The Curse of Dead Horse Canyon: Cheyenne Spirits

I salute the light within your eyes where the whole Universe dwells. For when you are at that center within you and I am that place within me, we shall be one.

—Crazy Horse's farewell to Sitting Bull

3. Fasting

 HIGHWAY 17

RURAL FALCON RIDGE

FASTING VIGIL DAY 2

April 21, Saturday

9:10 a.m.

TO SHOW ADDITIONAL RESPECT, Charlie wore traditional buckskin instead of his usual jeans and flannel shirt. Dead Horse Canyon yawned before him, spirits taunting his desperation to know the truth.

His badger hide lay on the ground before him, pipe bag nestled in its fur. Connecting with Maheo was done in a specific way. He'd attended sweats and other ceremonies where the pipe was used, but only as a helper. Since his arrival before dawn, his prayers and meditation scoured his memory for how to proceed.

It served him right for being a young and arrogant fool. Now he was on his own and had to get it right. Otherwise he'd never find out what happened to Bryan.

Divine petitions were more powerful with others present. Songs and dances enhanced the effects, but that couldn't be helped. His grandfather's promise about "never being alone" rendered a glimmer of hope. The words of the grandfather honor song teased his mind. At first he hummed it, then found himself singing as a show of penance and for help remembering.

When he finished, consumed by peace and gratitude, his chest still ached. He blessed himself with the Earth and made a tobacco offering. A deep, determined breath escaped as he removed the bowl and stem from the bag, then set them on the hide with the tobacco and matches. His grandfather's essence settled around him as he pondered the many times he'd seen him use the sacred red pipe to communicate with the Creator.

In his mind's eye he watched the old man pick up the pipe and hold it aloft, then offer it to Maheo and the circle of life. To summon his spirit helpers, especially Badger, Eaglefeathers then passed it from his left shoulder over his head to his right. After that, he cradled the stem in his left arm and connected the bowl.

From that point on, it was not to be set down until the ceremony was complete. Bowl in hand, his grandfather proceeded to load it with tobacco, lit it with a single match, then puffed slowly four times, blessing the pipe with the smoke.

Charlie whispered, Nia see, naméšémé to thank the spirits, then followed the promptings of the vision. Lighting it presented a challenge. The persistent canyon breeze extinguished match after match before the tobacco finally ignited. He puffed slowly four times to bless the pipe. Smoke ascended in a steady stream. After that, he puffed only enough to keep it burning, without inhaling.

Prayers flowed from his mind and heart while pungent vapors carried them aloft. He asked forgiveness for his foolishness and gave thanks again for his grandfather's teachings. He poured out his heartbreak at the loss of his brother. Beseeched Maheo for understanding of what had happened, why, and for wisdom and direction regarding what he should do. Gratitude swelled in his breast for each and every thing, large and small, the old man and Bryan had done for him.

As the tobacco burned low, he added more and kept praying. Random traffic passed, some slowing, others not. He remained focused, their presence outside his awareness. Each time the pipe's embers waned, he refilled and lit it again. Eventually it only took one match, his cupped hands shielding it effectively from the wind.

As he set the match box aside, movement caught the corner of his eye. A bald eagle soared high above, identity confirmed by its white head and tail. The majestic birds migrated south in the fall when local lakes froze, then returned in spring, usually early March. He watched, transfixed by its grace and power, then resumed his petition.

It startled him when the bird swooped past his line of sight, diving toward the stream below. His back straightened and brow creased at the feat's absurdity. No fish or game were found in Tomahawk Creek. Mine leachings polluted the water over a century before.

Was the bird daft, seeking prey where none existed?

He continued praying, refilling the pipe as necessary. In late afternoon, as the sun drooped toward the horizon, the eagle dove past again, this time so closely he could count the feathers in its wings and tail. When it didn't reappear he got up to see where it had gone.

The bird's mighty talons clung to the broken trunk of the young aspen on the ledge where the truck first landed.

Sharp eyes met his.

As meaning burst upon him he could almost hear Bryan comparing him to "a chicken watching a card trick."

He, not the bird, was the one who was daft.

Eagles represented a person's grandfather, his own even more so, considering his name.

The bird cocked its majestic head, then launched from the mutilated tree, flew across the canyon on mighty wings, and disappeared.

Charlie's hopes likewise took off.

His prayers had been heard.

* * *

BELTON REGIONAL MEDICAL CENTER

April 21, Saturday

8:14 p.m.

Sara awoke with a start as a maelstrom of panic exploded in her chest. Bryan was dead. That she knew. She saw him depart. He was gone. But what about his body? What happened to it? Did she miss his funeral? Where did they bury him?

Her father, Will Montgomery, got up from the chair across the room, blue eyes saturated with concern. He stepped to her bedside, Connie close behind.

"What's the matter, Kitten? Does something hurt? Should I call the nurse?"

She gripped the bed rails, eyes frantic. "What happened to Bryan?"

He winced as if struck in the face. "He's dead, Sara."

She hung her head. "No, Dad. No. I know. That's not what I meant. What happened to him? To his body. Did I miss his funeral?"

His hand raked through thinning brown hair, then came to rest on top of hers. "No, no. You didn't miss anything. His body's still at the coroner's. I, uh, identified it for them. The day after the wreck. They just finished the autopsy yesterday. He needs to know what you want to do. Then he can finish filling out the death certificate."

She frowned, confused. "Do? What do you mean, do?"

He took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Whether you want to bury or cremate him. The medical examiner's office wanted to finish up the paperwork before the weekend, but I've been stalling. Until I found out what you want. If he had a preference."

Even though they were only in their thirties, they'd had that conversation. When Bryan was in the Air Force overseas on TDY, she lived in fear that something horrible might happened to him. Once he was discharged and came home to stay, that worry dissolved into the expectation of a long and happy life together. They'd barely begun to talk about starting a family someday.

Her best efforts failed to restrain the sob. She wiped her eyes with the sheet before Connie could hand her a tissue. "H-he wanted to be c-cremated. Then he wanted his ashes scattered. Out by our cabin. The place he loved. More than anywhere else on earth."

When her voice broke again, he squeezed her hand. "Okay. I'll tell them. Is there anyone we should notify?"

"No. His parents died years ago. He was an only child."

"What about life insurance? Did he have any?"

"I think so. Through his work, if nowhere else."

"Okay. Do you want me to get that started, too, now that we'll have the death certificate?"

She blew her nose and nodded. "Yes. Please. That would be a big help. Thanks, Dad. The information's in a file cabinet at the condo. Upstairs, in our office."

"Okay. Don't worry. I'll take care of it."

"Do you need the key?"

"We already have one, Sara. You gave us one years ago."

Panic released with a sigh. She closed her eyes and lay back against the pillow. Connie's hand, a lighter touch than her father's, brushed the hair from her face.

* * *

HIGHWAY 17

RURAL FALCON RIDGE

FASTING VIGIL DAY 3

April 22, Sunday

6:40 a.m.

Charlie's gaze lingered on the forested peaks as he awaited day's first light. The medicine bundle and sacred red pipe rested on the badger hide.

Eaglefeathers explained the purpose of fasting years before. Sacrificing what sustained life demonstrated a person's intent in a tangible way. The discomforts were a reminder of his dependence on the Earth, which invited humility. Then he could approach Maheo with the proper level of respect. Denying physical demands strengthened his spirit and made it more receptive.

He thought back to his failed attempt to complete a ceremonial fast after he graduated high school. By the afternoon of the second day he'd refused to continue. His grandfather assured him he could do it and offered what he referred to as Big Medicine, a medicinal herb used in all Cheyenne ceremonies. He promised it would carry him through.

At the time the only thing he believed could carry him through was a hamburger, fries, and an extra-large Coke. He never forgot his grandfather's pained look when he insisted he was done and wanted to go home.

This time his motivation was sufficient to persevere. Hunger fled, though his mouth was uncomfortably dry. His energy level dropped more each day and he felt increasingly light-headed. Thus, his thoughts turned to the Big Medicine he'd been offered when his will faltered two decades before.

He removed the medicine bag from the larger bundle and took out the pouches it contained. He remembered its unique shape, which resembled a man's hand. He untied the first pouch, finding big root medicine. The next three held bear root, bitter root, and mint tea, respectively.

He spotted something slightly larger secured within a square of cloth with its corners tied together. He picked it up and felt through the fabric. Its hand-like shape revealed what he was looking for. He untied the corners, took it out. Used his pocket knife to cut off one of the root's fingers and strip its outer skin. He placed it beneath his tongue and closed his eyes.

Before long his eyes flew open as saliva returned to his mouth. All this time he'd believed the old man was trying to stall, trick or deceive him.

The simple token of relief reassured him he could do this. He vowed that some day he would return to Eagles Peak, to the place his grandfather designated back then and complete the entire ritual.

Physical discomforts momentarily relieved, he lit the pipe and prepared to send his request skyward. He closed his eyes, contemplating why he was there. Since his grandfather's death, Bryan was the one person he could count on. He trusted him implicitly. Now he, too, was gone, his life stolen. Again, he was alone.

Admonitions arose from within his soul. Indulging in self-pity was cowardly. This wasn't about him. It was about Bryan. If his death was wrong, he needed to know.

As his thoughts turned to his brother, it dawned on him that five days had passed since his death. Four marked the time when the deceased departed for the land of spirits. He started to sing the Cheyenne Journey Song to help him on his way.

The words stuck in his throat.

Was it too late?

Or too early?

Gooseflesh crept along his arms and neck. The same feeling that alerted him to his death. Was he lingering until his remains were scattered?

Sara's father texted the night before that they would do that after she was released from the hospital. Until then, maybe Bryan was watching over her.

Or could it relate to how he died? Suddenly and unexpectedly, leaving him lost and trying to find his body?

Being caught between worlds was something he understood. The conflict between his parents's cultures was bad enough, to say nothing of the white man's encroaching on both. He'd spent most his life not knowing who or what he was or where he belonged.

Bryan helped him navigate the modern world, but now that anchor was gone.

His Cheyenne roots were all he had left. No wonder he was drawn to them like never before. Yet, his connection with Bryan was what brought him there.

Where was his brother?

Whether he remained on the Earth plane or had already gone home, the fact remained that his brother was the only one who could tell him what happened and why.

Dark suspicions surrounded his loss.

Finding those answers was why he was there.

He cradled the pipe in the crook of his arm and sang the "Grandfather Song" in tribute, as he had the day before. Then, once again he prayed with a fervency born from the assurance he was being heard.

It concerned him when tears fell, not wanting to appear weak. Words of comfort settled as dew on his troubled mind:

When water flows from your eyes, it cleanses your spirit. No prayer is more sincere or pleasing to Maheo than one that comes from your heart.

He waited. At length, another impression came.

Your prayer was heard and accepted. Return tomorrow and your request will be granted.

The sun's rays splintered behind the pines in an explosion of color, then disappeared, ending the third day.

It was not so much hope as certainty that the next day answers would come.

* * *

HIGHWAY 17

RURAL FALCON RIDGE

FASTING VIGIL, DAY 4

April 23, Monday

6:28 a.m.

Charlie settled into his usual position overlooking Dead Horse Canyon. He lit the pipe, the ceremony now comfortable and familiar as he repeated his request.

The sun crawled across the sky as his petitions continued. When the westering sun touched the distant peaks, still no answer had come. Disappointment burned behind his eyes. Until now, his prayers, other than the songs, were in English, the language with which he was most familiar.

This time he found himself speaking directly from his heart, aloud in fluent Tseteshestahese.

"I have done as I was instructed," he said. "I have prayed and fasted four days. I beg forgiveness for any mistakes in my asking. Once again I ask in all humility. I ask humbly for knowledge of my brother's fate. Please tell me, Maheo—was it his time, his death intended? Or was the accident a deliberate act that stole his life?"

He focused on listening, all senses poised for an answer. The previous impressions had been whispered, words soft but discernible. Whether they came from within his psyche or without wasn't clear.

A truck roared by, breaking his concentration. Its wake peppered him with coarse dirt and a cloud of dust that triggered a coughing fit. Nearly blinded, he fumbled in the bundle for the Big Medicine. He cut off a piece, stripped its skin by feel, and placed it in his mouth, willing it to bring relief. It helped a little, but not as effectively as before.

Settled again, he uttered another plea from the depths of his soul. He bolted to attention, mouth agape, when the answer slammed into his mind. The voice was unfamiliar, certainly not his own. It surged through him, body trembling in response to its authority and power.

The accident that stole your white brother was the work of evil men. Their hearts are cold and cruel. They think only of their own fortunes, dominion, and control. Their minds are as those who tried to destroy our people. They would have succeeded, were it not for the journey of our Father, Morning Star. Listen to your heart, Okohomoxhaahketa. With your spirit guides it will lead you on the path to retribution.

At last the dark, oppressive weight he'd carried since that fateful day made sense. As he suspected all along, Bryan's death was not an accident.

Dishonorable men murdered his brother.

Okohomoxhaahketa, Littlewolf in English, was the name his grandfather gave him when he was six years old. His ancestor, Chief Littlewolf, was one of the most revered chiefs in Cheyenne history.

His Diné mother refused to accept, much less use it, however. Her culture's naming conventions were matrilineal, which dictated that his surname be the same as hers. As it turned out, the naming ceremony had been what lit the fuse on his parent's cultural differences.

Differences that tore him apart as well, driving him from both indigenous traditions into a barren no-man's land.

He meditated on the response until Venus appeared above the jagged peaks, words indelibly etched in his heart. At last he stood, knees weak. The shattered vehicle below was barely visible in the quarter moon's silver light. Reflections danced off the stream's sullied waters like the new barrage of questions trampling his mind.

Questions like Why?

An airy, breathless sense of purpose surrounded him as he walked the canyon's edge toward his truck. As he prepared to cross the pavement a vehicle approached, its headlights blinding. Unsteady on his feet, his hand grasped the aspen until the truck sped past.

The light searing his eyes delivered another impression, that of a blazing dawn.

Bryan's death was not an ending.

It was a beginning.

Its scope, vast and incomprehensible, thundered through him as bison crossing the plains two centuries before.