the area I hadn’t been to yet, and I headed over to where I had last seen Greg. I was tempted to turn around and tell Floyd Crow what I knew, or thought I knew, about Jake being the murderer. But it seemed premature.
Greg was nowhere to be found, but as I stood on the parameter of the group of native singers shouting and drumming loudly (the same group as before, still going strong) Thunderbird came over out of nowhere.
“Big Will! Did you talk to Floyd Crow?”
“Yep,” I said. “He mostly talked to me.”
“Good! Good!” He slapped me on the back. He waved both of his hands up in front of me frantically. “Don’t tell me what he said! That’s between you and him.” He grabbed my arm and began leading me away. “Let’s go at get ready for the sweat.”
“Did you find Greg?” I asked, looking around the crowd again.
“Oh he left. He told me to let you know he was sorry he couldn’t stay, but his daughter was sick.”
Greg was gone?
Thunderbird shrugged and then patted me on the shoulder. “Don’t worry; I’ll get someone to give you a ride home.”
Now it’s just me and Thunderbird... I followed him over to the area of the powwow that Clayton had walked towards. It led down a sloping hill at the bottom of which was a dome like structure, made of blankets spread over the top – the sweat lodge itself! More haphazard thrown-together shelter than a “lodge.”
A large fire was being tended near the entrance of the lodge by two men with rakes in their hands. A wheelbarrow and shovel were next to them, as were a pile of round, smooth, dark river stones. As we walked towards the sweat lodge, the sun dipped behind the top of the hill, and we descended down into a dusky and chilled gloom.
