Coming into view at the end of the parade was a Native wearing a top hat and cape. He held a wand in one of his hands. In the now, Cullin sprinted to the image. Recognizing Decoreous, reaching into his coat pocket for his thin leather necklace, and kneading it with affection, he giggled to the point of tears. Up close he saw a warm face and infectious smile. In the Indian’s eyes he sensed integrity, pride, and gentleness. Not wanting the vision to disappear, he held out his hands, hoping such a move might delay the inevitable. But it didn’t. Decoreous too disappeared, and Cullin could have sworn his spirit was dragged with the rest of the town to a small wooden gazebo to watch a magic show.
Leaning on his knees for support—again in the now—Cullin struggled for air, the experience overwhelming.
Then a commotion caught his ears. Turning, he witnessed two boys running back and forth between the north and south boardwalks. One boy was dressed like an Indian, the other a cowboy; the former had Caucasian skin, the latter brown. Each took turns being aggressive. Sometimes the cowboy would shoot a pop gun rifle, wounding the Indian who fell with dramatics; other times, the Indian would shoot an imaginary bow, outright killing the cowboy. But unlike wars of yesteryear in Minnesota, here the dead rose, wounds healed instantly, and confrontations always ended in hugs.
Cullin stepped nearer to the boys. He wanted to get a closer look at the Indian. Something seemed familiar about him, something comfortable. Cullin saw a rather pudgy boy with blond hair and playful hazel eyes. As if he were gazing into a forty-year-old mirror, as the cowboy scampered off farther down Main Street to the magic show, his younger self made eye contact. From the man to the boy was silently expressed a sense of guilt, lost innocence, and forgotten youth; from the boy to the man a sense of forgiveness and eternal wonder. Cullin reached out to touch the boy’s face with a shaky right hand. When he did, the image disintegrated.
Spiritually reflecting, Cullin stood alone downtown.
Then a mysterious voice called out from the northern hills. “Sheriff,” it said, “Sheriff, bring your fire to me.”
Cullin froze in place. He listened more intensely, initially doubting the words—dismissing them as deep woods noise or faint chatter from Wasin. But there it was again:
“Sheriff, bring your fire to me.”
He tried pinpointing the voice’s location. Directing his right ear to the north, it came from the clearing.
“Hello!” he yelled. “Who is it?”
No answer.
Is someone in danger? he thought. Did we leave anyone behind during the evacuation?
Is it Steven? he considered further, noting that, to date, the boy’s body had still not been found.
Cullin raced between two of the burned-out buildings to listen more carefully. Close to the forest line, he hesitated, staring into blackness. In the weeks since leaving Westcreek, he had forgotten how dark the woods appeared, even during the day.
“Who’s there?” he said. “Please say something!”
Still no answer.
Not wanting to waste time—convinced somebody needed help, he darted to his car for supplies. Then he headed into the unknown.
/////
A hissing lantern in hand, Cullin arrived at the southern edge of the clearing. The journey was exhausting, but as he wiped his face with a hanky, he eagerly listened for more signs of human life.
Nothing.
“I’m here!” he shouted. “What do you need?”
Only the trill of a pileated woodpecker answered.
Is this a prank? he wondered. Am I on some wild goose chase? He considered returning to Westcreek.
Then the voice spoke yet again. “Sheriff, come to me.”
The vet was convinced that the words came from the ol’ Dawson mine, beyond the Great Rock. Peering upward, he felt a chill. The mine’s opening never appeared so ominous, spindly vines dangling in front of complete darkness. Digging for bravery, he ascended the rocky terrain.
/////
Whoosh! The flame within the lantern grew larger, ignited by Cullin turning a metal valve and releasing more kerosene onto the burners. Once inside the mine, the lantern, even at full force, struggled to provide light extending more than two feet. Footing became precarious, his free hand frequently having to grab the thick, dry walls for support. Cobwebs also became an impediment, sticking to his neck, arms, and waist. Fifty feet in, he stopped.
“Steven?” he called out timidly.
Silence.
Continuing forward, Cullin had to catch himself, almost falling twice on the rusty rails used for the ore car. The more he explored the depths of the mine, the more the walls seemed to close in. At one point he heard a sort of loud oozing from behind, like mud was spilling from the sides into the path already stepped. Alarmed, he twisted around and placed his lantern close to the ground but discovered nothing unusual. He could clearly see his own boot prints.
“Hello?” he said more quietly.
At one hundred feet in, he considered reversing course. Searching further seemed futile, and besides, he thought, the ol’ mine might cave in unexpectedly. But that’s when—again—the voice spoke.
“Sheriff, bring your fire to me.”
Cullin was convinced that the “person” lay dead ahead. Trudging onward, feeling more confident in his mission, he discovered something unexpected: a little flame wiggling in the distance. He hurried his pace.
One flame became two, two flames became three, three became four, four became five, and before he knew it, he was in some type of grand shrine lit by fifty torches. Setting the lantern down, mouth agape and eyes wide open, he walked carefully about.
The shrine was the size of a small ballroom. Domed at the top, torches lined the walls, exposing hundreds of bones protruding through dirt. Leg bones dangled from the ceiling. Arms and hands reached up from the floor. And skulls, barely visible in the walls, seemed to watch for unwelcomed guests.
Removing his hat in reverence, Cullin rotated in awe. Indians, he said silently. This is a burial mound. But why is it almost empty?
Near the room’s center, his pelvis accidently bumped into a small wooden table. Peering down, he saw four skinny pine legs supporting a thin beveled top. Scratch marks, like those on the boardwalk downtown, covered the surface. The table supported a single object, and the sight palpitated the former sheriff’s heart twice.
“Oh my God,” he said aloud. “It can’t be . . .”
A .38 caliber handgun with mother-of-pearl grips stared back at him. In disbelief, he poked at the barrel. “How? Why?” he said to himself.
“Find something, Brewster?” a low voice asked from behind.
Cullin gasped. Spinning, grabbing his chest, he saw a familiar face inside the burial mound. “Amos, you scared the hell out of me. How long have you been standing there?”
“Only moments. What did you find?” Cleanly shaven, wearing a robe of earthen tones, and carrying a long wooden staff, Amos stepped forward with calculated steps.
Cullin picked up the gun and examined it. “This is the weapon we’ve been searching for in our investigation. How did it get here?”
Taking a stroll around the tomb, Amos avoided the question. “What do you think of this place?” he said proudly. “At one time hundreds of Indians were buried here. Beings left to live out their lives in the spirit world. In quiet. In peace. That is, until a group of reckless miners disturbed their rest.”
Watching, listening, the hairs on the back of Cullin’s neck stiffened.
Amos continued. “Raping this valley of precious minerals, they dug further and further into the hillside. You’d think they would’ve stopped once they unearthed just one bone. Done the right thing. Notified the tribal elders about what they found. But no. Your people kept digging, dumping the dead into a landfill outside the valley.” He sneered. “They had the nerve to think their little secret would be safe. But angry souls told the people of Wasin. The next day a mob of Ojibwa traveled to St. Paul to stop all mining operations a
nd discuss treaty revisions.”
He ended his stroll, standing directly across the table from Cullin. His eyes narrowed. “The rest, as you people would say, is history.”
“You’re scaring me,” the vet said carefully.
“Do you like fairy tales, Brewster? Huh? I’ve got a doozy for ya. Once upon a time, a group of renegade Indians raided a white settlement not too far from here, taking gold, silver, and valuable jewelry. The Indians hid their treasure in the side of a hill, a place few people knew about. Through time, the events of that day faded, but the notion that riches were buried away, out there, somewhere, endured for a select few and passed along from generation to generation. Bernie, Bull, and the twins searched for that treasure.”
Looking up, he raised his palms to the ceiling. “This is what they would’ve found,” he said with theatrics. “An empty vault. There were never any riches. It was just a fable. All just a fool’s hope. After all, what would we possibly possess that white men couldn’t take?”
Cullin stared into Amos’s eyes. Where once he saw craze, shallowness, and alcoholic bliss, now he saw certainty, seriousness, and deep control. “Did you kill those men, Amos?” he asked softly.
“My name is not Amos!” he said sternly. “My name is Red Eagle. And no, I didn’t kill your friends. Greed killed your friends. A beautiful weapon in its own right. No, all I did was hide a little gun away from view and wait for great power to come my way. Your town did the dirty work.”
Suddenly the pistol began shooting. With no bullets in the chamber, the trigger pulled back repeatedly on its own, causing clicking noises. Cullin dropped it in fright.
“Brewster, didn’t you know that all Indians possess magic?” Red Eagle toyed. “As Decoreous would say, ‘Even just a trick or two’? It’s in our blood. I was fourth in line to be chief. A few misfiring weapons and my brother, nephew, and great-nephew are now dead. I am guardian of the hills. I thought the little gun deserved a place of prominence in this holy lair. A treasure to remind me of how simple Caucasians can be.”
He tilted his head and smirked. “What do you think of my accomplishments?”
“I think you’re disturbed,” Cullin said anxiously.
Red Eagle slapped the table aside. “And I think you’re trespassing. On my land. A crime punishable by death!”
Cullin took three careful steps backward. “Amos, why are you doing this?”
“I told you—my name is Red Eagle!” Sneering with contempt, he took three steps forward. “Did I play your role in Westcreek? Huh? Of a dirty, drunken Redskin? A nothing-man for white ridicule and amusement? All those nights I slept in an alley or jail cell, biding my time, waiting for the spirits to answer only to me.”
Cullin continued to retreat. His body shook, and beyond Red Eagle, he saw the torches flare, as if someone splashed gasoline on them.
“The torment your people caused,” Red Eagle continued, almost growling. “The racial slurs, the punches, the kicks when I was down, the spitting on my body—on my soul!” He laughed maniacally. “But who spits last, little sheriff? Huh? Who now has ultimate power? There’s no greater treasure in the world.”
All the torches extinguished.
“Now run, little sheriff, run!” Red Eagle ordered. “Run for your life!”
Cullin heeded the warning. Grabbing his lantern, sprinting as fast as he could, he prayed he could make it to the light at the end of the tunnel.
“Run, little sheriff, run!” Red Eagle called after him again. “Run for your life!”
The tunnel came alive. The dirt walls reached out, as if they had hands, pulling at the vet’s jacket and pants, impeding progress.
“I’m gonna get ya—I’m gonna kill ya! Better run faster, Brewster!”
The metal railings on the floor snaked back and forth while rope-like cobwebs lassoed his arms. At times Cullin felt like a marionette dancing, and it took fancy stepping, squirming, and jerking to break free. At the end of the tunnel, on the mine apron, he collapsed, back first.
Red Eagle was on him. Looming down.
“Any last words?” the newest guardian of the hills taunted.
Cullin held out his lantern, as if it might somehow provide protection. “I don’t know why you’re doing this. I was just answering a call for help.”
Red Eagle raised his brows. “A call for help? From who?” He sniffed the air. “What are you talking about?”
A voice spoke from everywhere. “I told you, my brother—I save one last trick for you.”
“Throw your fire, Brewster!” the voice ordered. “Throw your fire now!”
The message somehow made sense to the former sheriff. Squeezing the handle of the lantern tightly, he flung the little flame with all his might at Red Eagle’s feet. Kerosene spilled out, igniting the robe.
A bubble-like, see-through face appeared.
Sucking in air, the face breathed out, blowing into the growing blaze.
Red Eagle’s robe became engulfed. Fire spread quickly, eating the fabric and burning his skin. He screamed, shouted at the top of his lungs, and dropped his staff. His face melted. Sinking to his knees, Red Eagle blindly reached for the former sheriff, as if he could somehow relieve the pain.
Using his elbows, Cullin crawled away. He watched in horror as the guardian fell forward and quivered. The arm that asked for aid stiffened and then lay lifeless on the dirt. Cullin had a hard time taking his eyes away, but after a few short minutes, the fire subsided, leaving the body to smolder.
The war vet reluctantly stood. Trying to make sense of what had happened since arriving at the mine, he stared at what remained of Amos—of Red Eagle—in disbelief.
At the same moment, an intricate, almost invisible web shot out from the corpse, leaving the mine apron, moving through Cullin, grazing the Great Rock, and settling into the trees and bushes surrounding the clearing. The strands were absorbed into branches, pinecones, leaves, bark, and roots. And if one could have watched closely enough, observed in greater detail, he or she could have seen the affected areas shimmer like the sun.
The forest was now in control.
The bubble-like face turned to Cullin. Floating his direction, the face grew a neck, torso, arms, and legs. The arms held Cullin, and he immediately felt spiritually lifted. He recognized the embrace: it was Decoreous. Immediately any fear or uncertainty calmed.
In his mind, he heard words uttered four years ago, prior to leaving for the Pacific War: I’ll be there in your time of greatest need.
Cullin experienced flashbacks. In rapid-fire succession, he saw bombs exploding over Guadalcanal, he, himself, running from intense gunfire and his squad left behind; he saw Steven’s father lying in a pool of blood inside the General Store; Gloria standing above her husband’s grave; and Steven collapsing atop the Great Rock.
Above the remnants of Westcreek, below the rim of a large valley in a clearing rocky, the former sheriff experienced a full body release. He wept. And then he wept some more. Held strongly by Decoreous, his body went limp and his right hand gently opened, letting go of a white, brown, and red-beaded deer hide necklace. The tremors were gone.
Cullin had found peace.
19. The Report
October 22nd, 1945, 9:15 a.m.
In a capitol building of white sandstone with a single, large dome; within a maze of hallways and amid echoing footsteps; in an office with many, many desks leading to one large closed door; and inside, on a long mahogany desk at the end of a red plush rug lined by bookcases and ornate tapestries, a thick manila envelope on top of a stack of mail waited to be opened. Contained within the envelope was the following short letter:
Dear Governor Thye:
We weren’t monsters. We were your fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers, sons, and daughters. We came to Westcreek for the same things, full of hopes and dreams. With determination, we worked the land and together built a better future. We supported each other during both times of prosperity and times of uncertainty. We created friends
hips, not only with each other, but the Ojibwa First Nation.
But something happened. As treaties changed, jobs declined, money became scarce, and more people left than came to our town, we began dwelling on misery and hatred, either alone or with others. We couldn’t see past the valley walls. I think we got tired of each other. We forgot what made us the same and instead focused on differences. We formed angry groups to protect some and to exclude others. To make ourselves feel good. Somewhere along the way I think our collective spirit died. Our town burned because of an Indian boy, but I think the damage had already been done.
No, we weren’t monsters. But maybe we became monsters. All of us. As a leader, I take full responsibility. Included with this letter are sworn affidavits, eyewitness accounts, and both formal and informal reports dating back five years. I hope this information paints a clearer picture of what went wrong. Former Mayor Roland Pike and I are ready to answer any questions you may have. We are also ready to face any charges related to our conduct. Or lack thereof.
With deep regret,
Brewster T. Cullin
Former Sheriff of Westcreek, Minnesota
“My lands are where my dead lie buried”
- Crazy Horse, 1877
Places Where the Guardian Hills Saga was Imagined, Written, or Edited
From 1984 to 2019
Fairmont, MN · Rush City, MN · Duluth, MN · Champlin, MN · Blaine, MN · Pine City, MN · Cambridge, MN · Minneapolis, MN · St. Paul, MN · Roseville, MN · Rochester, MN · Walker, MN · Bemidji, MN · Brainerd, MN · International Falls, MN · Cass Lake, MN · Orr, MN · Eveleth, MN · Ely, MN · Keystone, SD · Crazy Horse, SD · Deadwood, SD · Green Bay, WI · Eau Claire, WI · Phoenix, AZ · San Antonio, TX · Atlanta, GA · Ft Lauderdale, FL · Miami, FL · Nashville, TN · New York, NY · Niagara Falls, NY · Honolulu, HI · Fort Francis, ON, Canada · Mine Centre, ON · Toronto, ON · Ottawa, ON · Charlottetown, PE · St. John’s, NL · Halifax, NS · Victoria, BC · Vancouver, BC · Calgary, AB · Edmonton, AB · Regina, SK · Winnipeg, MB · Montreal, QC · Quebec City, QC · Anchorage, AK · Juneau, AK · St. Thomas, Virgin Islands · St Johns, Virgin Islands · Freeport, Bahamas · Montego Bay, Jamaica · Phillipsburg, St Maarten · Fort de France, Martinique · Bridgetown, Barbados · Cozumel, Mexico · London, England · Paris, France · Lisbon, Portugal · Barcelona, Spain · Vigo, Spain · Brussels, Belgium · Berlin, Germany · Budapest, Hungary · Jerusalem, Israel · Bethlehem, Israel · Cairo, Egypt · Oman, Jordan · Dubai, United Arab Emirates · Muscat, Oman · Istanbul, Turkey · Prague, the Czech Republic · Warsaw, Poland · Shanghai, China · Beijing, China · Wuxi, China · Dalian, South Korea · Nagasaki, Japan · Osaka, Japan
The Guardian Hills Saga Page 23
