The Five Laws of Light

The 1st Law of Light
Color is determined by the wavelength of its light. The colors that blend to form white light are, from shortest wave to the longestred, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, and violet. Infra red and ultraviolet rays at each end of the spectrum are invisible to the human eye. Sunlight contains all the wavelengths of visible light.
Everything that the power does, it does so in a circle. Lakota Proverb
Now go to your homes, without without weeping, without sadness. Old Tewa Prayer
worry,
He who does not fill his world with phantoms remains alone. Antonio Porchia
The Five Laws of Light
The Snowy Road to Esperanza
I was speeding down Highway 29, tucked away in a remote
corner of eastern Montana, when I first caught a glimpse of white crackling furyrefractory slivers of electricity that cut loose thru the atmosphere, dancing free and loose across the Fords rear view mirror. My mind instantly filled with images of frenetic, nimble ballerinas rushing towards the center-stage floodlights on an amphetamine flight to overwhelm the audience. I turned my face away from the stillborn brilliance. The white afterglow lingered in the drivers compartment for a few more seconds, just long enough to blind me. I blinked rapidly, trying to clear my eyes. And then it was gone. The sleek electric radiance retracted back into the clouds that had breathed life and nurtured during the first vital moments of infancy. A torrential downpour hammered away at the 4x4s front windshield, a natural rhythm section keeping perfect time. After a while, the steady drumming of fat raindrops hitting the chassis lulled me to sleep. My eyes grew heavy in their sockets. I shook my head harshly, trying to stifle the lethargy that had spread throughout my body. Heavy crosswinds rushed in from all directions and batted the truck around like a Tonka toy, making the simple act of steering an improbable, 2
monumental task. Every now and then, I had to fight to keep the truck from rolling into the shallow, snow filled depressions that lined both sides of the highway. Grimfaced, I stared at the gray clouds that filled the windshield, trying to time the next strike. When we had parted company back on the outskirts of Crow Agency, no more than a few hours ago, John Ravage warned me of a passing cold front. It was a beautiful, powdery morning, full of black-tuft clouds and swirling wind gusts. Yet like an insouciant schoolboy, I shrugged off his warning, giving it and Ravage very little regard. And now I was paying for it. And as I would find out much later, John Ravage was a man that was accurate about a lot of things. But at the moment, as I cursed his uncanny acumen, all I could do was to try and steer the truck through the dismal pall and hope for the best. I had been driving under a steady, pelting rain for the last forty minutes, and still I was unable to make out the storms leading edge. A long squall line of sharply defined cirrus clouds loomed above, an ominous storm column, gray and full, topped by a dreaded anvil shape that bloomed across the horizon like a giant mushroom. As far as I could tell, I was the only driver out on the highway. Sensing that, the clouds had zeroed in on me and unleashed their fully repressed wrath. Weathermen recognized this powerful convergence as a large frontal storm, characterized by dense sheets of rain, treacherous winds, and of course, the ubiquitous presence of electricity. I would have to drive through all of these to reach Esperanza Ridge, my ultimate destination, which, if the tourist map was accurate, was about an inch awayan inch transcribing in scale size to roughly fifty miles. I shook my head in disbelief. John Ravage had read the jigsaw-puzzle sky perfectly. The Indians precognitive abilities would shame a carnival gypsy. The storm had appeared out of nowhere. One minute I was driving carefree through the open blue of Montana, and the next thing I knew, the landscape was swallowed whole by a dark sinister sheet of wallpaper that fired off intermittent flashes of glaring white light. I had first laid eyes on the swirling clouds when they were about thirty miles away, as I headed east. At that point, the storms appearance hadnt fazed me; I had assumed it to be a garden-variety single-celled thunderstorm, the kind that developed and weakened rapidly, like a terrible alibi on a night of unrestrained murder. But now that I was in the midst of it, I realized I had erred in judgment. The hairs on my arm stood on full alert as I reacquainted myself with my old friend. I felt the
faint stirrings of excitement, grinding away slowly from my inner viscera to the surrounding layers of skin. Fifteen years, I thought. It had been over fifteen years since I had last witnessed this display of feral agony unleashed. Fifteen years that came back in a millisecond. A millisecond that rekindled my memory with the remembrance that this fiery beast carried inside its bowels a dual nature marked by extremes. It could cause sensitive hairs on the arms, delicate hairs on the nape of the neck to lift, becoming thousands of rods working with cohesion and purpose. Seconds later, Mother Nature revealed her attitude. In a wave of unbridled anguish, she sent luminous spindly arms into motion. Thick and inquisitive, forked and streaked, they branched down towards the earth, anointing the morning prairie with an overture of long overdue kisses that would shame most lovers. I watched in awe as the sky filled with intense, shiny limbs, and the rear view mirror all but exploded with light. With uncanny intricacy, the arms peered into the gray, desolate sandstone canyons, caressing the tough mesquite that had only recently shed their snowy coats of winter; The arms peered over cottonwood-lined creek bottoms, rifling off sharp salutes to the old, twisted trees, smiling at the sight of their own bright reflection in the cool alkaline water; They peered at the amalgam of rock formations, asking the strange wind carved faces, the jutting terraces, the black mounds of undiscovered coal, the vast and decipherable ecotone, secrets about the land of Montana, the land where nothing was nailed down. Like judge and jury, the arms had arrived swift, unassailable. Their approach was one of cold retrospection to a land stuck in a cycle of controlled chaos. Judgment out here, unlike in the courtroom, was swift and unmerciful; Methodical; never desultory. What seemed to be an eternity later, the arms recoiled back to the heavens. One after another, the spindly arms slithered away in a languid dissolution from the land. The scorched earth breathed in a sigh of relief. Yet, in their wake, the arms had left their indelible mark. Their retreat had been tenuous, but they had tasted the land, drank from her waters, sampled the soil. Curiosity had been aroused, which made their return imminent. The thought occurred to me that these mysterious arms of light, for all their splendor and beatific strength, were nothing more than disjointed, lonely forces of nature; born in the dark 4
clouds high above, forced into a contract of extreme isolation. Their birth was neither magical nor mythical. It was one of pure mathematics and science, and could be broken down to the most finite decimal if one possessed a calculator and patience. High above in the clouds, positive and negative charges attracted to each other moved about in zigzag patterns, seeking the path of least resistance, like a high school freshman approaching a girl at his first sock hop. Up to a point, air would insulate the opposite charges from one another, but this was an exercise in futility. Existing in a state of mutual attraction, the charges eventually found one another. The end result, a cumulative sequence of electricity, brimming with pathos, was channeled into a current with a singular purpose: Seek the path of least resistance and strike down the earth. And so, like incorrigible infants they depart the nest; bellies filled with incomprehensive clout, striking in a multitude of ways: cloud-to-cloud, lashing out in audacious matricide at the fleecy streamers that had given them birth; cloud-to-earth, twin-forked or single-bolts wreaking uniformed havoc on the people below; and lastly, from cloud-to-sky. Alone and angry, the bright limbs tended to burn out quickly. A half-life of a halflife! In the last chaotic moments before death, they flamed out as most humans do, unrepentant, broken-hulled vessels that could not hold or center light. And then darkness would make its appearance, crawling into the resulting void. Indeed, as I had found out long ago, darkness had a way of sniffing out the demise of light and crawling into everything. The gaping winds that had lambasted me for the last half hour suddenly grew peaceful and still. The storm clouds sparred together for a few moments longer, then dispersed. My red-rimmed eyes, tired and fighting sleep the entire way, suddenly awakened. For the first time since leaving Crow Agency, a lucid picture was forming in my mind and I began to see things thru the clarity of winter eyes. Clear as Winter EyesAn old Indian saying from my reservation days, and one that the natives used quite frequently. I sat in silence; transfixed by the bumpy blacktop that was Highway 29. It stretched before me for miles, lean and flat, a slender black ribbon of higher consciousness that had served Montana well for years. Desolate. Evocative. Raked over by the incessant prairie winds, the steady change of seasons. Paved over many times throughout the years, the highway had determined long ago that her creators fossil fueled carriages would not lay waste to her soul.
She was a pitiable road, I discovered immediately. Decrepit and abandoned by engineers and tourists alike, she ran through some of the most indelicate, treacherous terrain that the Montana Badlands had to offer. Yet, she did it with a certain, quiet dignity. Built as a wagon trail a hundred years before for the sole purpose of connecting The Crow Indian Reservation to the sparsely populated regions of northern Montana, she was not likely to be found on many luminary roadmaps. My own travel map warned in bold, red letters to be extra wary of Highway 29, citing its extreme isolation and lack of commerce. Cold and vacant at this early hour, the late winter snowfall had been cleared by the snowplows sometime earlier in the week. The filthy snow resided on each of the highways shoulders, seven-foot high piles of accumulated slush waiting to melt away in the sun, stretching out for the entire length of the highway with no discernible end in sight. It seemed, I thought somewhat eerily, that I was driving inside a funnel to oblivion. I scanned the highway in front of me, and to the rear. No other cars were visible. I pressed the brakes, halting the trucks forward progress. I rolled down the window and stuck my head out into the cold air, surveying the land around me. Despite having wide off-road tires, the Ford rocked gently atop its shock absorbers as the crosswinds continued to increase in velocity and pounded the truck from all sides. As I climbed out of the vehicle, I recalled another warning emblazoned inside the AAA map. Montanas temperature variations were wildly unpredictable. The state owned the record for the greatest temperature flux in world history; On January 23, 1916, the temperature fell almost a hundred degrees overnight. It was not uncommon for a blinding tempest to overtake a warm front in mere minutes. Yet here I was, standing on the flat asphalt in cold isolation, my flannel parka hood flapping in the breeze, two bare hands jammed underneath my armpits, searching for an illusion of warmth that would not come. I spied a lone Eastern Cottonwood, growing incongruously on the highways shoulder, an odd tangle of mad, wooden angles that rose some eighty feet into the naked air, its bole buried up to the hilt in snowdrift. Bent and twisted from life in the cold terrace, suffering the heartbreak of many seasons, the sad stalk of cellulose evoked pity within me. The trees naked, pliable limbs arched upwards, and then swooped downward in dramatic fashion, giving the tree a mock resemblance to a natural umbrella. Tufts of purple moss campion and velvety, 6
yellow-brown lichens hung like aged cargo nets from these branches and rested on the rocks beneath, and for a moment, the sweeping limbs that seemingly held the land in balance gave the illusion of the scales of justice that were so significant to my profession. The wind speed suddenly spiked. The cargo nets broke free of the land, and another scale of justice lay broken. The delicate balance of nature suddenly shifted. Nature was now free to move with impunity, without judgment. Thirty mile-anhour intense gusts of air, funneled into compression by the twin embankments of snow, raked lengthwise over Highway 29s lean corridor. As I fought to remain upright, strange moaning noises, the likes of which Id never heard, resonated through the air. I suddenly remembered the golden rule of the natural world. Nature abhorred imprisonment. And she was making sure I would not soon forget as she flaunted gaping winds, yet as I stood in quiet attention, listening, the consonants and vowels of her warnings were lost in semantic inflection. In a surreal way, the highway seemed to be communicating with me. An invitation to proceed, or a warning to return, I wondered? The howling wind, replete with ghosts, sent loose shivers down my spine. The madness of strange voices came from everywhere. I pulled my head deep within the parkas hood to escape, my stuffed eyeballs peering out timidly, like a pet store turtle trying to hide from the curious reach of a five year old. I was flirting with madness, treading the line, and when madness flirted back, I felt compelled to jump. To which side, though? Out here, lost in this strange wilderness perimeter, the murky tempest, the thought of jumping into the unknown abyss was far more attractive than continuing my blind search for Esperanza. If the moment did arise when my mind chose to betray me, I thought cynically, there would be no one out here to mail me the address of reason. An onslaught of doubts crowded into my head. How the hell did I get here? The Badlands of Montana; separated from my home by one thousand miles and thirty degrees on the thermometer. What could my grandfather possibly have in store for me? My story began a little over a week ago, when an envelope arrived at the DAs office in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, hand delivered to my desk by a messenger under mysterious circumstances. I only say mysterious because the postmark on the envelope read Pine Ridge, South Dakota. To me, that instantly meant the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation. There was 7
no return address on the envelope, but that hardly mattered. I knew but a single person at Pine Ridge, and that person was my grandfather, whom I had not spoken to in over fifteen years. But, seeing as I had taken many precautions in the preceding year to hide my whereabouts, it was inconceivable that he could have tracked me down so soon. In fact, through legal channels, I had even changed my name a few months back. Yet there, written on the front of that envelope in block letters was my new name, Justice Reywal. The old man had written to me many times throughout the years, but I had never reciprocated. In fact, I had never even bothered to read his letters; I merely threw the unopened envelopes into a trashcan at whatever home in whatever city I was living in at the time. Youre probably wondering why? Why did I go out of my way to ignore my grandfather? What kind of a grandson would do such a thing? My logic is uncomplicated, though Im sure that at this stage in the story, youd probably find it difficult to understand. Simply put, I wanted to put distance between us. Thats it. No Oedipus complex or past beatings to blame. I just wanted to get as far away from himas far away from the reservation, as possible. I wanted to bleed the memories away forever. And in order to accomplish that, I had to erase all clues to my past existence. My address changed frequently; the aforementioned name change. I never disclosed my whereabouts to anyone who had ties to the reservation. I never called for fear of my number being traced. I never wrote back, not even an innocuous hello, for I thought it might encourage him to try harder. If my grandfather wanted to locate me, he would have to work all the angles. It would require a great amount of detective work to find me. I would make it difficult, if not impossible for him to find me. Or so I thought. To my amazement, no matter how clandestine my manner, his letters had an uncanny way of finding me. Like arrows fired from a magic bow, the letters would eerily traverse the country and land in my hands. Wide-eyed, I would stare down at envelopes, the U.S. Postal Services green or red postmarks grinning at me malevolently, in deference to my grandfather, who was considered by many frontiersmen to be an expert tracker. This last letter, however, was different. It was formal, direct. In terse language, the letter informed me that my grandfather had passed away from natural causes the night before. Therefore, I was to fly to Billings, Montana (the only town in the vicinity large enough to accommodate commercial aircraft) no 8
later than the next day. From there I was to drive some two hundred miles east to Pine Ridge, the sight of the funeral. And there, after my grandfather was laid to rest, I was to receive some kind of inheritance, although I was skeptical about what that something could be. Indian inheritances are laughable. To an Indian, liquidity is something he might catch from a night of drinking high-octane corn whisky. And from my recollection, Shannon County, South Dakota was, in the beguiling nomenclature of economics, poverty-stricken. The one room, shanty that had been my domicile up to my early teens was living testament to that. My grandfather was the last of my blood relatives. As I sat at my desk digesting the news of his death, I could feel the ghosts that haunted my nights vanish instantly into thin air. Once I realized that I was truly alone, the umbilical cord to my past savaged, a huge wave of relief had washed over me. Yet, to my surprise, later on in the evening, my body had cavitated with an onset of ambiguous emotions. It was this latent ambiguity that caused me to miss my flight, keeping me in Oklahoma for the day of the funeral. I just couldnt muster the willpower or energy to go. And it was this same ambiguity that returned shortly thereafter, flooding me with guilt for the rest of the week. Call it guilt or deference or obligation, at that point I dropped my current caseload and made immediate airline reservations for Billings, Montana. When I was finished, I dialed up Pine Ridge. An operator put me on hold. I sat back in my leather chair, nervously sweating. I dutifully watched the minute hand crawl forward on the clock that hung over my desk. Ten minutes went by. Then twenty. I began to lose patience. And then a man spoke, a man with a dominating, deep growl of a voice. I went through perfunctory introductions, bogus reasoning for missing the funeral, and ended by giving him my arrival time. His baritone voice, suffused with obvious anger, instructed me to head for a certain country store on the outskirts of town immediately after my plane had landed. Once there, someone from the reservation would meet me. For what? I asked. Never mind, the voice answered, Youll know soon enough. What about my inheritance? Your grandfather left you a box. Thats all I know. Thats ita box? Well. Of course, there are things inside of the box, the voice replied with a trace of disgust. And thats all I can tell you. And that was it. No further explanation came. The man hung up. I had no idea what I was to do with this someone once I got to Billings. 9
Much later, I was hit with the realization that the voice on the phone belonged to the same man that had met me at the storeJohn Ravage But Im getting ahead of myself. We were discussing my overt ambiguity over grandfathers death. Without going into great detail, I can tell you that part of this derision stemmed from the fact that at the time of my grandfathers death, I was deeply immersed in my next murder case and could not afford to take time off. Two Indian brothers, Thom and Avarice Lake, members of the Cheyenne Tribe, had allegedly murdered a bill collector that had not so allegedly ventured onto their property inside The Cheyenne Reservation in the central part of the state. Seems the Lake Brothers didnt dig the idea of a WASP male walking onto their property unauthorized, placing past overdue notices in their mailbox. The case of The Cheyenne Twins as the newspapers erroneously took to calling the brothers, had made all of the regional newspapers, including a small mention in USA Today. The vagaries of the legal machine had delayed the trial for over a year. The Cheyenne Indians fought to keep the case under control of the Tribal Council; the D.A. from the State of Oklahoma wanted it even more, and in the end, I suppose he wielded the bigger mallet. One day, I came into work and found the extensive case file sitting on my desk. From that moment on, I represented the plaintiffs, the people of the state of Oklahoma. I lived and breathed the case, familiarizing myself with every nuance in the file in a short period of time. And when I was done, when I knew in my black heart what the eventual outcome would be, a malevolent smile had crossed my face. I was lucky. The case was a winner. Airtight. A sure thing. Attorneys referred to such cases as Perry Masons, as in, They caught Harry carrying 28 ounces of cocaine on his person; if he doesnt make a deal, the D.A.s going to Perry Mason him to the tune of thirty years. The trial would likely shove me into the limelight, with and engraved invitation to the governors mansion sure to follow. The eyes of Oklahoma would shine upon me. And likewise, my own eyes would learn to shine back. And I would have the Lake brothers to thank. A pity. Their great misfortune was not the fact that they had committed such an atrocious crimeno, that fact I can overlook. In truth, I believe that the brothers felt that they had just cause. In a pragmatic, ugly way, murder is a way of life, a call to the strongest, an answer to natural selection. In some of the cases that I have prosecuted, I even surprised myself, feeling a slight 10
twinge of awe, an upwelling of sympathy for the accused. Of course, in those particular cases, extenuating circumstances existed thatI felthad compelled the men to commit their crimes. Although I empathized with them, I surely did not condone the acts. The fact is, in my heart, I believe murder to be an act of cowardice. And all those that wield the hammer should be punished accordingly. I will not lie, however, this conflict in ethics has turned out to be somewhat of a conundrum for me. After all, one would think that, if I feel sympathy for a man on trial, I could not prosecute him to the fullest extent of the law. But one word cuts through to the very heart of the matter. In the end of the day, like most honest attorneys, I am driven by one conviction. Justice. It is my complete belief in this word, my patent trust in the much-maligned legal system that helps me steer a true course. Without itif I ever developed doubts about its veracity, the pillars of my beliefs would come crumbling down and I would have to find a new career. You could then surmise that I needed the Lake brothers very muchprobably as much as they hated my uninhibited intrusion into their world. In a way, they were mere harbingers of redemption. While their crime kept them locked behind bars, it kept me going, providing me with sustenance. Fuel for my wrath. It was not personal. It never was. Their file had simply ended up on my desk one day. I had won the legal machinerys version of the Irish sweepstakes. And who was I to turn a good thing down? My nightmares. What would become of them? Looking back, the past year of my life could be viewed with hazy uncertainty. On the positive side, I had prosecuted three murder trials, winning all of them convincingly. And in two of the three, I was able to coax death sentences from the jury, a feat that still left me with an empty feeling, as I strived for perfection. Oklahoma jurors were among the more galvanized in U.S legal circles. They were fond of the death penalty, handing out passes to the electric chair as if their relatives owned stock in Oklahoma Power & Light. The fact that the third trial had ended in a twenty to life sentence was a constant source of great aggravation to me. Like a thorn in my side, the judges light sentence for what was a brutal murder followed me around the halls of the justice building, its shrill laugh echoing off the deep, wooded panels. But then again, the slap on the wrist as I called the sentence was due to my own slacking. In the penalty phase, I had let the defense march a parade of witnesses thru the stand who begged and pleaded the judge for mercy. Not wanting to seem like the grim reaper, 11
I had not raised any objections, even when the witnesses began to cry with such regularity and fervor that I considered bringing out my umbrella to keep dry. Needless to say, the judge wilted under the deluge of manufactured sympathy. On that day, one word in the English language triumphed over another. Mercy defeated justice. One word had risen up to keep me from cool perfection. Mercy. I didnt like it, but I accepted it. I suppose, though, as a matter of recourse that I will have to get used to the unexpected appearance of this word, mercy. I will have to learn, if I desire a long career ahead of me, to accept this as a hazard of the legal profession. Either that, or work the opposite side of the legal fence. Weeks later, as I waded through the ebb tide of that fresh setback, the case of Thom and Avarice Lake had landed on my desk, and with it, came the promise of victoryof redemption. Yet, soon after, when I should have been looking ahead to potential glory, the nightmares started. They came to me in the deepest part of the night. You know the moment I speak of. It is the moment just before dawn when everything is still, when the night is trying to extol her virtue, fighting to keep the morning at bay for a little while longer, while the sun leaps forth over the horizon with the brilliant energy of a newborn, pushing, pushing with colors the night can only regard with envy. I remember the shadows that emerged to crawl across the vestibule, around the hallway, and into my room where in a display of unwanted intimacy, they slid into bed with me. I can assure you, when a successful man thinks in terms of dangerous liaisons, this is not what he has in mind. Night after night, the noxious dreams filled the cavities of sleep. I would wake up several times during the night, wake up to the sticky, wet pools of an emotion that I had not felt in some time. Fear. I quickly learned that this emotion was an organism that fought to remain alive in me, displaying the same voracious appetite as the night that brought it. This emotion existed as a brother to the dark. And only the light could vanquish it. So I learned. I learned how not to sleep. I would lie awake until the first probing ray of morning squeezed through a slight tear in the window shade. Then, and only then, was I able to catch but a few hours rest. Did the nightmares affect my performance on the field, you might wonder? Hardly! In the four years preceding their arrival, I had worked long and hard, putting in fifteen-hour days and many weekends, learning the craft of courtroom procedure. I read voraciously, studied the courtroom styles of many successful attorneys; the remote extremism and withering cross-examinations of F. Lee Bailey; the rich voice of rampant 12
nationalism, Daniel Webster; the almost encyclopedic knowledge of the law and genuine enthusiasm of Darrow, the champion of the underdog who, you may recall, defended Leopold and Loeb in their own 1924 murder trial. Yard by yard, desk to office, I clawed my way to one of the top gun slots at the D.A.s office. I focused on the future, and as a result, my past faded to obscurity. I kept the fact that I was a Sioux Indian a secret to most. In fact, I became adept at burying the secret altogether. In time, the memories of a youth spent on the reservation, living in poverty with my grandfather, the long horse rides into the badlands, grew dimmer by the day, until they disappeared altogether. I guess that memory, for all its intangible worth, is still no match for pure ambition. Because that was where the genesis of my nightmares lay? I had graduated from law school, a young man courted by idealism. But soon after, the courtrooms of America introduced me to the hard facts of life. The inevitable countenance of corruption made an appearance, slithering off of college textbooks and onto my skin in a connubial blending of naivet passion and diaphanous treason. I, in turn, embraced my newfound friend for all it was worth. My skin thickened, my heart grew to stone. I thought of corruption as the silent weapon in a quiet war. It leveled the playing field for all attorneys. Whether they admitted to it or not, corruption was as important to the legal system as objections and appeals. It belonged to the physical world. And the idealism that I had touted so proudly throughout law school; that silly romanticism, I quickly discovered, belonged locked away inside the vacuum of university classrooms where it could not corrupt young, brilliant minds. Corruption provides humans with friction. This friction, in turn, becomes the catalyst for change. Corruption is mysterious; a large, misunderstood force. When one gets down to the nitty-gritty, the essence of change is also an unknown constant, having much in common with corruptionNo one knows what lies in the future for both. Besides, corruption worked nicely with the expensive suits I had acquired a taste for. A fashionable wardrobe, the Armani suits and ties somehow made it easier to stomach the things one only saw in bad made for TV movies: Trial lawyers from both sides withholding discovery; imperious judges looking beyond to appointments in county seats, losing their impartiality and interest. I worked racist juries, I deposed cops who manufactured evidence. I tried cases against the best attorneys drug money could buy.
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After four years of breathing the poisonous air of legal circles, it was inevitable that corruption and me would become as one. It worked its way into my veins, the same way grime gets under ones fingernails, and sprouted unwittingly into my soul. I felt constantly dirty. No matter how many times I bathed, no matter how many tailored suits I subsequently bought, the filth followed me everywhere I went. It would follow me to the Governors mansion, if I ever had the opportunity to visit. And no amount of washings would ever rid me of its repulsive odor. It finally dawned on me that as long as I practiced law, corruption would be a great part of my life force. There was no escaping it. Corruption was not fond of cutting deals. It would not leave the playing fields until I did. Corruption by definition is self-destructive. And it is only a matter of time before it implodes. Being an attorney, and working so close to corruption, I found it ironic that I had to embrace it in order to have a chance at success, yet once I became dependent upon it, I became a captive, even as it methodically plotted my demise. There was one thing that I could do to save myself from it. I had to get out before I exploded like a vainglorious firecracker. I was already feeling the pressure. The filth had grown to dramatic heights. My stomach was a constant mass of discomfort. I lost weight. I went down to one hundred eighty pounds from two-ten. Bags haunted my eyes like coverlets of doom. I no longer looked forward to entering a courtroom. Every good lawyer, after a few years in practice, reaches a certain level of toleration. Saturation. Even aggressive, rogue lawyers like myself. Unfortunately, we live at an age where murder trials spawn catch phrases, where Court TV serves as the liaison between the system and the gullible public. Lawyers everywhere carry the fiery persona of tent revival preachers, filling television sets with inappropriate aphorisms and raging diatribes, red herring intended to distract the juror, or viewer, from the pertinent issuethe question of guilt or innocence the question of justice! In the somewhat recent murder trial of a famous ex-football player turned actor, I can recall, the lead attorney in his closing arguments repeated this mantra over and over: If the glove doesnt fit, you must acquit. It was enough to make me sick to my stomach. I realized then at that very moment that it would prove too costly to remain in practice. I envisioned lawyers all across America copyrighting their courtroom theatricsEvery catch phrase, every burst of witty repartee, every clever statement uttered to the press, every hand gesture or glare. All of this voodoo cooking would become legal, personal property. 14
A lawyer would now run the risk of committing unintentional plagiarism from the time of his opening summation all the way through his closing arguments. And each objection would no doubt carry a residuals charge
Contemplating my next move as I froze to death on a road that was scheduled for demolition sometime next year, I knew my answers were not going to come fast and easy. In a moment of rare nostalgia, I found it shameful that the state had earmarked the highway for demolition. I hoped they wouldnt, but one look at the roads weathered surface all but guaranteed her demise. Deep gashes in the frozen, iron-hard asphalt, formed by constant expansion and contraction in the changing weather, represented a vicious threat to any passing vehicle. Manhole-sized potholes only added to the mix. They dotted entire sections of road like craters on the lunar surface above. Roadside telephones were nonexistent. No rest areas or gas stations could be found within the 272 miles that separated the towns of Desert Prairie, incorporated in the extreme Northeast quadrant of Montana, and Crow Agency. I was currently stuck somewhere between the two. The isolated outpost that was Desert Prairie was about a hundred and fifty miles to the north, Crow Agency a hundred miles in the opposite direction. Highway 29 ran North-South, cutting through the hearts of both of these towns, a sharpened knife running along longitudinal seams, dividing the arid plain in half. Like tumors resistant to medication, the towns bulged out to the plains on both sides of the road. But they had long ago ended their period of expansion. Abandoned buildings, signaling the turn of the apocalypse, filled the outskirts of each town, slowly eating their way into the center. There was a better than average chance that in the upcoming decade, after economics, drought, and constant government meddling took their toll, both of these towns would become deserted; just two more ghost towns added to the many that already pot marked Montana. The highway didnt have long to wait. The road had already been tried and condemned in the courts of public opinion. Ranchers, farmers, the legislature, and vindictive auto clubs throughout the land had decided that there was no further use for her. They had broken a treaty that had existed for over a hundred years. Sometime early next fall, all 272 miles of Highway 29 were going to be ground up into the worlds largest asphalt salad. 15
Here I was, a man known as the very instrument of condemnation; a man who often dispatched criminals to austere jail cells, and sometimes to death, and I was riding Highway 29 on her last appeal. As usual, I thought glumly, I had been provided with a front row seat to a bitter, untimely death.
The third burst of electricity struck a few moments later, just after Id climbed back into the trucks cabin. Just when I thought Id left the storm behind for good, a cruel twist of fate had reached out to rejuvenate it. A rupture of smoldering, pinkish-white artillery, smooth and elegant and continuous, clear in purpose, struck the ground dangerously close to my vehicle. The road underneath rumbled from wanton vibrations. The white light licked at the doors, trying to squirm in through the latches. Freed from the sky and its taut constraints, tingling electricity, attracted to the trucks metallic surface, gleefully enveloped the Fords chassis like a hot electric blanket. Charged particles hissed with sibilance, like a recalcitrant snake milked of her venom. The radio died suddenly. Somewhere in the distance, a splinter of electricity had cut through the atmosphere and skewered a radio tower as easily as a cocktail sword passes thru vodka impaling martini olives. In the ensuing silence, I became aware of thunder, a rumbling bass line that shattered the stillness. Working in unison with the wiper blades and heavy raindrops that splattered the windshield, it made for an eerie symphony. I shuddered slightly. I gave the rental more gas, prodding it forward. Another bright flash! In one blinding moment, the road expelled all of her life with the contradictory froth of black and white flash photography. The colors of the land, previously sharp and vibrant, the white carpet of snow, the black, naked branches that had married themselves to clear, crystallized icicles that glittered in refracted sunlight, all of these sights became dull and lifeless to my eyes. I remembered the old proverb that the richest of colors paled in extreme light. Sensing the electricity in the air, the tiny hairs on my arm stood in strict rectitude. A voice inside my head whispered, Turn the wheel. Go back. Had it not been for the presence of a thick band of cottonwood trees that now crowded up to the highways shoulders in sentinel-like fashion, giving me little if no room at all to maneuver, I would have jerked the wheel, brought the truck around, floored the accelerator and headed 16
back to Crow Agency whereupon I would have found Ravage and taken out my pent up aggression on him. The line of Cottonwoods, thousands upon thousands of branches covered in snow, stretched well into the horizon, flawlessly aligned in a single file. In the ongoing electrical storm, the naked limbs curled up to the heavens in a grim declaration. Row upon row, the sharp thumbs of desperate hitchhikers called up to the storm, determined to ride the wave of electricity upward, saved from a life spent in the barren landscape. I watched the parade of trees with a mounting sense of desperation. Deep cracks and fissures in the trees limbs lay exposed to the elements, the way buildings shredded in earthquakes reveal the weaknesses of brittle, steel superstructures. The prairie lit up, a vast canvassed photonegative that exposed the bluish Montana Agate to the purest of whites. Gray-white shadows belly-crawled across crag and crevice, natures movie camera filming the land in super slow-mo, filling in stark contrast and pertinent commentary. The trees multiplied in a mass of shadows, an eerie punctilious metamorphosis in accordance with the laws of antinature. It is a common belief by the inhabitants of this no mans land that the thumbprint of time forms the precise democracy of architecture. And precision being the dominant, Darwinistic evolutionary force that it is, I leaned back in the chair as a comforting blanket of odd clarity overcame my growing sense of doom. There were so many things I did not understand at that moment; many things that were beyond my influence. And then the inevitableThe prairie, much like everything in life, began its slow fade to the ordinary. The show of light, the shadows, each wilted and passed quietly to memory. The bright electricity became a thing of the past. Yet, as I continued to drive in silence, I became aware that something had been gained in the transfer of color; something that I hadnt thought of in years had been left behind. I saw this in the glazed eyes, the vacant reflection in the rear view mirror that suddenly came to life. What had come to light, bare and inconsolable, from the deepest pit of memory was a recollection of an episode that had occurred during my formative years, while I was still living at Pine Ridge. This incident occurred when I was thirteen, on a day when Pine Ridge was virtually deserted. Just about everyone had traveled to Huron for a weekend visit to the state fair. This was a time of great innocence for me. The vile curse that is self-awareness had yet to creep into my being. At the 17
time I was a typical, savage Indian boy, fond of hunting parties and campfire sleepovers. I wore my hair in traditional style; long, cascading down my back where it ended in a colorful braid. I had recently begun the practice of weaving brightly painted eagle feathers into the dark layers whenever my friends and I embarked on our usual game of soldiers and Indians, a game not at all different from the cowboy and Indian games many young, white children played throughout the world. On the reservation, we liked to substitute soldiers for the cowboys. It made their subsequent, mock killing that much more fun. On this day, we were short a few playmates, so I begrudgingly played the part of a soldier. There was no need for feathers. Instead, I wore a genuine, hand-me-down Army trench coat, a valued piece of clothing; the ethos of prairiewear. I remember pressing my nose into the thick, wool lining, smelling the dry, minty aroma of a hundred years of plains dust. As I pushed my arms through the long sleeves, the coats history rubbed itself onto my skin. I was filled with a veritable sense of freedom and longing, as if I had been meant to wear it all along. I imagined the wars the coat had been through, the victories it had tasted, and the defeats it had outlasted. And suddenly, playing the soldier didnt seem to be such a bad idea after all. I rode atop my own horse, a tall, gentle Appaloosa. He possessed a dark-brown coat, his croup dotted with black spots, giving him a comical appearance that made him the leper of Pine Ridge. I had named him Tracer, because many times he had broken out of his corral and vanished into the night, and many times he had found his way back home after a day or so on the loose. I remember Tracers nostrils flaring with wide anticipation as I placed the saddle on his sloping back, the tinny stirrups clanging underneath him. Horses possess acute instincts, and on this occasion, Tracers did not fail him. He fully understood that I intended to take him out for a run through Shannon County and thus his excitement became palpable. I rubbed the bony part of his forehead, calming him down, and felt the sticky wetness of his muzzle on my fingertips. His sclera, luminous white in color, a deep contrast to his large, dark eyes, gave him an almost human appearance. I fed him a red apple, his usual snack before one of our rides. He took it down in three gluttonous chomps. Appaloosas were known for their quiet and willing temperament, and as I jumped aboard the saddle and shoved my feet into the stirrups, Tracer barely acknowledged my presence. 18
After an entire day of reckless play, the air had chilled by several degrees, and as the sun retreated into the hills, the group began to disperse. Tracer and I soon found ourselves alone, separated from the main body of children. It was near dark and we were at least ten miles west of Pine Ridges outer boundary. Night falls fast on The Great Plains. The lack of big city lights and extreme northerly location fed its residents a steady diet of early sunsets that tended to darken rapidly, revealing a picturesque night sky replete with thousands of brilliant stars. These were the same stars my ancestors used to follow back to their camps in the days before maps and GPS became the rage. We worked our way back towards the reservation, Tracer straddling the banks of shallow Horsehead Creek, running very close to the Nebraska state line. I experienced the excitement of the unfamiliar. Out there on that isolated patch of land, Tracer and I tested unknown boundaries. We were explorers, discovering virgin tracts of land, claiming it for ourselves. A thick band of rain clouds had assembled low above Pine Ridges western border. I halted Tracer, carefully monitoring the storms progress, just as my grandfather had taught me to do. I watched as the all-too-familiar anvil began to take shape atop the column of clouds. It grew full and black, spreading out across the sky. It was too late for us. The storm was barely minutes away. If we were lucky, we would hit the corral at the storms commencement, escaping the full brunt of it. But we needed to make haste; there were few things worse than getting caught in the open during one of the prairies intense electrical storms. It was with that in mind that I set Tracer into motion. His hooves worked in splendid synchronicity with each strike of my rawhide-riding crop. Foam flecked the edges of his mouth. His nostrils flared once again, this time in anger as the leather tip bit into naked skin every few strides. His teeth sank into the bit, he fought against the reins, but the miles went by quickly, without incident. My hands, weak and blistered, managed to hold the reins straight and true. I fought desperately to remain seated. My groin banged into the iron saddle horn periodically, sending jolts of pain forthwith into my gut. In the horses mad wake, a thick trail of plains dust lingered behind for miles, rising into the air like the abundant plumage of an ostrich farm. And then suddenly, the purple storm clouds opened up in a cold-vented fury. Juxtaposed perfume of sweet rain and wild flowers filled our noses. I slammed my spurs into Tracers 19
flanks. Tracer immediately responded by kicking into a high gear I had never before witnessed. Struggling to be heard over the noisy din, I implored Tracer to hurry, even as the first slanted sheets of cold rain drove into us. My coat flapped wild and free in the ionized air. My jetblack hair hung wild and loose, the braid completely untethered, flapping in unison with Tracers strides. Tracer raced over grandfathers property line scant minutes after the electric envelope of sky had ripped wide open. But we did manage to escape the full brutality of the storm. This leads us to the incident that I have referred to, an incident that occurred later on in the night, altering forever the course of a young childs life. As I mentioned before, grandfather was away and I had the house all to myself. Exhausted from the days events, I fell asleep sometime around nine, the intense patter of raindrops sending me to peaceful slumber. Around midnight, I woke up to the sound of vicious thumping, an angry braying that undercut the sound of the storm, and to the realization that my Appaloosa was kicking up something fierce out in the pen. I jumped out of bed and ran outside to the corral, barefoot and clothed only in thermal underwear. The storm had intensified throughout the night. Thick sheets of rain and wind pelted me as I fought my way to the wooden stable. I recalled that earlier, when I tried to lock him away in his pen, Tracer had put up a hell of a fight. This agitated state had cropped up within him the second we had crossed over the property line, and by the time the corral had come into view, his muted agony had grown to a furious whining. I was frightened, to say the least. Tracer was a powerful horse, much too strong for a boy of thirteen. If his burgeoning excitement somehow metastasized to violence, there was a strong chance that I could get hurt, maybe even crippled, as Tracer was keen on lashing out with his powerful hind legs. But I had no choice in the matter. Help was miles away. I could not leave him in his state of current molestation. He was very capable of tearing down the stalls, the manger, even the entire stable, to pieces. I had no choice but to precede forward, a green waddy moving with extreme caution. It took all of the strength in my tired muscles, but in the end, after I had found him wandering inside the cramped wooden enclosure, angrily stomping his front hooves down on the sawdust floor, I managed to shove him into his trim holding pen, stumble back into the house, bruised and muddied, and lapse into the deep coma of sleep. It was a sleep that lasted all but a few hours. In my sleep, I had a vision of the corrals outer 20
walls closing in on me, and Tracer, having escaped narrowly, laughing outside as he ran free through the paddock. I woke up in the middle of a gleaming eye of awareness. The answer hit me squarely in the face. I suddenly understood, as I shot awake in bed, what had triggered Tracers strange panic attack Once more, I ran outside. Standing out in the open paddock, the winds easily pushed my frail body around. I turned in slow, deliberate circles, eyes pointed directly up at the heavens, watching the bright electrical display of light. The innocence that had framed my face just hours before melted away with each refractory strike of light. The answer was so obvious. So obvious I was disgusted with myself for not having seen it. Thousands of years of evolution had taught human beings a thing or two about liberty. It was a concept, a belief instilled in the heart, one that never died easily. Faced with the prospect of imprisonment, man and animal alike, thru instinct, would fight to the death to retain that freedom. It hardly mattered whether the imprisonment came in the guise of a fenced-in corral for a horse, a steel-barred jail cell for a criminal, or the thought of an empty future emblazoned on a young Indian boys impressionable mind. Each in their own way was abhorrent to the concept of freewill and served only to eradicate the senses. In the only way he knew how, Tracer was begging me to give him his freedom. All those times he had escaped and returned to me were nothing more than impromptu dress rehearsals for the real thing. I mulled over my options for what seemed an eternity, although in reality, only an hour or so went by. My decision did not come easily. Time ticked away slowly on the mantle clock. First the rains died out. The clouds soon followed suit, breaking up into many tufts of loose thread, forming a jigsaw puzzle sky no longer capable of coming together. Soon after came the ominous badge of the deep, dark night, and with it came its dark secrets, exculpatory whispers partial to the dialectical approach, capable of turning a compendium of rumor and innuendo into dry-parchment reality. Under a full blanket of stars, a cheesecloth moon that illuminated the courtyard in soft ambient light, my bare feet slid over the smooth mounds of cold, wet earth as I entered the fray known as calculated decision. As I walked, the cold, soft sand dug in between my toes, the sweet fragrance of the night still teeming with latent electricityfilled my nose, and for the first time in my life, I felt truly alive. I had made my decision. I unhitched the fence post and walked into the perfect circle that was the corral. I approached 21
quietly. Tracer peered over a gap in the stable wall, seemingly nervous at the sight of me. I entered cautiously. I offered him my hand. Tracer sniffed cautiously at the red apple that rested on my outstretched palm. He took the apple, as he had done a thousand times before. The memory of his wet breath lingered on my hand. I reached up awkwardly, rubbing the nape of his neck and removed the fly sheet of lightweight cloth from the stallions graceful, athletic back. It was spring. The smell of rain was all but gone from the air. The swift March winds had tucked the clouds away in another corner of the universe. The soft golden light that preceded the morning sun already fought to climb over the distant horizon. The heady scent of eastern prickly pear and slender wheat grass filled the early morning air. It was a time for rebirth. I guided Tracer through the corral, the inner sanctum, pulling gently on the henequen rope that hung loosely around his neck. We reached the outer gate. I reached up, slipped the circle of rope off and slapped him gently on his rump. No time for long speeches or tearful goodbyes, I thought. He stood there, motionless, captivity on one side, the open prairie to the other. He gazed at me through uncomprehending eyeseyes that exhibited an almost human awareness. And then as if torched by a jolt of electricity, Tracer displayed the speed inherent to this Spanish breed. He galloped off into the dark, the wet, laden dirt muffling the sounds of his escape, racing towards the spot on the horizon where the sun would soon emerge. I hope you find what youre looking for out there. I managed to say in a quivering voice. I fought the urge to cry, knowing deep inside that he had found it already. Freedom! High above, the Mare Tranquillitatis, where long ago meteor impacts had formed many craters, soothed over by time and solidified lava, winked at me, full of compassion, promising to guide my horse safely on his journey. Suffice to say, I was overwhelmed with emotion. In the dark, sorrow dueled mirth. A realization came to me by degrees, in the aftermath of my actions, as innocence gave away to understanding: My horse was free. However, in my case, everything remained status quo. I was doomed to remain on that sad parcel of Indian land. My prospects were weak. I would still have to live inside the shanty I called home, with its austere furnishing and bare electricity. I had sacrificed my best friend, yet I was now doomed to forever hold court to a spate of aborted dreams, dreams that had never been given the chance to blossom. 22
Three days later, the area was struck by another electrical storm. I was outside when it hit. My grandfather, who had returned from Huron, shouted at me to come inside the house, just as a jolt of electricity emerged from the clouds and slammed into the terrain with the force of a jackhammer. I managed to make it back to the house, out-of-breath, frightened, before the next series of strikes. And then I heard itthe sound I was sure would never again grace my ears. I raced towards into the corral, the wind meeting me headon. In my hand, I carried a gas lantern; its flaming wick struggling to stay alive. I raced into the stable. My hair and clothes were seemingly alive, full with wild, electric static. I checked the three stalls nearest the door, but all were all empty. I heard high-pitched, almost imperceptible whining coming from the rear, behind a pile of hay. And that was where I found him, sequestered in oblique shadows, frightened by the remarkable display of electricity. I crept closer. With great care, I managed to talk Tracer into the stall. I ran my hand over his thick brown mane. His body trembled all over. I reached over, located the fly sheet and covered him. His back was flat, listless, no longer the graceful Roman arch it used to be. He stomped the ground with his right hoof; a menacing display that I only knew too well. Behind his powerful hind legs stood the rotting, vertical planks of wood that made up the stable wall. I had to work fast. An ill-timed strike of electricity would surely frighten Tracer, and the wall behind him would be blasted out in one brutal kickan act that would surely wake my grandfather, who would be none too pleased about having a gaping hole where his stable wall used to be. I grabbed a red apple from the food trough. This time Tracer ignored my outstretched hand, even though he probably hadnt eaten in days. It took a few moments to calm him down. I leaned in close; troubled by the wayward look on his face. The benevolent eyes that I had known so well, the ones that carried in their black irises an invariable trace of humanity were gone. I leaned against the wall, the smell of mildew and hay settling in my nose as I contemplated my next move. Tracer huddled against the wall in the rear of the pen, his haunches driven deep into the ground. He no longer resembled the proud horse that spanned some 15 hands up from the ground to his withers. For the second time in the span of a few short days, I was hit with another touching realization.
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Tracer had come back, but he had come back beaten and downtrodden, a far cry from the animal that had left me a few days before. I had offered him a taste of freedom. I had given him the opportunity to experience open days of roaming the prairie, of mad dashes through shallow creek bottoms, each day racing to cross state lines and man made boundaries, each night a furious gallop towards the distant setting sun, the host of his relentless chase. I had given him back his instincts and he had ignored them, coming back instead to the reservation, coming back to a life in the saddle. My heart sank as it dawned on me that I alone was responsible for this behavior. In my pursuit to train a feral Appaloosa to be my most trusted friend, I had unwittingly, throughout his formative years, degree by aching degree, bled Tracer dry of his wild instincts, instincts passed on to him by his mother on his birth night, which took place in this very room, occurring at the same instant a bolt of white-eyed shimmer had struck outside, splitting apart the highest branches of the pine hierarchy. For that one glorious moment, I recalled, foal and raw electricity had been locked in a connubial vow. The wind lashed outside, whooshing continuously through the trees. I hunkered down next to a sturdy piling, watching Tracer shiver beneath the blanket, embracing the damning lure of captivity. The lantern swayed side-to-side on its hook, casting eerie shadows over the walls. The steady pulse of electricity droned on, and it occurred to me that the storm had yet to produce a single drop of rain. Each desiccated strike framed Tracers slender face in quiet agony. He avoided my eyes, knowing that in his I would detect abject failure. And at that instant, a thirteen-year-old Indian boy lost his innocence to self-awareness. The change was marked by swiftness, like an ax splitting a stopwatch in two. Time froze for a few moments, and as the Appaloosa looked on, the young boy struggled, and then gained clarification of fresh insights. And when this moment passed, when the hatchet lifted, the stopwatch repairing itself, the boy ceased to live, and in his place stood a young man; a man of growing confidence, full with the knowledge that life was incongruous and vicious, not afraid to reduce broad-shouldered horses down to the rank of frightened subordinates. The young man was in a quandary. He no longer knew what to make of his friend, the frightened Appaloosa that hid in the dark, safe from the arid electrical storm outside, free from having to make the decisions necessitated by freewill.
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Strangely enough, the man realized that the incidents marking the last few hours of his life, as well as the Appaloosas, had all transpired because of one element electricity. Positive charges colliding with negative particles. A feverish dance. High in the clouds above. The phenomena humans knew as Lightning. Dry Lightning. Lashing out at the plains. Drowning in waterless heat. Dry Lightning. Sometime during the last seventy-two hours, out there in the expansive grid-box of the Great Plains, dry lightning had reached out and struck with terrifying bluntness, a force sufficient enough to frighten Tracer into an imminent return home. Yet, life was full of surprises, and on this particular night, a night full of energy and echoes, a thirteen-year-old boy had come to understand the oppressive power nature had over her children, and just how immutable and mesmerizing she wielded the staff, the staff feared by many, the staff of dry lightning. How, with overwhelming omnipotence, the marriage of positive and negative charges could set the tinderbox valley ablaze if it wished. How it could reduce a once mighty Appaloosa into a creature so pitiful, so incoherent, that he would cringe at the very notion of freedom. How it could remove a young boy from his physical and mental prison, pointing out the organic connection between mind and matter. How it could raise the partition that separated inertia from action, living from dyingand not the spiritual struggle for life and death weve all come to read about in the bible, but rather, the life and death struggle that goes on in the physical mind, in our tortured souls. One had to commit to a side. One had to live and die defending that side. And if one procrastinated, one would end up a mirror image to my Appaloosa, scared to death of the partition, which swung from the heavens like a sinister scythe, a pendulum cutting down the confused, the embracers of enslavement, and those that feared the unknown. This same partition had remained open just long enough to give a young Indian child, a boy whose blood coursed wild in his veins, a child of suppressed dreams, a glimpse into a very different future, one far away from the many reservations that dotted the U.S. like so many strands of resilient poison ivy.
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Yes, it was dry lightning that returned my Appaloosa to me that night. But it had kept for itself the spirit of the horse that I had known and loved for so long, returning to me a mere stranger. Yet in the same breath, displaying remarkable duality, it had stirred my senses from somnambulistic sleep and pointed the way out of the reservation, a magic arrow ready to lead me through the night. Dry lightning. Dry Lightning had come down from the heavens in a dualnatured fork of a descent, a manifestation of purity and wrath. For the benefit of my eyes, it had outlined the precise foundation of the land until every tree, rock, and river had conceded its mysteries. And at the same time, it awakened my repressed memory, bringing childhood remembrances to light. I rode off on the back of the thunderbolt that night, leaving the genesis of my self-loathing behind. Unlike the many other nights it had appeared, on this occasion, I had gleamed from it a vision of purity. I had been reborn. I had become pure again. PureLike the dry lightning that had been my constant companion for the last half hour as I aimed the Ford towards Esperanza Ridge, driving across a landscape that I had long ago abandoned, accompanied by a mahogany box bequeathed to me by a grandfather I barely knew, to try and collate the broken pieces of my life into some semblance of normalcy; pieces that until recent events, had remained strong and intact
I had been tacking my way across the state for the last fortyfive minutes. North, followed by east. East, giving way to north. Up, down, all around. And so on. And still no Esperanza. The ridge had to be nearI could feel its presence now that the skies had shed the storm clouds. In a fortuitous twist of events, the storm had veered off to the far reaches, pushed by a fluke stream of wind, leaving in its absence skies of majestic blue. A while back, my spirits had lifted somewhat when I saw what could have been a roadrunner dashing along the highways shoulder, speeding in the opposite directionthe first sign of wildlife I had seen since the snake back in Billings. But he had quickly vanished into the landscape, leaving me alone once again, with nothing but my jaded mind. I felt as if the black cape of isolation had triangulated my position and placed an infallible vice over me.
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Over the course of the last quarter hour, I had driven past two other enigmatic, rocky outcrops that stood out in stark defiance to the flat, barren landscape, but each proved to be nothing more than a dubious counterfeiter of Esperanza, and both had disappeared in my rear view mirror, along with my patience, which had just about reached its endpoint. I checked my watch. It was almost eleven. Jesus! How long had I been at the wheel? And then bingo! A good three miles away, I spied yet another augmentation of rock and woodland, nestling right up to Highway 29s east side shoulder. This had to be it! I awakened suddenly, full with a burst of energy that can only come from discovery. I closed the distance quickly. Sure enough, as the mountain came to me, I could make out entire black forests rising upwards into the air, a multiplication of trees angling upwards, their branches reaching up for the blue sky; huge white, boulders piled atop one another, frosted over with snow, and I imagined the great pressure building underneath the ages of all that weight. Jagged folds and creases in the earth, massive pillars of rock and ice and time overlapped each other until the mountain grew large enough to fill the front windshield. My excitement climbed right alongside the trees and rock; I suddenly knew for certain that I had reached mighty Esperanza. Looking to the right, I spied my turnoff, a thin passageway to Tomorrow Land no more than ten feet wide, covered by a layer of endless snow and ice. According to Ravage, this trail would lead me up thru the mountainside, a 3000-foot demoralizing climb that on its snowcapped peak nested Esperanza Ridge. Guiding the truck off the main road, I immediately felt myself climbing upward at an improbable angle. The 4x4 struggled for purchase against a steep gradient of mud and slush. I slammed my foot down on the accelerator, my right hand grinding down gears that fought back in a fit of insurrection. The engine roared in approval. All eight cylinders followed suit, firing in harmony. Tires tore thru the layers of ice and snow, finding solid ground beneath. The vehicle lurched forward, leaving the smooth blacktop of Highway 29 behind for what I hoped was not the last time. A final glance in my rear view mirror. I caught a last look at the white country, the all encompassing picnic blanket of white, interrupted only by isolated pockets of mesquite that poked out defiantly into the cold like obstinate soldier ants. Sudden movement in the sky caught my attention. 27
Floating high above, riding on the crest of the air current was a majestic bird of prey, which, after a few seconds of circumspection, I was able to easily identify as a Golden Eagle. In a spot where the trail curved slightly I found a flat patch of terrain and eased the truck to a stop. I stepped onto the center of the trail. My boot heels sank into a layer of icy slush. I raised my face, exposing it to the sun. The much-needed sunlight brushed my face in careful, warming strokes. The thermometer had risen vaguely since leaving Crow Agency. If I were lucky, it would stay on course. The mountain was strangely silent; the crunching of boot heels on ice, the hissing, popping noises emitted by the engine as it cooled in the thin air, the natural rattle of windswept branches were immediately lost in the mountains extensive acoustics. The great wall of rock that led up to the ridge valued its secrets. I knew, from this moment on that everything that transpired between us would remain a secret to the outside world. The ridge had just offered me the freedom to proceed. Yet, it spoke in words of stealth, words that dissipated instantaneously as they plunged downward in a parabolic curve, lost forever in the ridges tomblike structure. My lungs expanded, taking in as much fresh air as possible. My breath came heavy, a grating rasp that bounced off the surrounding rock and out towards the open plains. I stumbled unevenly across the alien ground, my boots desperately trying to cling to the icy surface. At some point my feet slipped beneath me, unleashing a small avalanche of rocks below. Aided by gravity, the miniature rockslide dashed into the side of a mammoth, sandstone boulder below. The resulting tap dance of cascading rocks was pitiful, however, lost again to the silent echo chamber I had entered. I was sure, however, that the sound had not been lost entirely. Shit! The golden eagle! I winced. Looking up, I half expected the highflying predator to be long gone. My doubts were quickly dispelled, though, as the birds course remained unchanged, a lesson in stability, a spiraling flight of loose circles, both wings set with a slight dihedral. He was a juvenile. I could tell by his plumage, which was vibrant and sharp, and had yet to be subjected to the constant bleaching effects of the sun. His wings were dark brown, with white patches on the outer edge of his underling coverts; very large and majestic, splayed out against the air current, the leading edge a bit higher than the trailing edge. I shaded my eyes against the sunlight, recalling to memory the tactics my grandfather had used in identifying airborne
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birds. Defying conventional wisdom, Indians identified birds not by sight, as most mortals did, but by the ear. You cant trust sight! It was grandfathers favorite axiom in life, one he had pounded into my subconscious long ago. Not being one to buck tradition, however, I studied the eagle in the conventional manner. After all, tens of thousands of members of the National Audubon Society couldnt possibly be wrong, could they? Circling high above, ravenous on his return flight from his winter home in the eastern salt marshes, the adolescent predators smooth, tapered, golden head turned on a calculated swivel, watching the world below for a casual mistake; the beautiful, intricate mechanics of movement belying the fact that inside this tiny chamber was housed an unrelenting mechanism for perfect destruction, whose sole purpose was to feed, to kill, to exploit the weaknesses all animals possessed; the careless rabbit gorging himself while sitting on his haunches, his back turned toward the open hunting ground, or a miniature pocket mouse, soaking water by a riverbed, unaware of the smooth torpedo bearing down on him, shallow wing beats cloaked in lethal silence, like the silky engine of a fighter plane at dusk, strafing a village that had retired for the night. Circling high above, the eagle spoke directly to me, emitting the weak, high-pitched yelp common to the juvenile. To an unwitting onlooker, his chronic ssseeee-chk, ssseeee-chk chattering sounded ostensibly like begging, but I knew better. This majestic pillager, with bulging secondaries and pinched wings, razor sharp beak, had honed his survival skills early in life; abandoned by parents after the first critical months, he quickly evolved, becoming the hand that wielded the gavel of justice; the prairie that was his courtroom would grow exponentially as he grew, by the yard, the acre, the square mile. At times, he would encounter soul-searching famine; yet it was famine that introduced him to patience, and patience in turn, embraced him and taught him servitude, and servitude lead to strength of character. It was this strength that rewarded him with golden plumage; it was this plumage that made him a pure hunting machine. A small part of me wanted to blast the car horn to sabotage his hunt, but at the last second, self-control got the better of me. Long ago, when naivet still possessed my soul, and I had yet to trade blind passion for the dulling premise of experience, I might have leaned on that car horn for all my worth, until every animal on the ridge had scurried away to safety. But I 29
had evolved into a different person. In my current state, I had more in common with the eagle than I did with the animals of the lower food chain. Fundamentally, we were very much alike. In the past few years, I had made a successful transition from apprentice to hunter. The only existing difference I could spot between the eagle and myself was the degree of palatability in our respective prey. As many civil servants will attest to, I was at a disadvantage, as modern day criminals stank to the highest heavens. The golden bird suddenly tightened his lazy circles into a dense, concentric flight cone, the fearful eye of symmetry locking onto an unsuspecting target below. The bird angled its head low and plummeted towards the earth in a controlled dive, aiming at an invisible point just beyond the ridge. He became a corkscrewing death arrow picking up sheer velocity along the way. I watched with more than passing interest, for I had now switched sides and wished the bird all the luck in the world. Perhaps, I thought, his sharp eyes had caught a flicker of involuntary movement below; Or maybe an undulating wave of fear radiating from the back of a frightened animal that had wandered into this vast confessional that was the eagles hunting grounds. The bird disappeared over the tall trees; in that last moment before he went, I observed his body tensing, his claws angling forward, talons spread, ready to grasp at something. I turned away and walked back to the truck, silently wishing him good fortunes on his hunting. Once again, I was the only living creature in sight. I drove in silence for the next twenty minutes. The meandering trail soon surpassed the 1500-foot barrier. I was making poor time because of the trails dreadful condition. The snow line became more pronounced as the terrain grew steeper. I thought about putting the snow chains on, but being anxious to reach the top of the trail, I demurred. Thirty minutes and another thousand feet ticked off. At some points, the rocky trail narrowed ostensibly, the pine trees incorporating the trail from both sides. Late winter tree branches, exposed and honed to razor sharpness by the elements, attacked the trucks sidewall, biting into the red metallic surface with the venal ferocity of a thousand snakes. I suddenly knew how it felt to be a fragile animal, trapped inside the constricting coils of a ravenous a python, a meal to be digested. During the myriad of twists and turns, in spots where the forest thinned out, I caught scattered glimpses of the summit 30
above, poking obstinately into the naked sky. A great relief washed over me as I realized that my journey was winding down to mere minutes. When it came to my own good fortune, however, I should have known better than to accept it so quickly. Natures wrath suddenly appeared again, throwing a monkey wrench into my timetable. In what I first assumed to be a cruel trick of the light, the trail ahead suddenly dipped and vanished into black obscurity. A lump developed in my throat. My mouth fell open in astonishment. Where did it go? I found myself suddenly drowning underneath an umbrella tint of graying shadows. I approached a spot where the road seemingly came to an abrupt end. It became evident to me that I was about to enter a dense wallpaper forest of pine needles, a skeletal framework of limbs acting as iron rivets, fusing a vast network of branches and trees together, filling them with many shades of greenery, the deep emeralds, the tertiary lime greens, the lush greens of Christmas trees. The Ford rolled onward. I noticed that the pine branches, hundreds upon hundreds in number on both sides, had successfully bridged the gap above the trail, a mere seven feet above ground. Adequate enough for my truck to skim through, I thought, but not much else. I imagined how it had all started. One misty morning, long ago, in the near apogee of their growth, the pine trees had stumbled upon the trail from both sides. They had awakened to find themselves bestowed with newfound knowledge. As so often happens, in times of crisis, ingenuity has a way of bursting forth into the open. Right then and there, as if they were capable of the act, the trees had decided that a manmade trail would not prevent them from commingling. And so bough upon bough piled over each other in a hungered race to get to the opposite side, amassing together in the air that hung above the trail, hungry limbs from one side reaching the foreign limbs of another, green wave begetting green wave, piling on the thickness, forming an impressive, impenetrable framework that would have awed the builders of the railroads themselves. It seems that the thick tree line, in an effort to keep humans away from Esperanza, had overrun the trail in some misguided effort to extinguish it from sight. Acting as natures engineers, the knotted, tangled mass of pine trees had merged their minds as one. The Ford bore down on a scant tunnel opening that became the harbinger of claustrophobic thoughts. I watched with silent awe as the disparate walls of branches joined hands above the trail, forming a solid tunnel of pine-green that could have easily 31
supported the weight of an obese man. And inside the tunnel, I noticed, light did not enter, nor could darkness escape. This phenomenon served to fuel the branches with a supernatural resonance. How far on the cavern of branches went I had no way of knowing unless I enteredAnd I had no choice but to. Because at the moment, the only thing I knew for certain was that Esperanza lay on the other side of that tunnel. It was with great cynicism and trepidation that I plunged forward into the visible darkness. Sunlight vanished instantly in the black cave. I lost sight of the trail beneath my wheels. My instincts immediately took over, becoming my autopilot. I became one with the truck. Together we clawed our way over every unforeseen dip, leaned into every S curve, and squeezed through the unimaginable blackness with only the thought of escape in mind. And still the cavern stretched on. Tires churned away at unknown footholds, squealing against the dense foliage that integrated the trail. My reactions became instant, honed to perfection. On each occasion, when I felt the four rubber spheres were in immediate danger, I would pull the steering wheel away from the intruders, knowing that the razor sharp kindling could puncture easily any, if not all, of the tires, leaving me lost in a world of gloom. Inside the black eye of passage that was the cavern, I convinced myself to remain calm. The rolling prairie, the gallant eagle, the Lake brothers, the electrical storm, all of these were now things of the past. A deep scowl passed over my face, an odious characteristic that had by now become second nature to me. It had clawed to the surface during my first year of law practice and had never left. I absentmindedly rubbed the two-day-old growth on my cheeks, a nervous habit also acquired in law school. Alone in the dark, I mentally lashed out at God, wondering why he had allowed the pine trees to keep their needles throughout the seasons while the rest of the trees suffered a nude ignominious winter existence. It was as if God himself had reached down and suffused the pine trees with human awareness, and as a direct result, the thought of being naked in this world was now as terrifying to them as it was to humans. Such is the magnitude of all things that plague mortals. In one particular stretch, the growth penetrated far into the trail, and I was left with no alternative but to force the truck forward, inch-by-inch, blasting through healthy branches that had grown undisturbed for years. One after another, the pine branches conceded to the trucks raw power, but only after their jagged needles had left an indelible mark on the paint job. 32
I cursed the trees and their damn self-awareness. I could have done without the chronic, plaintive wailing of the needles as they raked incessantly across my windshield. My eyes remained locked ahead in a vain attempt to ignore the unsettling noise, searching for the penlight that had to be near, the light that would eventually arrive and indicate the tunnels end. Gradually, the trail took on more of an upward slope. My body remained rigid, prone in the cab. My hands clutched the wheel in a white-knuckled, death grip. The rapid ascent continued, and as my body fell into the seat behind me, I imagined a road that had been paved up the side of a New York skyscraper. Then, things happened very quickly. The tires lost purchase and began to glide over what could only be black ice, becoming four useless snow skis brimming with potential energy, ready to unleash a two-ton lethal rocket back down the mountainside in uncontrollable slide. I slipped into a lower gear, bringing the RPMs off the red line. The engine roared; yet the steering column remained nonresponsive. Tires churned in place, fighting inertia, but it was gravity that held the truck in its deadly snake coils, constricting the red machine back down the tunnel. This gatekeeper of Esperanza Ridge was not going to let me exit so easily. I would have to earn the right to free passage. And for one harrowing instant, as I sank backwards into the quagmire of muck and snow, the path behind me now free and clear of branches, I thought I heard venomous laughter coming from the bowels of the mountain. Fuck me and the truck I rode in on. Why hadnt I taken the time to put the snow chains on? I had the prospect of a long, indefinite fall ahead of me. I was fairly certain the Fords operating guide lacked contingency plans if the truck, in fact, did somehow commence into a destructive freefall. A harrowing caveat!If something terrible were to happen to me, I was alone and wouldnt be missed until the following day. I took a deep breath, reengaged the clutch, and pressed down on the accelerator, milking every ounce of power out of the four-wheel drive system. For a brief moment, the truck felt weightless, suspended in mid air, the wide tires struggling to find solid traction. The cold ground reciprocated with cool laughter, its skin stretched in taut resistance, toying with the vulcanized rubber that lapped at her in desperation. Eight cylinders pumped in unison, contemplating which was the greater force, the earths gravity or mans resolve.
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The snake that gravity had become loosened its coils slightly, entertaining me with false hope. For a brief spell, the truck clawed back, inching forward a few feet, sensing daylight ahead, then losing inches. But the snake proved to be too formidable to conquer outright, and recouping its fury, began its final constrictions. I felt consumed by the awesome power of compression. My tiny universe suddenly collapsed in upon me. I shut my eyes, for it was tunnel vision in the strictest of sense. The trees pushed into the trucks side panels. I imagined strong limbs prying the outside metal, trying to peel their way into the cabin, to get at me, the purveyor of disrespect. My chest tensed up, my breathing became shallow. The deep lines and burrows on my face turned malignant. And then, as luck would have it, the Fords tires found firm footing. The gradient flattened out, the black ice vanished, the accelerator became lighter under foot, and I was home free. The truck shot forward, transformed into a 30 mph mechanical beast barreling through the unknown, heading towards safety, to the other side of winter where even the misbegotten maze of civilization could not touch me. The branches ceased their overall whining. A lone, quartersized ray of sunlight appeared from overhead, spotlighting the trucks hood. Then came another. And then the lights increased with such regularity that they became too numerous to count. They came from the naturally formed periscope above, burrowing through hairline fractures in the foliage, through gaps in the intricate net of woven green. I smiled in relief, knowing that in the end, I had not given in to despair. Thus, I had been rewarded with a crop of beautiful lights, glinting off shiny, red metal. The light of hope does not always come to us shrouded in secrecy or obfuscation, I realized. Where I had once expected a cloudy, weak beam at the end of the tunnel, a profusion of brilliant rays had instead emerged, bathing the truck in the low level light of unknown passage; a light of understanding that splintered through the arch of pine branches, golden shafts morphing into numerous mini-suns, working in unison to guide me out of the serpents belly. The worse was now behind me. The foliage soon began to thin out in a conspicuous pattern of baldness. The trees fraternized in much smaller groups that soon fragmented to triplets, then couplets. And then the tunnel was behind me. I had made it out, but it hadnt been easy. And of course, if there was a black cloud to this silver lining, I still had the return trip to think about.
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I lowered the window. I opened my mouth, tasting the fresh scent of pine that hung in the air. It reminded me of the cheap, dime-store aftershave convicts were provided with on sentencing day, but I was glad to have it all the same. The ridge now seemed attainable. I pressed on, but the specter of the passageway remained on my mind. Even now, it still carried an unabashed presence. If time wasnt at such a premium, I would have driven back, parked the vehicle and wandered carefree through the trees, climbed the strongest limbs and plucked that strong presence right out of the air, rubbing the heady scent over my hands, my skin, and my hair, for even though I had bested the tunnel, I had acquired a great amount of respect for it. The passageway had detected my fear, recognizing its presence long before I had. It had lured this fear out into the open the way a cunning shark leads a hapless sea lion out to deeper waters. The passageway did not concern itself with purpose as I did. It did not concern itself with my point of destination, as it would never disclose to me its rooted motivations. It would concede to no ultimatums I dared to place upon it. The passageway recognized one immutable factthe reality of the moment; placing sheer emphasis on the basic, unhinged truths that guide implied fact to concreteness, unraveling from it all forms of fallacy. Yet in the same breath, the passageway had shown divine mercy, loosening its grip on my truck in the most harrowing moment of the climb. Without that merciful act, I wouldnt have made it this far. And the shadows of our involvement would not have been extended to live another day. In short, our business together had not yet ended. The dance was far from over; the clock a long stroke away from midnight. We would meet again on the flip side of the trail. There was no escaping it; our attachment was preordained. As far as I could tell, there was no other way to exit the ridge. This time, we would be meeting on the downward gyre, probably sometime early the next morning. I wondered just how accommodating the passageway would be with the lower temperatures of dawn, the icy conditions, and gravity all at her back. The ride downhill would be complicated to say the least. With the gravity (no pun intended) of the situation in mind, I again began to question the value and purpose of this trip. What was to be gained, I thought? In the end, after I opened the box, would my soul be altered in any way? Changed for the better? And if it did, would it be a lasting change? Would I be a better man for it? Or would that transformation become just another New Years Day resolution, a promise left behind in the dust? 35
After all, if I had to describe myself, I could testify in terms of a lurid presence that reveled in abstract imperfection, anachronistic in feeling, in time, in circumstance. Looming within each pore, each strand of my hair was the vitriolic torrent of my past. Somewhere along the line, I had grown cold; cold as the cud of melted wax left on an abandoned birthday cake once the candles had been pulled. I had become a cold abstract with efferent nerves no longer capable of seeking out the warmth of a furnace. It was inconceivable to think that a few hours spent up on this ridge could outweigh a lifetime of pent up bile; a viscous entity so strong and malevolent it could outlast the vanquishing angel himself. And if so, what might the repercussions be? My penance? I knew that for all our differences, subtle or worldly, something unspoken, coming by degrees into existence, had passed between the passageway to myself, from sapling to man. It had transferred onto me in the dark, telling my foot when to press lightly, when to be firm; telling my hands which way to turn the wheel; impressing upon my eyes the wisdom that to be blind was to be divine and unselfish, a time for your adjoining senses to pick up the fallen reigns and work together in beautiful harmony. The passageway had led me to the door of compromise; her angry children had branched out and tested my faith through tearing limbs. And the stranger that I was did not break. And when the stranger did not break, when his resolve proved immense, the iron grip of the morass oxidized and crumbled. And If I felt compelled to finish the lesson, to race to the mountaintop, my reward would far outweigh any recriminations and repercussions, vituperate or otherwise. And my penance, in the end, would be my beautiful reward.
Fortunately for me, the truck entered a flat section of road, a long straightaway washed over by sunlight, marred only by a lengthy puddle of glazed water that loomed ahead. I downshifted for power and with relative ease, guided the truck into cold, stagnant water. The truck bounced up and down as tires ran over underwater potholes, debris and rocks. The mahogany box made its way across the seat and bumped into my knee. I grabbed it and flung it down on the passenger side floor, where it would stay for the remainder of the trip, out of reach but not quite out of sight. And definitely never out of mind! 36
I returned my attention to the road, just as a thin, bony creature darted out onto the path, skipping playfully through the water, completely unaware of the metallic missile bearing down on it. The wretched little beast, his off-white colored fur dirty and wet, rummaged through the scattered deadfall in leisurely fashion, looking for his first meal after a long period of hibernation. He worked feverishly, hopping from rock to branch, finally settling on a large limb that protruded from the island of water. Unfortunately for him, it was right in the middle of my path. In his paws he held what looked to be some sort of muddy tree root. In what was proving to be the central theme of the trip, the tapered trail encroached inward, giving me little room to maneuver. Trees and underbrush loomed a foot or so away to each side. I didnt dare brake the truckthe risk of stalling in the puddle was too great. I had little choice but to hold my course and hope that the tiny mammal noticed me before I ran it over. And if by chance, I did run him overwellthe thought of a trophy hanging off the radio antennae did carry with it an alluring appeal. I would love to see the shattered look in Ravages eyeshim being an animal lover and all! At last the animal sensed my intrusion. He stood up on bony hind legs, his delicate forepaws posed out in front for balance. He stood motionless, watching the truck through beady, little eyes and a look on his face that could only described as one of outright indignation. As I closed the distance, his features became more distinct. A black knobbed nose probed the air with rapid caution. Whiskers fanned out to each side of a slender face, water droplets hanging obstinately from the ends. Ribs poked hungrily at a thin layer of winter skin. Behind flared, razorsharp teeth, the animal chattered away angrily at the oncoming truck in the misguided belief that an incessant barrage of high-pitched, stream-of-consciousness was enough to stop a speeding, two-ton truck dead in its tracks. As the moment of truth neared, an alarm went off inside the animals primitive brain, sending the rest of his body into frenetic motion. With a shriek, the tiny scavenger scrambled towards the roadside. Four modest legs splashed through the icy water, slipping on mossy rocks, aiming for the safety of the underbrush. Grinning malevolently, I mashed the accelerator, intentionally negotiating the truck through the deepest part of the puddle, sending a wall of water cascading over the retreating mammals hindquarters. I looked back in time to see the end-part of a skinny, black-tipped tail disappear into a 37
rocky crevice, safe and sound from my irreverent disregard for nature. Ravage would later tell me that this carefree beast was an ermine; an animal whose white fur was valued greatly by socialites in England. Ermines were fierce, reclusive creatures that adapted to the harsh winter through an ingenious form of prestidigitationA summer coat of dark brown gradually turned to pure white as winter progressed. Once transformed, he could blend easily into the local scenery, the deep snowfall becoming a hunting-blanket that cloaked him in stealth. Yet strangely enough, throughout all of this, his tail remained eternally constant, never losing its black sheen. It was a constant reminder to the small creature of what he wasa clever hunter that valued cunning in a world devoid of human presence; valued stealth in a world far from prying eyes; the master of rudimentary survival, thriving in solitude, relishing the barren landscape. It all had to do with camouflage and subterfuge, Ravage would explain. Like a boxer using a stiff jab to set up a roundhouse right. Like a lawyer waiving a subpoena built on illegal wiretaps. An animal of slight stature had limited choices to survive the world of winter. In a chilled environment that magnified each mistake, the raffish ermine knew to keep his wits about him and to blend in harmoniously with his surroundings. The agents apostatizing aside, the ermine had been at my mercy, and if it hadnt been for the fact that I was rusty from those daily cab rides through the plazas of the city, he would have ended up as yet another innocent victim of my misplaced aggression. I would have carved a notch on the rentals sidewall and gladly called it a day. Awash in a brilliant, late morning sun, I emerged somewhere high up above Montana, far from civilization, people, courtrooms, convenience stores and their useless amenities. The storm that had pestered me back on the highway had settled itself in the vicinity of the North. There the clouds loomed, numerous bands of condensed, gray vapor piled high and thick, still weighing in with considerable presence. I watched as a double volleyed fork of lightning struck the distant plains. I shut my eyes and waited for the thunder. Seconds later a familiar rumbling filled the air. Barely audible, but a rumbling just the same. Just as my grandfather had taught me, I counted the seconds between the sight of lightning and the sound of thunder, dividing by five to determine how many miles away 38
the storm was. I repeated the process a few times, getting a rough estimation. My arithmetic, shaky after all these years, told me the storm was a good ten miles out, moving steadily away on a northerly course. It looked like the warm weather was going to hold after all. Which made the next moment, a rather uncomfortable one. What emerged suddenly from the squall line was the unmistakable pigtail beginnings of a ghoulish, gray twister, albeit one that was undersized, forming on the flanks of one of the lowest cloudbanks. I watched as the premature, truncated body quickly gained momentum, adding to its length hollow coils of unanchored, rotating air. The persistence of gravity guided the funnel of air downward on a sloping trajectory. The twister was biding time, slanting its way through the loose atmosphere with no interference and with casual self-assurance. In just a few minutes, the spiraling air column would touch base with the ground and commence a solitary swath of destruction across the desolate plains. Once there, it was anyones call as to what would happen. I had never before witnessed the actual birth of a natural disaster, and to tell you the truth, I was more fascinated than frightened. And so, I waited patiently for the inevitable pairing of heaven and earth. It was an unholy union that didnt take long to form. The twister struck ground four minutes later. Her funnel turned an instant jet-black, due in large part to the profusion of coal in the ground. The mornings tranquility was instantly shattered. The ground began to rumble with deep, rolling vibrations. Commencing at its touchdown point and all the way up to the anvil shaped storm cloud, the violent vortex increased in fury tenfold. Three hundred mile an hour swirling winds carried the blackness of the coal up into the clouds. For some odd reason, I recalled to mind an article I had read concerning Edward Lorenz, the originator of the chaos theory. According to his theory, a butterfly in BeijingNorth Africaor wherever had stirred its wings all but an hour ago, creating a minute pressure wave that grew exponentially, crossing the globe and causing this entire mess. It was yet another reminder of the abundant symmetry that linked together all forms of life. Tilling the earth, the vortex of wind grew rapidly. The twister vacillated for a breath, trying to decide on a direction that offered the greatest potential for damage. Thus began her erratic, cycloidal damage path. A newborn storm, not having reached maximum density, her hips were wide, unorganized. Greedy and hungry, she began to shovel to her mouth acres of 39
loose, rich soil; filling her belly, rumbling, filling the highest reaches of her vessel, which grew narrower and stronger with each passing moment. Once her belly was full, she would unleash the raw tonnage of dirt in a broad climax, spewing it out into distant sections of the plains, to be used as nourishment in the coming spring by a new order of trees and shrubbery. From wanton, pale destruction comes the seeds of life. Tilling the earth, the twister suddenly bent at its midsection and tilted roughly parallel to the horizon. The funnel narrowed, taking on the appearance of a thick, braided ropeA frightening sight to anyone unfamiliar with weather phenomena, but I began to relax. This tense rope stage, I knew from experience, marked the beginning of her death throes. Her end was now imminent. The vortex would soon collapse as the cold air adjacent to her diminished. She had brought with her two types of energy into the world. The first, her potential energy, had died largely unfulfilled; the latter, the kinetic energy that fueled massive destruction had been feeble, a dud firecracker on the fourth of July. Yet even then, fighting the inevitable end, the twister performed crazy circles and searing loop-de-loops across the grassland, playing hide-and-seek from the Doppler radar that would no doubt be tracking her last movements. I took a deep breath, waiting patiently for the twister to weaken. The far off whoosh of high, funneling winds soon decreased to the level of a loud whisper. An infusion of warm air had rushed into the vacuum, a swift truncheon killing all resistance. Requiring a continuous flow of cold air to survive, the twister gasped her final breaths, choking to death on the very element that had propagated her existence. A sudden outburst of dry lightning, the death knell, struck suddenly and ferociously. Bolts of lightning from nearby clouds began to systematically harpoon the dying anomaly. It was a beautiful sight to behold. The twisters torso withered under the precise, high voltage strikes. It was in this volleyed hail that she gave her systemic farewell, pitiful when one considered her potential for producing mass, collateral damage. With a closing sigh, her funnel became dispossessed and she vanished from sight. I had seen her come and go. Witnessed her birth, her life and death in a short, frozen footprint of time, a moment not exceeding the time it takes one to boil an egg. After the twisters death, I basked for a spell in an odd, warm afterglow.
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A question lingered in my mind, however. How could a force of nature so complete, a force whose presence carried the weight of a massive corrosive stain on the land, vanish so abruptly, leaving behind few clues to her existence, a few concentric circles ripped into the earth? Could something so trivial as a warm gust of air destroy such a violent agent of nature? It seemed illogical. But then again, an argument could be made that logic and nature shared little relation. For all of natures complexity, her stalwart scales that carried the notions of life and death were precariously balanced at best. A sudden tremor in the earth, the flip of a coin, the gentle flap of a butterflys wings somewhere off in Beijingthese were just a few of the actions that could upset this delicate balance. And as for the warm feeling in my internal organs, that was the realization that in a transverse way, I had become an agent provocateur of naturetwister and lightning concealed in the shape of man, spreading my own version of wrath the minute I had left the naivet of law school behind and become a manipulator of the American judicial system, one who tempted unwitting defendants with the trials illusory facade of fair play, all the while stacking the cubes of guilt higher and higher against them until justice toppled over in the weight of lies. Thom and Avarice Lake had jumped on the scales of justice the day they committed murder. And like the lightning, which had savagely lashed out at the twister in her dying moments, I would be there too, watching the final moments of the Lake brothers miserable lives as they shuffled off to the electric chair, the weight of their crime resonating in those final twenty paces, the tract of lightning waiting to carry them to a blazing end. And after, I would not leave the vault alone. I would be accompanied by death, my intimate friend, my shadow, and in the process, I would reduce my salvation to a mute point.
I stopped the truck where the trail ended at the top of the mountain. It was time to take stock of my surroundings. I exited. Turning in a deliberate circle, I could see that I was atop a circular shaped plateau, about fifty yards in diameter, the size of half a football field. The ground beneath my boots was not all that different from the roadside below. Rocks of distinct shape and colors, man-sized boulders were strewn about the clearing in random fashion, jagged and irregular little monuments left to the gods of geology, 41
ubiquitous and endless. I could see the skies clearly. Cold, clear air flowed in through Gods open window and filled my lungs to capacity. A thin smile replaced the frown. This was it. I had made it. The end of the mystery. Against all odds, I had made it to the top of Esperanza Ridge. But there was no joy, no cause to celebrate. I had expected a rich land, boasting of extravagant hues, teeming with wildlife. I had expected answers. Instead, I was rewarded with more solitude, the same snow covered ground and naked trees as the valley below. It seems the land comprising Montana, including the gloomy badlands to the North, has sameness to it, as it all originated from the same layer of sedimentary rock. A long row of small faults known as the Lake Basin Fault Zone located near the Badlands tore up the sedimentary rocks back in the Cretaceous period, intermingling it with Red clinker and Jasper and Bluish hued Montana Agate to form some of the most striking land in the continental U.S. And some of the richest. The presence of Red Jasper was the usual sign of coal country, a fact largely ignored by school textbooks and travel agents. However, with beauty and riches comes a price, and in Esperanzas case, the price was isolation. Not many individuals had worked up the courage or moxie to hike through the creased deserts, the rugged hills, the irregular humps and hollows that bore the shaping influence of glaciers that long ago pushed south through Flathead Valley, and which surrounded Esperanza Ridge. Esperanza Ridge was an outcrop of darkish gray eagle sandstone, located north of the Bighorn Mountain Range, rising some 3000 feet above sea level, surrounded by countless miles of marshy prairie and arid badlands. Eighty miles to the southwest was the Northern Cheyenne Indian Reservation and Last Stand Hill, the battlefield where Custer and his men had fought their way to infamy. To the west were the cities of Great Falls and Missoula. Beyond that was Idaho, followed by a whole lot of nothing before you hit the Pacific Ocean. Esperanza existed in a stoic, sovereign vacuum; completely isolated from time and man. She accepted both on equal terms, yet relinquished control to neither. The glaciers that spawned her once rose mighty across the plains. But time proved a worthy foe, withering an ice age, clawing into the glaciers sides and whittling them down to the ground. Each passing decade scraped the monolith sheets of ice down to 42
manageable crystals. Each century that passed excavated riverbeds to be filled. The glaciers eventually evaporated, leaving behind a crushed eggshell remembrance of what once was. Amidst the chaos, Esperanza Ridge emerged from the protective amniotic fluid of the ice flows with the enthusiasm of a young bird crushing through an eggshell. The only foe that remained was man. Man, who ignored her cold, vacuous presence. Man, who had learned to harness time, to measure its worth, and yet, in all of his minimalism, could not explain exactly what time was. Through all of this, one axiom held true. Time was on mans side. Always! Because he understood that time and change were directly correlated. Man had all the time in the world to discover Esperanzas covert nest. And once that happened, he had all the time in the world to alter her appearance in order to accommodate his unquenchable thirst for property. Suffice to say, for the moment we were alone, Esperanza and I. Quietly I stood on the perimeter of this 3000-foot anomaly, taking her in. Old and venerable, her stark boundaries formed a defiant, non-refractory footprint of a lost era. Reclusive, as well as elusive, she had evaded the calendar for centuries. In complete contrast to Montanas inhospitable land, she lay before meunscathed, pristine, and silent. Like an angry, hungry bear emerging from a hibernation den, she had extended to me an open invitation to enter. Who was I to refuse such a formality? A thick band of naked conifers and pine grew around the outskirts of the plateau, forming a circular, natural barrier. A solitary Siberian Elm, her widely arched, leafless branches struggling to cover her cold, naked torso, rose some ninety feet into the clear sky on my lefta majestic queen ruling a kingdom sans crown or scepter, valiantly shrugging off remnants of snow from her limbs. Surrounding her were her many underlings; the Douglas Firs, with their blackish bark and blue foliage; the Norway Spruce, the most common tree in the area; the Rocky Mountain Maples, a low bushy tree referred to as the pawns of the plains; and of course, the Scots Pines, with their unique blue-gray needles, broad and twisted, directly contrasting burnt orange-red bark. Try as they might, these secondary trees could not match the Elm in sheer breadth or elegance. The highest of their winter weary branches barely charged up to the sagacious elks mid section. I recalled what my grandfather had told me long ago. There is no precise balance of nature in the forest. It is the fallacy of our perception, due to the illusion that nature seems 43
unchanging. Any similarities are purely coincidental. There is always a victor, as there is always a loser. How true! Nowhere was this more evident than in the courtroom. I suddenly recalled my first victory; a mere three months after Id passed the bar. It was unimportant, a civil trial; but Ill never forget how the victory had flooded me with a sense of vindication. In the glorious afterglow, my poisoned memory was given an antidote. Pine Ridge, the Wahsheton Schoolin my mind they became gutted buildings that burned to the ground in a napalm strike to the frontal lobe. On the East side of the ridge, a small stream of water trickled pathetically down a stand of rocks that formed a rough, primitive altar. A mushroom shaped rock, eroded in time by wind blown sand, tacked on another thirty feet or so to Esperanzas final height. With the exception of a fifty foot wide clearing in the trees at the opposite side of the trail, a gap that gave me a splendid view of the entire coastal plain, I was entirely concealed from the valley below. I hopped back in the Ford, inched it over to the edge of the clearing and activated the emergency brake. I leaned against the passenger window to get a better look. I pressed my fingers to the cold glass. The nerves in my hand instantly awoke, bringing me out of my somnambulant stupor. The temperature had climbed steadily, but it still hovered around 45 degrees. Cold fronts had a knack for creeping into the higher altitudes in their cat-and-mouse efforts to hide from the warm fronts that threatened to extinguish them. I exited the vehicle, making sure I had the keys with me. This was no time for stupidity to make an appearance. I stretched out my six-foot frame. After the long drive, my legs were numb; my knees badly ached. My entire body felt like it had been caught in a sandwich press. Ligaments, muscles and tendons stretched until they could stretch no further. The stiffness that had been brought upon me by Montana was slowly released from physical and mental constraints. The thick cords in my neck became open highways flush with the onrush of liberated blood. I felt the enormous tension and weight literally recoil and crumble off of me like a flailing marble arch. I took a brief walk around the ridge, leaving behind in the snow a meandering trail of footprints that resembled a floorchart in an Arthur Murrays dance classinstructions to a mad dance that no one would ever see. The polka for one, is what I would call it. All I needed to do to complete the effect was to grab a twig and etch sequential numbers and connecting lines on each footprint. 44
Hello? I cupped my hands over my mouth and yelled, Is there anyone here? My voice penetrated the early afternoon silence, bouncing off the thick shelf of rock like a stray bullet amplified. A minute went by. The echoes died. Then, silence again. Okay, thenin the absence of all forms of sanityI hereby declare myself de facto leader of Esperanza. Great. Now where would I go to file proprietary rights? This time, I didnt stick around for a reply. I had parked near a flat, enormous sandstone ledge, which jutted out into the troposphere in an improbable sixty-degree angle, forming a twelve-foot wide ramp to oblivion. I leaned out carefully over the rock, my face and neck coming to rest over a precipitous drop that exceeded well over five hundred feet, leading down into the outer lip of a deep, menacing chasm. My mountain boots struggled to grip the ledges frosty surface. For safetys sake, I dropped to my hands and knees before peering again. The sandstone wall sloped severely downward, encrusted with scores of rocks, some of which were colorful, fossilized pieces. Scattered deadfall, dense green ash and sagebrush clung to the rock face thru strong roots. Lingering morning frost covered the wall; brilliant hues of red, blue, green and yellow glittering in the sunlight in lean contrast to the boring, gray sandstone pit below. This magnificent rainbow coalition belied the inherent danger present in a descent of such magnitude. I remained stationary, studying the mountain, the valley below in complete awe. The majestic view held me in a state of fascination and instantly dispelled any fears I may have harbored about tumbling down. This irregular, tumultuous land was a far cry from the boring flatlands of central Oklahoma. How I had never before noticed the elegance and beauty was beyond me. I had turned my back on this land once before, long ago. But something told me I would not let it happen again. By this time next week, I would be facing a setting quite unlike this one. Inside a tepid, claustrophobic courtroom, stuffed with reporters and the curious alike, ceiling fans churning the airless room with the lethargy of a tree sloth, all eyes would be upon me, studying every move I made. Hot breath would hover over every precedent I dared to cite. Every objection would no doubt draw the searing wrath of my opposition. Each day in court, for the duration of the Lake brothers murder trial, in order to wrest a guilty verdict, I would have to deliver the proper legal rhetoric with dignity and grace, 45
cite the correct laws with unassuming confidence, and submit an appealing persona before the jury. In short, I was fighting more than just the defense attorney. The human element would be present. Never more was this fact evident than in the naturally empathetic minds of jurors, twelve complete strangers who carried with them the unique silhouette of compassion, an irreversible mass capable of rearing its ugly head at the most untimely moment. I alone would carry the burden of persuasion. I would have to convince twelve people from twelve different walks of life to think accordinglyto act as one. I would cajole them across the field of innocence, help them climb over the fence of mounting evidence, and get them to jump over to the side of guilt established. I needed a jury that was swift and ruthless in their demeanor. I needed them to put aside the exemplary qualities that had made them good choices for the panel in the first place. Ditch idealism at the door, was the D.A.s unofficial motto. My superiors would meet a hung jury, or worse, an outright acquittal, with severe disapproval. I would be forced into capitulation, doomed to walk the hallways of the justice building for the duration of my tenure with downcast eyes. Would I be ready? Probably so. I considered my inner drive and determination strong enough to overcome many impediments. What I wasnt prepared for, however, was the influx of doubt that suddenly crept into my thoughts. I stood up and winced, feeling a sharp pain in my right foot. I hobbled over to the rear of the Ford and lowered the tailgate. Working rapidly in the cold, I peeled away my right Timberland boot followed by the thick wool sock. I shook it violently, and out tumbled a smooth, oval shaped orb of a stone. The milky white stone, baring minuscule flecks of orange, resembled a miniature egg. I pressed it deep into the palm of my hands, robbing it of its warmth. Could it be? The stone seemed alien to the area. Its silky texture and perfect symmetry were not inherent to the rocks of Montana rocks formed in the laboratory of time through violent upheaval and pressure. A stone flush with such cool silkiness had been the likely recipient of benevolent geology; and usually ended up in the forsaken bins of roadside artifact stores, selling 99 cents for a dozen. I prodded my memory, trying to recall the last time I had worn the Timberlands. Finally it dawned on me that the tiny orb was a stowaway from a horse ranch a few of my coworkers had coerced me into visiting a few weeks before. 46
I remember foolishly volunteering to help the ranch owner break in a wild mustang that had strayed onto the ranch during an intense hailstorm. The lanky cowboy had overheard me boasting of the ability to my matesIn a five minute interval fueled by stupidity, I admitted to having once had tamed a wild horse back at the reservationfoolish braggadocio considering I had left at such a young age. I had resorted to ancient trickery, offering the mustang an apple. Of course it was a red one. This time, to my consternation, the apple produced in the wild horse the same effect that a red cape would produce on a Pamplona bull. The enraged Mustang gave a vicious pummeling to both my body and ego, and I left the paddock with the knowledge that breaking in horses was a delicate art indeed, and in that particular form of art, I was obviously at the color by numbers level. And as I lay splayed out in the dust on one side of the pen, semi-conscious, the unbroken mustang snorting triumphantly on the other, the owner walked over and picked me up off the hard turf. He didnt utter a single word. He didnt have to. The mustang broke me in that day; yet despite the bumps and bruises, I went on to learn a valuable lesson, courtesy of the ranch owner himself. The man with the stoic facial features took me aside, far out of earshot from the others. He patiently explained that wild horses would do anything possible to remain wildthat the aggressive defense of personal space was the basic instinct that gave rise to the dominance hierarchythat a horses proclivity was to remain at the top of the social ladder using any means available, violence or otherwise. In laymans terms, a horse did not like to take a subservient role to any living creatureMagnify this fact tenfold when that creature came in the form of a man or another horse. Sometimes you buck the horse, the man said matter-offactly, and sometimes the horse bucks you. True enough. And sometimes an Appaloosas instincts are obliterated through years of captivity. A busted horse, despite an acute memory, quickly lost the concept of freedom. And nothing in this world, not the pleading eyes of a young Indian boy, not the smell of rain in the corral, not a shiny red apple could rekindle that memory to life. In retrospect, I was glad that I failed in my brief career as a wrangler. By not breaking the Mustang of his feral tendencies, I had one less ghost to worry about.
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With that said, I tucked the stone neatly into my front pocket, for I was determined that we would both make it out of the ridge together. I replaced the boot and sat staring at my naked hands, which had become painfully raw. My fingers were cold, numb to the touch. A bright reddish hue had crept into my palms, extending well out into the fingers. I felt the initial stirrings of frostbite coming on. I would be okay, I felt, if I acted quickly. Buried somewhere inside my rucksack were luxurious, sheepskin hand gloves. My breath came rapid, irregular. It crystallized in the frosty air, forming vapory plumes that drifted off with the breeze. I watched with mute interest as the white plumes drifted apart and died in the wind. In the nearby brush, the soft, melodic call of a small bird broke the silence. Probably a common lark or a Western Tanager, I thought. Not many songbirds ventured this far north on winters equatorial ladder. I let the trucks rear gate fly open. I reached into the long bed and snatched the rucksack by its shoulder straps. My hand winced with unenviable pain. I sat on the metal gate, the rucksack balanced on my lap, trying to unfasten the tight straps with faltering hands. My mind wandered. The canvas rucksack became a greedy child unwilling to part with its contents. I observed the packs color. I had chosen black to match my sour demeanor and to protest this pointless excursion. Something caught my attention. I looked down at a bumper sticker stuck on the rear fender guard. Two-inch high bold, black letters read: Custer Died For Your Sins! Even the rental agents out here are fucking nuts, I spat out. I tore the sack open and rooted through it, finding the gloves. I shaped my left hand into a hollow fist, blowing warm air into it. I repeated the process again for the benefit of my other hand. When my hands had sufficiently warmed, I slid the gloves in place. I smiled slyly at my achievement. After all, one needed ten healthy digits to ensure a proper appearance before the jury. I examined the rest of the packs contents. I had methodically and carefully filled the sack with a rudimentary inventory of items that I felt would give me the best chance to survive the night comfortably: Protein bars, peanut butter, bagels, a few green apples (the store was out of red ones), 48
freeze dried peaches, trail mix, a gallon of distilled water, a Swiss army knife, aspirin, a wool blanket, and lastly, hiding conspicuously at the bottom, was a mint condition, camouflaged colored, die-cast compass, produced in mass quantity by an urban outfitting company out of Eugene, Oregon. The compass had been a last minute acquisition. The young Indian clerk had shoved it across the glass counter, insisting that I buy it. I blew him off initially. He said I was crazy for attempting to climb the ridge without it. I retorted that the mere fact I had even contemplated the climb was proof enough of my insanity. But prudence and salesmanship got the better of me, and in the end, I left the store accompanied by the compass. As I waited outside for Ravage to come, I fondled the smooth survival instrument in my hand, my face lighting up with pure bedevilment. I found it terribly ironic that if I were to somehow lose the compass in the heavy brush, the camouflage paint job would make it almost impossible to find. Right! And if I ended up lost up there, the bad news was that John Ravage would probably not start searching for me until the following night. By that time, depending on the condition of the rentals battery, I would have more than likely frozen to death. Nightfall out on the open ridge was not an enviable place to be. And Ravages assessment of me would have been proven correct: The harsh plains are no place for even the slickest of city lawyers.
While were on the subject of the enigma that is John Ravage. My first glimpse of John Ravage came while I was standing on the front porch of the general store on the outskirts of Billings, leaning impertinently against a wooden post, my jaw muscles working anxiously on one of the apples. Emerging from a dilapidated early seventies Chevy Impala with a patchwork yellow paint job, Ravage spotted me and ambled over casually, as if we were lifelong friends posed for a reunion. I studied his stride, which was smooth and sinuous, his boots barely making a sound, even as he walked over the hard, asphalt pavement, his head and shoulders bobbing slightly up and down. I likened his gait to a glider, one that soared evenly in up currents, glided lower in the down currents over cool lakes, always keeping a steady variometer, always watching the sinking speeds, his feet acting as reliable ailerons. A frayed, long-sleeved, blue-denim work shirt hung loose over his sleek, lissome frame. A wide brown leather belt 49
supported faded blue jeans, the knee area full of ragged holes. As he walked, the excess belt leather twisted around his torso severely, making flapping sounds in the quiet breeze. Longish legs posed atop honey colored cowboy boots made him appear taller than he actually was, although I had to admit, after he had bridged the gap between us, that his actual height fell somewhere around six-foot-two, as my eyes evened out cleanly at his jaw line. Tall for an Indian, I thought. Im John Ravage. You have been waiting for me? That was the manner in which he had introduced himself to me. He shook my hand vigorously. There was surprisingly hidden strength in the grip. I heard the clinking of metal. My gaze dropped downward to his lanky, right wrist. A bracelet made of spent metal bullet cartridges hung loose, jingling freely as his hand continued to pump up and down. A smile framed his wide cheekbones as he explained that he had made the bracelet from bullet casings leftover from the 1973 siege at Wounded Knee. The bullets came from many FBI guns, he added, with a touch of macabre. I answered him with a shrug of indifference. I knew your grandfather very well. I am sorry that he is gone. His passing is a great loss. He was a lifelong friend to me... His eyes slunk to the ground in deference. After a momentary pause he continued. A great man. And cunning. That is why they called him Black crow of midnight. He gazed deeply into my eyes. It was his request that I meet you. Do you have something for me? I asked impatiently. Ravage stared at me with a blank expression on his face. It took a few long seconds for him to realize what I was asking him about. My inheritance! The box! Yes. Yes I do. Your grandfather entrusted me with a small box. It was his wish that I give it to you personally. I have it inside the car. He didnt leave a will? In a manner of speaking, you could say that I am his will. Ravage answered. In a casual way, Ravage studied me, much as Id begun to do with him. His face, angular and masked in deep crimson, produced a skeptical smirk as he took in my neat urban outfit, which consisted of a beige colored parka, sharp creased indigo jeans, a blue denim survival shirt, and wrap-around sunglasses that now sat in the front pocket. No doubt, I thought, Ravage was probably taking mental odds on how long I would survive up on the ridge. Nature has a way of correcting many mistakes, he said deliberately; brief pauses punctuating his speech in a manner that emphasized his Indian dialect. 50
I patted myself down in reassurance, looking over my garb. Whats the matter? Youve never heard of Abercrombie and Fitch? I smiled, letting him world that know that I hadnt been offended by his remark. Im Justice. Justice Reywal Ravage is your name, right? What took you so long, anyway? My watch. It must have stopped. He brought up his hand for my inspection. Where a watch should have been there was only bare skin. In one casual stroke, his ancient fingers, tainted with the reddish-brown hue of many years of plains dust, brushed back thin strands of white hair, which fell between his shoulder blades, nearly down to his waist. He casually slid a black Billy Jack hat over his head and remarked that it was time to get moving. He pointed across the lot to his car. I followed him over to the Chevy. On the way, I took a stab at guessing his age. Probably in his late forties, but you could never tell by the ease in which he had traversed the rutted parking lot. On the Chevys hood, he spread out a large, laminated land surveyors map and pointed out our route. His plan was to drive me out to the car rental agency over in the town of Crow Agency, about an hours drive away. On the way, we would pass the town of Hardin, which lay on the Northern border of The Crow Indian Reservation. We would then head due south, crossing the Little Big Horn River, enter the reservation, and drive on past the Little Bighorn Battlefield. From that point on, after renting transportation, I would be left to my own devices. Oh, mamaWheres Tupelo when you need her? I joked. Ravage furrowed his brow, missing the intended humor altogether. I smiled, amused by his uncertainty. Have you eaten? Not since last night. Ravage replied. I pulled out one of the apples and offered it to him. He politely declined. Green apples make good applesauce. But red apples are better to eat. Much sweeter. Not to me their not. I lamented. The distant memory of my appaloosa suddenly filled my head. My stomach sank in dismay. I crammed the apple back in the rucksack. I looked up. Ravage was walking over towards a tractor-trailer rigwhy, I didnt know? When he reached the spot where the sunlight gave way to the great shadows thrown by the rig, he bent over at the waist and leaned in, inspecting something that lay on the ground. Curious to see what he had discovered, I went over. I placed one arm on the rig, bracing myself as I leaned in with him. Right away, I jumped back. Lying motionless a few feet inside the cool shadows, seeking refuge from the blistering sun was a small, tan colored 51
snake. It was a Western rattler, all rightI could tell by the distinguishable diamond markings that ran up the snakes back and the telltale rattle that adorned the end of the tail. The snake lay huddled in a coiled mass; his head bent slightly upward, forked tongue now probing the air. A soft hissing sounding more like a greeting than a caveatdisrupted the early morning stillness. The soft call of the cascabel. Ravage turned slowly towards me. Be careful. The snake is sleepy, but it will strike if necessary. Are you kidding? Upon further inspection, the snake looked harmless. You should see the snakes I work with. Now, theyre dangerous. Ravage ignored the remark, keeping his eyes locked on the snake. The snake seemed meek, uninterested in our presence. Ravage walked over to a trash dumpster and grabbed a cord of wood about four feet in length. He re-approached the snake stopping when he was but a foot awaywith a casualness that left my mouth agape. Ignoring the hissing, he reached down with the stick and tenderly prodded the snakes head. The snake made a laconic, halfhearted attempt to strike. Displaying uncharacteristic quickness, Ravages booted leg shot out and pinned the snakes head down in flight. The snake began to wriggle violently under his weight, its rattle violently lashing out at the pavement, filling the air with his fierce battle quaking. Havent you heard of cruelty to animal laws? I asked Ravage, somewhat angry that he had disturbed the snake for no good reason. I have a good mind to call Greenpeace. Who is he? The agent asked, making eye contact with me as he emerged from the shadows. He brushed up next to me. It was then that I noticed his eyes. They were gray and neutral in color, resting in a perpetual state of noncommittal, unresponsive to the pinprick of emotion. They captivated me at once. Our eyes locked for all but a second or two, but it was just enough time for me to read the entire history behind them. Ravages eyes seemed haunted. I had seen those eyes many times before. I had seen them in the faces of judges, juries, and murderers. I had seen them in my own face a number of times, peering back at me in an accusing manner through the reflection of a mirror, livid children lashing out at the father of their existence. It was undeniable that Ravages eyes had seen much in their time; and in return, they had mastered the art of revealing little. As a result, they were forever destined to wear that lean, preoccupied look.
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And even then, as we stood next to each other, the snake trapped under the pressure of his boot heel, I could not turn from them. Ravages gray irises expanded and contracted in the bright sunlight, glittering, hungry and dispossessed, searching for something they had yet to encounter in life, therefore found it impossible to describe. I suddenly wanted to take possession of those eyes. I wanted to cut them out and replace my own with them. I yearned to own themyearned to wear them the way I yearned for a thousand convictions of twelve to none. Eyes like that would dazzle future juries. They could describe the Venus de Milo and an ax murderer with the exact degree of proactive clarity. They could easily conceal the pack of lies that ran knee deep inside the courtroom, falsehoods that had a way of reflecting off the corneas, sinking many a case. Ravage reached down, grabbed the snake from behind its head and lifted it into the air. Three and a half feet of venomous fury coiled over his forearm in mid air, the rattles going off like the Bells of Rhymney. Quietly, Ravage walked over to where the parking lot ended and a rough patch of prairie began. He brought the snake close to his own face, leaving a slender two-inch gap between them. As the reptiles forked tongue probed the air, that gap became the only thing separating Ravage from an instant trip to the emergency ward. He whispered soft, inaudible words to the snake, and set it free in the dust. The snake slithered away, disappearing a minute later into a hole in the earth. Thats a good trick. But try doing that with a lawyer. Hell sue you for compensatory damages. I said. Sometimes Justice, it is our natural fear of objects that represents the true danger. Anyway, we need to get going. We have an hours drive ahead of us. Ravage opened the door and stepped into the Impala, leaving me alone in the middle of the parking lot. Well, what the hell is that supposed to mean? I yelled at the figure behind the wheel. My voice amplified through the openness of the terrain, undercutting the Chevys V-8 engine as it roared to life. Ravage turned and stared at me blankly through the drivers side window. I had his full attention. Let me ask you a question Ravage? I stepped into the passenger side of the vehicle and slammed the door shut. The first thing I noticed was the Chevys windshield. It sported a spider web network of cracks and fissures that ran all the way across the glass, closely resembling the fractural patterns of lightning. I shook
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my head in disbelief. Cause something just doesnt jibe here What are you doing here? What do you mean? I mean, what are you doing here in Billings? You came all the way out here from Crow Agency just to pick me up? And now that youre here, were heading back. I could have easily met you down there. Its not that far away, and God knows I can read a goddamn road map. There has to be a good reason why you drove all this way. I paused, letting my angry tone sink in. There has to be something in it for you. So Ill ask you againWhat are you doing here? Lets just say it is what your grandfather wanted. It was one of his last wishes Now lets go before we waste more daylight. Great. I should have figured as much. Now you want to tell me why youre driving around with a broken windshield? Beer bottles, he answered. Come again? I said beer bottles. Drunks around here like to drive around at night and throw empty beer bottles at passing cars. Its one of the hazardsor hobbies of reservation life, I really cant tell which. But then again, you wouldnt know anything about that, seeing as you havent been around much lately? Beer bottles? I repeated weakly, surprisingly slighted by his remark. Great. Fucking great! We drove towards Crow Agency in complete silence. I immediately felt constricted inside the Chevys cramped interior compartment. Sometime long ago the roofs felt lining had ripped along the seams and now hung down in a drab yellow, damp and smelling like stale liquor. It rested on my head, partially obscuring my vision. I felt a twinge of anxiety, feeling like a boxed in mouse. Still an hour to go, I reminded myself. I gripped the door handle tightly, eyeing the door. I felt the faint stirrings of claustrophobia. From outside, the echoes of my Indian past pried at the Chevys doorjamb, trying to get at me. I half considered jumping out onto the speeding pavement below. Something on the roof caught my attention. The dome light! It was turned on, despite the fact that the car doors were closed. I pointed this out to Ravage, but he merely shrugged, obviously unconcerned. The dim light would remain on all the way to the car rental agency. As we reached the outskirts of the Crow Reservation, Indian civilization instantly reared its ugly, surreal head. Ravage pointed out rows of ramshackle housing, dreary and decrepit, built for the Indians with U.S. government subsidies. We drove by an endless stream of junked cars, packs of stray, ravenous 54
dogs, dog-eared people riding old bicycles, the creased, unfolding land rutted with prairie dog holes, scattered piles of garbage strewn over both sides of the lonely road. The reservation resembled a storybook ending that had soured; its pages spilled open by the sloth-like movement of time. I was struck by the absence of sidewalks, mailboxes, and curbs. Traffic lights were nonexistent. Ravage had to swerve to avoid a discarded wheelchair someone had abandoned in the middle of the ancient, two-lane strip of weathered asphalt. Wide potholes and deep contusions sullied both lanes, forming dozens of potential booby traps. Ravage guided the car through these effortlessly. In some stretches, the road ended abruptly, replaced by a thin layer of loose coal-colored gravel. And then, just as quickly as it had vanished, the asphalt would again magically realign itself under the Chevy. A four way stop sign near the gas station was the only thing that resembled order. A line of Indians dressed in morning rags stood near the roadside waiting to cross. They watched in silence, drinking from Styrofoam cups, as the Chevy approached the intersection. I shot them a nave smile. They merely ignored my humanitarian gesture. Six angry, Indian faces leered at me, as silent as they were remote. I shrugged. If my grandfathers wish had been for me to travel back in time, he had succeeded beyond his wildest dreams. Ravage flicked on the Chevys AM radio. I immediately cringed in horror. Monosyllabic singing and uncoordinated drumming filled my ears. A lugubrious voice identified the station as KILI, the voice of Pine Ridge. I stared at Ravage in disbelief. He must have sensed my utter disregard for the music, for he immediately reached out and shut the radio off. A few odd minutes later, with the human sadness behind us, the road turned desolate, lonely, devoid of construction and human life. Ravage pointed outside of my window to where a steep gully dropped down in a vertical plunge into a wide open canyon, a menacing topographical fall no more than ten feet away from the roads shoulder. I strained against the seatbelt, hoping to catch a glimpse of the bottom, but it evaded me. If you must go to the bathroom, do not stray too far from the road. Many people, unaware, fall down into the chasms below. Many people do not return. Ravage laughed softly, sounding like a tour guide from hell. It occurred to me that the government engineers had left the highway free of protective barriers, road signs, and median strips. The only idiosyncrasy I noticed was a proliferation of white, reflecting-metal highway markers that sprouted up from the roadside in the oddest of places. I had counted eight of 55
them a few miles back, bunched together, shimmering in the harsh sunlight in a spot where the road turned in a treacherous S-curve. And now, as the deep gorge ran below, I noticed three others. I quizzed Ravage about them. He answered me dryly, detached, as if he were reciting a grocery list. And when he was finished, I regretted having had asked him. The Department of Transportation places those white markers where fatal car accidents have occurred. It was no secret that car wrecks killed a vast majority of reservation Indians. Ravage went on to explain that he himself had been involved in three near fatal wrecks over the years; and that many Indians relocated to Hollywood to find work as stunt drivers for the movie studios. But even so, I found this to be ridiculous. Gauging by the plethora of white markers, I couldnt help but think that the Indians out here were training for the Indy 500. We drove on in silence. We soon came upon another batch of sorry humanity. Death loomed everywhere. Like a resilient malignancy, this black conspirator appeared in the rows of deserted homes, in the form of shattered windows, gutted door frames, broken glass caked over linoleum interiors, illegible graffiti scrawled on exterior walls, ancient, rusted refrigerators, washing machines, gas stoves, television sets with blown out screens resting in widespread tumorous piles, casting the houses, the fragment canisters of broken dreams, in an unenviable pall. We drove by an enormous auto graveyard out in the middle of nowhere. American relics, atrophied muscle cars, rusted out hulks glistening naked in the morning sun, having long ago sloughed off coats of paint, the comforting blanket of snow, radiators grinning wickedly thru vaporous mirages, resting on cinder block shoes, rag weed growing thru the eyeless empty sockets of pilfered headlights, pointing east, west, north and south towards destinations that had never been reached, far from aching roads that never felt the shallow gliding mirth or the comforting, contoured grip of soft rubber on hot asphalt. And where the rest of the world resided in the friendly confines of a humidor full of humectant promises, brought in from the textbooks of history, residing alongside these ravaged autos was the dustbowl itself, the mad, howling, scorching beast speaking the dry language of the wasteland, of arid words and tinder box days, of dried out water wells parched and unfilled, of moist Indian dreams that had long turned to dust, and I thought to myself, so this is it? This dry, brittle, lifeless, matchstick fearing topography is where America crawls off to when it wants to die? 56
And my dry, waterless eyes are here to extract that death, to shove it into the colorless corners of my memory. As sure as I now know that hypocrisy is the lighthouse of the world, I am forced to consider the question, what is death, but a latent brother to misery? It was this misery that had long ago passed over the scarred, barren land, making it eerily beautiful to photograph, but deadly if one were caught in its clutches at mid day. Water wells, dried out and misbegotten; animal carcasses rotting by the side of the road, the turkey vultures above playing their hideous game of wait-and-see. The smell outside the car window was flagrantly obscene, and a hundred washings would not rid me of that sickly sweet aroma. Worse yet, was the realization that I had encountered that scent before, albeit not to such degrees of concentration. That putrid smell had visited me often in the austere, cramped waiting rooms of death incorporated by the great state of Oklahoma. The more brutal the crime, the stronger the scent that had been emitted. Somewhere along the line, I realized, I became a carrier of death. I brought it to work each day, in the form of rigid interrogations, indefensible archaic statutes, lumbering mountains of evidence. And the more I hid behind the visage of justice and the clear calculus of her scales, the more efficient at befriending death I became. It was only apparent that with time, I would master the art of treading above the pungent perfume; my head held lofty above the fray, while my body beneath lay in quiet slumber, unaware of the creature that lurked in the depths. We approached a white picket sign, slanting backwards at a forty-five degree angle. As we neared, I was able to decipher its scripture. Six-inch high, hastily scrawled black letters read: President Clinton must pardon Leonard Peltier. Itll never happen. What? Ravage asked. President Clinton. Hell never pardon the killer of two FBI agents. I said. I am actually impressed that you are familiar with Peltiers case, Ravage said, cocking an eyebrow. Very impressed Dont be! We were forced to study it in law school. Well, youre probably right. As long as Washington has great lawyers, Leonard Peltier will never again see the light of day. The highway began a slow, gradual ascent, leveling out in vast plateau miles away from the reservation homes. The land 57
was changing all around me: Dry prairie grass replaced by lush vegetation and solid tree stands. A shallow, placid creek ran parallel to the road, replacing the steep gorge that had loomed before. The prairie dog villages were gone now, pushed out by massive rock formations that burst to life in an unusual starburst of primary colors. Odd patches of snow appeared every now and then as the land rose. To my relief, the whitereflecting highway markers disappeared altogether. Not wanting to throw caution to the wind, however, I kept my seatbelt fastened, although from the looks of the rusted latch, the smallest collision would have probably sent me flying thru the front windshield. Ravage slowed the car near a T-intersection and banked right, turning onto a dusty side road, which was, to my utter astonishment, a few feet narrower than the slender road we had just left behind. Dense mesquite hedgerows crowded up to the trail on both sides. Sharp rocks littered the path. I wondered about the condition of the Chevys tires. The thought occurred to me that we hadnt encountered any train tracks during the ride. When I thought of the open west, I envisioned a vast network of iron tracks laid out in random apparentness. But I had yet to see any. I asked Ravage about this oddity. When the Union Pacific built their railroads through South Wyoming, they did not want the Sioux around. They were fearful of attacks. Or rather, the perception that they were vulnerable to attack. So before the tracks were built, General Sherman moved our tribe to the lower corners of South Dakota and Montana, tucked us away in inhospitable land far away from the railroads and civilization. I can see why the Indians fought so hard to keep the Black Hills, I said. No rational human would want to live in this desolate area. Defeat inevitably courts acrimony, Ravage said. He didnt elaborate on how he knew. A mile down the road, we ran into another sign. This message, however, was more surreptitious than the previous one, leaving me a bit confused. It simply stated: Know thy enemyHelp fight The GOON Squads. I looked at Ravage, but he ignored me. Like the previous sign, this one bore distinct traces of gunfire. Several bullet holes permeated the Os in the word GOON. Either expert marksmanship, I assumed, or someone was going out of there way trying to pistol-carve happy faces on all these signs. 58
Your grandfather told me you are a lawyer. Ravage said, after awhile. Yep. Down in The Sooner StateWhere I am happy to say, we have more criminals than dust devils. You speak little for a lawyer. You know, it is not good to disappear within oneself. I heard that silent men are the most dangerous men. I said. Yes. That is correct. I am afraid the American Indian nation has learned that lesson the hard way. What do you mean? He threw off my question with a shrug. You know. We could use a person with your abilities here in the reservation. I have heard many good things about your talents as a counselor. I heard that you have yet to lose a case. And the fact is, The American Indian Movement has its work cut out for it. We do not have many educated men working for our cause. I dont work pro bono! I said. What ispro bono? It means for free. I put an end to that nonsense after clerking two consecutive summers at the DAs office. Not even to help the Indians? Look. I snorted contemptuously, Its no big deal. I consider myself a competent attorney. Ive worked very hard to understand the intricacies of the system. But the reality of the situation is that I havent lost a case because I havent gone up against the wrong mixture of law and human sentiment yet. Thats all. No one throws a perfect game in the courtroom. What do you mean? Purity. I said softly. Purity? Ravage mimicked. Yes, purity. The notion of justice is un-pure because the laws themselves are not purethey constantly change. Consider the tragic wasting of human life, for instance. The ambulance arrives; the dicks go to work. They work the clues; they find the guy; they arrest him. Thats the easy part. Now, being a lawyer, I get called in. And then the hard part begins. I have all kinds of categories to choose from: 1st degree murder, 2nd degree murder, murder with special circumstances, assault and battery, assault with intent to kill, death by misadventure, accidental death, and then of course, my favorite, the trump card of the legal system, the one-time gift to decent citizens who just happened to fuck up on one occasion, involuntary manslaughter. I paused, letting my words sink in. And then in the end, when all is said and done, the perpetrator can only be charged with the crime that can stand up to the evidence. He 59
doesnt get what he fully deserves. Many times he walks away unpunished. Tell me Ravage, wheres the purity in that? I took a deep breath and recollected myself. The system shouldnt be that detailed is all Im saying. It should be scaled back. After all, if you think along the lines of a pragmatic, murder is a fairly straightforward act. It is the end of the linethe method chosen by sociopaths to dispose of problems that have no other solution Hell Ravage, litigation itself has become a disposable art form. Todays litigation is only as effective as the current state of the law, and since legislators are constantly altering the framework of the law, you know, an addendum here, a repealed law there, litigation itself has no constant, no measure of reliability. Its all bullshit, Ravage. Litigation mercyjusticetheyve become one-word titles to obsolete, out-of-print books. Theyve been turned over to the hands of the quick buck artiststhe attorneys who can shape a story out of exhibit A, pluck out the most believable lie from the mountain of bullshit and pass it off as the truth, wear the right colored necktie, buy the best expert testimony and smile at the right juror thru capped teeth. Why do you do it then? Because I stared through the cracked windshield at the road ahead. The land appeared distorted, fractured. The law is the common road to public office. I felt Ravage studying me, judging me; using his peripheral vision so as to not make it obvious. We sat in uncomfortable silence for a few minutes. It was broken by Ravage, who delivered a phrase that failed to mask its true intent of placating me. Every good American Indian has a touch of misaligned revenge in him. I wasnt sure what he meant by this, but I answered as best as I could. Quite true. In my profession you dont become successful by thinking like a schoolboy. After all, if youre going to make a bomb, you have to sit on the dynamite. I studied him for a reaction. He remained cool and aloof. I had obviously misunderstood him. Youve got to learn how to twist and turn the law to your advantageand believe me my Indian friend, there are thousands of loopholes out there just waiting to be exploited. Ravage raised his hand in a stern warning. No disrespect intended, Justice. But I prefer that you use the term American Indian from this moment on. Calling me an Indian by itself is a derogation. Well, I am truly sorry RavageI meant no disrespect. I fumbled with the apology, trying to recover my poise. Your 60
sensibilities aside, Ill refer to you as a Native American, if youd like. I said, my impetuosity returning. Ravage turned to me, a consternating look on his face. Despite what American newspapers and televisions may say, the tribes that remain do not like to referred to as Native Americans. Now Im confused. I scratched my head. I guess Time magazine has got it all wrong then. The term Native American is nothing more than a tracking device for the United States government. A tracking device used to keep inventory. Inventory of what? Of us! He turned to me. The American Indians! I stared blankly, still uncomprehending. He explained further. The Bureau of Indian Affairs is the agency in charge of the American Indians well being. Centered in Washington, like most government agencies, they are susceptible to corruption. In order to get cash subsidizations or housing allowances, American Indians must register themselves to the Census Bureau as Native Americans. And to the BIA, a true Native American is one having at least a quarter Indian blood by birth. By birth! That is the key wording here. Do you know what the implications of those two words are? Do you know what they spell out for our tribes? As if on cue, Ravage pointed to a solitary strand of buildings that popped up ahead. A sorry excuse of a commerce area, tucked out in the middle of nowhere, a tourist trap growing on the roads shoulder with the permanence of dandelions. As we approached, I made out a Quonset hut liquor store; a flat roofed, one story motel, a sign outside showing vacancy always vacancy; a souvenir shop in the shape of a teepee, and a 1950s themed eatery, red and blue swirling neon letters above the marquee read, Simpsons Diner. Three disheveled vehicles were parked haphazardly in the flat, dusty parking area. Dust devils raced through the lonesome grounds in reckless abandon. No electricity wires were visible, I noticed. Instead, a montage of generators located obtrusively behind the buildings provided power. The whining was loud, abrasive, rising above the swirling winds. Take a good look around you, Justice. Four of the poorest counties in the U.S. are located within the reservation system. Pine Ridge, where you were born, is the poorest of them all. Ravage said. I sensed a growing frustration creeping into his voice. Most of the money the tribes receive comes from treaty or payments from the feds. We are at their mercy. We have no 61
shopping malls to comfort us. We have no colleges. We have no choice but to play along with their little game. We subject ourselves to enormous degradation by acquiescing to the federal government, by agreeing to register ourselves as natives. Tourists come here, and they are greeted by white mans furnishings. You do not see the genuine museums that tell of our history; display our arts and our crafts. Just a few junk shops that sell disposable cameras and Indian artifacts made in Mexico. And it will always exist, because the white mans money exceeds his guilt. Instead of the heinous black and white crime photos depicting the atrocities committed at Wounded Knee, our recompense comes in the form of cruel satire, mollificationthat! He pointed across the road towards a shoddy billboard, a two-storied high advertisement for a place called Nates Frontier Land. Bold man-sized words invited men and women of all ages to stop by once a year on the anniversary of The Battle of Little Big Horn, when three times daily, full-scale recreations of the battle would be staged by area residents. It was inevitable that the Indians would figure out a way to commercialize the fight, I thought. It was, after all, a rallying point for the red masses. We had our Alamo. The Boston Tea Party. The Indians had Custer. The white man belittles his own defeats. Ravage intimated. You mean these buildings arent Indian owned? We are simple people; But not stupid. The American Indians have no Memorial Day. Tourists are tolerated, but seldom welcome inside the reservation. They make fun of us. Many of them join in our sun dances, mocking our most sacred tradition. They think it is a big joke. But the sun dance is not open to the white man. It can never be. Ravage wagged his finger accusingly. I remained silent, watching the land unfold thru a newborns eyes. Another teepee, this one housing a one pump filling station went by, the last, mongrel edifice of the tourist trap. The Chevy had driven past the filament of buildings in less than thirty seconds. In that short time span, I had seen no outward signs of life. All that remained was the warm, burgeoning sun of early April. I stared out at the miles of open prairie. Indian legend had it that under the intense summer sunlight, the grasslands glistened almighty with the bleached bones of a million dead buffalo. There they purportedly lay, littered fossils to be collected and joined, piece by piece, to answer the riddle that 62
had puzzled a nation of scattered tribes for many years; the bones themselves had become symbolic of their plightthe slow extraction of justice from miles and miles of unfiltered heartache. I covered my eyes to filter out the harsh glare. An occasional far off spot glittered with diamond-like brilliance, but other than that, nothing of great importance, no sacrificial heap of sun-bleached bones, no skeleton army of revenge-minded buffalo came into view. Was that a genuine teepee back there? I asked. No. And you will never see a real one. Why is that? Because long ago, the white man found the sacred hole in the ground where the buffalo comes from. They plugged up the hole and killed the remaining buffalo. And now there are no more buffalo hides. I think you need to get your TV set adjusted, Ravage. You cant pin everything on the White Europeans. The government has worked very hard to solve the Indian problem. Yes. I agree. They have done an efficient job. So efficient in fact, that by the year 2080, there will be no more Indians left of pure extraction. And then the problem of the American Indian will be, forever solved as you say. But dont worry. You and I will not be around to see that day. That day belongs to our children. This isnt World War II, Ravage. Our government leaders are not Nazis. You cant exterminate a race in the present day world. Too many eyes, too many video cameras built by the Japanese. Hell, CNN and CNBC would probably scalp front row tickets to the annihilation. Oh no? Ill prove it to you. Remember when I said that the government keeps strict inventory of Indians? Sort of. Ill give you a prime example. There are over seven million American Indians with legitimate claims to their birthright. However, because they havent registered with the BIA, the government fails to recognize them. So they receive no money. No land. Things that they are entitled to by treaty. According to the U.S. Census Bureau, there are only 1.6 million American Indians alive today. And that is not the worse part. As the years go by, our numbers will decrease further through intermarriage. Remember, the BIA set the blood quantum at . Each marriage outside of the race thins out the bloodline that much more. As defined by the BIA, there will be no more American Indians of pure extraction several
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generations from today. Their genocide will then be complete. It is my jobthe job of all American Indians, to stop them. I dont understand. Why would they bother? Why not just leave the Indiugh, American Indians to their own devices? I thought it would be apparent to you by now. They want all of this, he swept his arm sideways, out the window. They want to minimize the number of land parcels assigned to us. Under the 1887 Dawes Act, they could free up to two-thirds of reservation land and set it aside for homesteading by nonIndians, or conversion into forest land. Ill be damned. Its all about property. It has always been about property. Nothing has changed. The white man believes Manifest Destiny is his preordained right. Genocide by arithmetic, I said softly. The stark realization that I had joined such an insidious corporation alarmed me. I had unwittingly crossed over to the side of the giant enforcers, and the rules they enforced were suddenly far from my liking. American Indians are beset by terrible tragedies. Car accidents. Alcoholism. Suicide. To name a few. But in the end, the death knell will have been rung by the pen and paper of U.S. government policy. And all along, they preach the theory of acculturation to us. They say we should be good little Indians and live happily among the whites. So, what youre saying is that the U.S. government wants the remaining American Indians to assimilate into white society. I dont see anything wrong with that. After all, why cant Indians stop living in the past? I replied, somewhat tremulously, my attitude already weakening. Im telling you that the official government stance on Indians is a policy of extermination. Not assimilation! Our basic inclination is the quest for personal freedom, while the white man will always be inclined towards destruction. And as for living in the past, many of us cannot help it because every day we are reminded of itof our impending extinction. Every passing generation brings to us more lawyers like yourself, with your words of trickery, written in ink that has no memory. And like magic, our lands then disappear. And we are left to wonder how? How did the white man steal our lands from right under our noses? Was it magic? Ive got news for you, Ravage. This is the twentieth century. There is no magic left. Because if it did exist, Ravage, I would have used it long ago on myself. I would have used it to rid me of the poisonous dreams. Before I proceed, I think it is important to pause for a moment and bring to clarity some characteristics concerning 64
myself; personal motivations that will hopefully aid you in understanding the gist of my feelings for John Ravage at this time. It has to do with my demeanor, which by now you have probably identified as one of great ugliness and callousness; and which I do not try to keep from plain sight. My disposition, according to some of my colleagues, is one of cool, displaced efficiency, and as a matter of recourse, I rarely form opinions, or for that matter, attachments to people until I fully come to know them. In some instances, these feelings of ambiguity linger on for months, even years. Many times I find myself warming to people only after I have long stopped associating with them. This unordinary, natural suspicion of my fellow man is one of the reasons I am considered to be a first-rate trial attorney. I could smell a rat, a liar, a bad deal, or an unsinkable case coming from a mile away. Once my nose gets a whiff, I lock onto the scent like a starved tunnel rat. Once I sense weakness, I exploit it. It is only natural. When I see strength in my adversary, I work to diffuse it. And when an opening is produced, I call in the Air Cav. And so on and so on with all The Art of War shit! The truth be told, I am the rare exception. Of course, lawyers on vapid television shows are typecast reminiscent of immortals, of sub-humans. But believe me, these qualities that I have just described are most uncommon to my profession. Sure, many a trial lawyer can fabricate a modicum of cool disconnection throughout the duration of a trial. In actuality, this is a rather easy illusion to project, as trial lawyers are keen to the fact that they reside in the harsh glare of circumspection. Inside the courtroom, our verbal charms have to be honed razor sharp, devoid of conflict and contrasting emotions. In our chosen profession, there is no time to stumble, no way to fall gracefully, no time to mince words, no exit stage left, for one false move could blow a select client list and untold dollars. But it is a different story outside of the courtroom, in the taverns, or inside the judges hallowed chambers, where I have witnessed in the past untold arguments that have just about escalated into full-blown, knockdown brawls. Among my coworkers I count alcoholics, sexaholics, workaholics, abusers of a variety of drugs (from marijuana to tuinal to cocaine, and back again to tuinal on that hypnosensitive, circled road of barbiturates). I have met attorneys that swear thru law books, attorneys that swear at law books, and attorneys that have never even read law books. I have met, and thoroughly chastised, attorneys who plead out every caseso much are they in fear of following the limelight that leads an attorney to 65
the courtroom. What is the saying? All roads lead to Rome. The courtroom was my Rome; and the roads that led to it were my limelight. An attorney should be proud to work the courtroom, and not exit until he has tasted victory Well, you get the picture. Its not pretty out there. To wallow above the fray, one has to take measures, and the measure that I had chosen, for practical purposes, was distance and nondisclosure. It was inevitable then, that in the course of time, a skin-tight bubble would form over me and shelter me as I made my way up the evolutionary ladder, protecting me from my wanton, self-destructive, self-immolating brethren. Which leads me to John RavageThe man who did not like to be referred to as an Indian or Native American; a man that probably had a John Wayne dartboard hanging in a room somewhere in his home. Somehow, Ravage had conquered my natural predilection for casting people in suspicious light. And he had done so in a quiet, unassuming manner, one that had left me a little bewildered. Yes, it was a fair assumption that I had developed a nascent liking to John Ravage from the very beginning. It was hard not to. There was a simple, lean stoicism built into his character; a steady resolve locked into eyes that never wavered, a face innocently devoid of age lines, a deep voice that spoke only in truths, and a mind that remained on a taut, linear tract. The fact was, Ravage happened to be one of those rare individuals who felt strongly, thought strongly, and finished strongly. Ravage and myself were of the same ilk; reticence and timidity having been wrung out of our souls by the washcloth of time, the tears of many acrimonious remembrances and defeats extracted. Our friendship was all but cemented, having commenced on the stable ground of mutual admiration. However, no matter how strong my feelings for him were, I had grown weary of the conversation, which I felt, kept moving about in circles. I shut my eyes, but Ravages words seeped thru, resonating in my head. My body curled into a fetal position in the front seat, trying to manufacture comfort. After a few awkward seconds, I gave up and leaned my head against the thinly padded door panel. The engines low frequency vibrations swam through the metal chassis, forming a soothing kind of music that instantly calmed me. A few minutes later, I was fast asleep; adrift in the inner recesses of my dream world, a world that Ravage might have found interesting had he been able to invade.
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. In my dreams, I always wore the basic dark-blue tunic of the cavalrythe same tunic I had worn on that long ago night when I had given Tracer a whiff of freedom. A six-shot Colt .45 revolver rested in its holster and dangled just below my right hip. Brass bandoliers crisscrossed my chest. A rifle lay across the leather saddle, in grasping distance. There were always other soldiers, many more than I could count, all on horseback, all armed, all hungry for action, waiting for the inevitable bugle to signal the attack. In my dreams, a small band of Indians always appeared on the horizon, fifty or so men, women, and children, walking on the crest of a gentle knoll. We always found them easily enough. Footprints left on the fresh snowfall remained visible for days, constantly betraying their positions. And when the order to attack was given, it came not from the tart mouth of a stoic lifer looking for promotion, but rather from my own pale, chapped lips, which to my surprise barked the call to arms with a firm, grim resolution. The words I uttered, however, forever remained a mystery to me, lost in the high winds that swept across my dreams. I knew, however, that they carried persuasive clout, as the garrison of men instantly reacted to them each time. In my dreams, my squad, thirsty for action, reached the warriors first. Tired, and hungry, equipped with bow and arrow, a few carbines, the small group of warriors presented little problem to the well-trained U.S. army. This was the part of my dream that was most terrifying. Movement slowed to the level of a crawl. The time line sloughed off to a near fraction of zero. Every second that ticked away carried with it an intense clarity, a burdensome mass that magnified an ugly pall over the terrified human forms. The ragged band of Indians would always forge ahead to the snowdrifts, scattering in the deep parabola of shadows thrown by the frozen hills, searching desperately for any place to hide. But being the dead of winter, the ground below their feet was frozen solid, the trees sparse and spread out; leaving the Indians strung out in the cold, naked open, children wailing in mothers arms, grown men forming unsustainable skirmish lines, pulling back on bows that quivered, locked in the clutches of frost, arrows shaking unsteadily in frostbitten hands, the frigid temperatures becoming as much of a menace as the soldiers. In the end, the arrows remained flightless, the great wooden bows shapeless, the sheer apotheosis of a pathetic resistance. In my dreams the Hotchkiss guns, covered by protective tarps, brought up the rear of the company, well-lubricated 67
metal cylinders waiting for the moment to be called into action, when with steel precision, they would churn in rapid circles, slicing a clear passage through the shadows, breaking up the slow drift of time, bringing the forward progress of my dream back to reality. Each instance, in the waning moments of my dream, I stood over a small band of women and children that had been cut off from the main group. Much of the dream landscape was by then bathed in red. I was aware of the cold, and how my horses breaths pulsated in white plumes of rhythmic dissent, a heated furnace churning in the inclement weather. I was aware of my arm as it sprang up to attention, the heavy cotton fabric stretching against my right elbow as I sighted down the Springfield, a colorful, gold epaulet on my shoulder visible in the lower corner of my eye, the cavalry hat tilted backwards so as not to disturb my aim, the weight of the wooden rifle butt pushing against my shoulder, ready to accept the savage recoil of the blast, my eye unwavering, locked in tunnel vision, ignoring what the mind had just registered. I became aware of a strange silence that ensued. Most of the Indians had resigned themselves to the fact that all was lost, and lay prone in the snow, waiting. Some sat, while few others, the brave warriorsstood in defiant attention, mouthing soft farewell prayers, refusing to be shot down like mangy dogs. But one common denominator existed. One common bond rose up and linked them all together at the moment of death. It resided in the face of each Indian; stark canvases of fear gazing up at me as I sat with martial rectitude atop my lofty saddle. The faces beneath me blanched in white fear, terror stricken, their agony framed exquisitely in the bright ricochet of sunlight that bounced off the white blanket of snow and entered each set of eyes, pupils dilating, trying to conceal the fear within. But, alas the hunter in me could not be so easily deceived, and fear could not be so easily hid. And so, the eyes pleaded for justice, for mercy, for anything but a death in the red, frozen fields. And even as my rifle sight made a delicate pass over each figure, in a movement that one could consider obscenely intimate, I felt no shame, no contrition for what I was about to do. There was but one invariable moment in my dream. And that was the end result of the battle. Indians lay scattered, dying on the wintry turf. Some fought bravely to the end, others succumbed to the biting cold, while some just stood silently and gave in to the inevitable fate. Some ran when they saw the cavalrymen pull the tarps off the Hotchkiss guns, some stood without moving, alone and afraid. Some made it as far as 68
twenty paces before they were pitched down. Some escaped into a far off corner in their minds, and for all they knew, as they stood there trembling, baptized in the Hotchkiss guns eerie blaze, they had crossed over onto the golden fields of the afterlife, where buffalo ran in reckless abandon and the white man was invisible. After the smoke had cleared, I could hear the cavalrymens heavy breathing. No one moved. Not the cavalrymen on horseback or the still-warm figures lying on the ground. The men slowly put their weapons away. Some rifles needed to be wiped down to get the viscous blood off. Slowly, the men in my dreams became human again. They policed up unspent ammunition, replaced the tarp over the Hotchkiss guns, which still lay smoldering. White faces looked up at me, smeared with specks of blood, filled with lusty pride, awaiting my next order. And then I would awaken, trembling, bathed in sweat, safe in my own bedroom, wondering what it had all meant. Night after night for the last few months, I had been plagued by the same dream. It came to me as night neared its end, dry, rustling footsteps moving over my floor, sounding like the undergrowth of drought, sliding into my bed and scraping my face with kisses of fear. And it didnt take a genius to figure out that it was somehow all related to the upcoming trial of two Indian brothers whom I had never met. And then one night, I awoke as if I had been shot from a cannonbang! A mystery that had previously lacked puissance had suddenly cleared itself. The dreams had always brought with them a remote sense of familiarity. A slight reach into the past. A photo album lying open. A brittle, pressed rose that still teased the nose with stingy remnants of its fragrance. But I could never quite put my finger on who, or what it was that made this so. In the midst of the same dream, one night, as I made my usual pass over the captured Indians, my rifle sight bore in on one particular Indian and halted, the man coming to rest in the perfect hollow of my aim. And then my arms started to shake violently and sweat poured down my forehead in streams. And when I fired, the rifle was quivering and the bullet struck the frozen ground next to the body, which unlike my aim remained true, motionless, and as mythical as a patron saint. And with great horror I realized that the figure sitting on the ground Indian style was none other than my father, who subsequently rose to his feet and lifted his arms to shield the other Indians from harm in the best way he could
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Wake up, Justice, Ravages solemn voice pulled me out of the comforting womb of sleep. I felt his heavy fingers digging into my shoulder blades. I leaned up in the seat, shaking off remnants of sleep, trying for a minimum level of alertness. Whatwhat happened? I asked, rubbing my eyes. You were dreaming. A bad one, I think. Oh I managed. No. It was nothing How long was I asleep? A short while. Maybe twenty minutes. We are almost there. Its just beyond those mountains. He pointed ahead. I tried to get a clear view thru the cracked windshield, but when that failed, resorted to sticking my head out the side window. It didnt take a detective to figure out that the windshield had probably existed in that broken state for a good, long whilelong enough for Ravage to have grown so completely comfortable with it that he had little trouble driving. Chances were good he would never have it replaced. The wind pushed the hair back from my forehead. My eyes dried out instantly, and though I was rendered teary-eyed, I had won my unobstructed view. There it was, as it had been for thousands of years, the outline of an undersized, black mountain range, rising into the skyline just beyond the unobtrusive banks of a small, miserable river. The river lay in an entrenched meander, no more than fifty feet across at its widest point, sadly displaying its sinuosity. Inside its cradle of dense, blackened waters that swallowed all traces of sunlight, a feral current engendered the waters with a callous sibilance. Cut to pieces by jagged, protruding stones and boulders, the roaring current transformed the riverbed into a living, breathing, foaming creature that slashed a winding path across the base of the mountains. I opened up the map to outline our progress. Thats the Wolf Mountain Range, right? And thats the Little Big Horn River? That means were close to Little Big Horn. My eyes grew wide, glittering with anticipation. Ravage nodded curtly. I folded the map and shoved it back in the seat between us. So what kind of work are you into Ravage? I asked, unable to contain my enthusiasm for a potential collision with history. What do you mean, what kind? Well. You seem to know a lot about the government and their agenda for the Indian reservations. Are you some kind of underground politician? A subversive? I thought it was apparent by nowI work for AIM. Ravage said. 70
A look of utter disdain crossed my face. Then you are familiar with the American Indian Movement? Ravage asked, the harsh look on my face making it easy for him to gauge my contempt. Theyre a terrorist organization. I replied. Ravage glowered at me. His voice remained level, but I detected buried anger in it. His eyes grew narrow, ominous. AIM are not terrorists. We have nothing in common with Richard Wilsons GOON Squads. For the past twenty years, the FBI has made it a point to fabricate stories about our existence. If anything, we are a much maligned organization. He looked directly at me, his irritation shooting straight through. Are you familiar with Wounded Knee1973? Vaguely. I answered. Until the siege at Wounded Knee, AIM was virtually unknown and ignored. Politicians ridiculed us, while the state police harassed us. When we didnt back down to the FBI at Wounded Knee, when we stepped up the pressure in the subsequent years, thats when the government and the media really took notice What we are Justice, is a group of hard-line traditionalists. Hard-line traditionalists that will not stop fighting until we reclaim the Black Hills. Hard line traditionalists that use guns and kill people. Guns are a way of life up here, Justice. You of all people should know that. Everyone carries some sort of hardware. But contrary to popular opinion, we do not stockpile weapons. If anyone is a terrorist around these parts, it is the FBI. He paused. During the occupation at Wounded Knee, the FBI declared AIM to be an insurgent group. This is nomenclature the FBI uses to describe potential political targets. In doing so, they fabricated their just cause to bring a military presence onto the reservation. They brought with them M-60 machine guns, grenade launchers, and attack choppers. They carried out search and destroy missions on our land. They shot many reservation people. 23 died over a five-year span. Many of those people were close friends of mine. And the FBI did it under the pretense that AIM had instigated the uprising at WK. The attack fractured our leadership, leaving us powerless and weak, completely open to Richard Wilson and his GOON Squads, who were there to collect the dominos as they fell Quite convenient, when you consider that it was they who started the whole mess in the first place!Not AIM!So now, tell me Justice, in all of your infinite wisdom, Ravages eyes widened. Like a mood ring, the gray irises darkened. Who2 do you think needs to have their TV set adjusted? I remained silent, absorbing the insult. He continued. 71
You know, Justice, you were here during the beginning of the uprising. It is true. You were young, about seven years old. You were sent away to safety, far from town along with the rest of the children. But. it is still no excuse that you forgot where you came from. That much of what Ravage spoke was true. I remember the bumpy, laconic bus ride to the Rosebud Indian Reservation in the south-central part of the state. There I met my mother, a small, frail, pigeon-hearted seamstress of Sioux extraction who was living there at the time with relatives. By all definitions, she was my mother only because it was stated on my birth certificate. Rumor had it, I was a child born out of exuberance, a blending of too much grain alcohol and youthful infatuation and not enough respect for the morning that follows. My father and she had never married and rarely had contact with each other; in fact, she had stuck around just long enough to see what gender I was. I recalled sporadic visits during my formative years. After my father died in 71, I never saw her again. To this day, I have no idea where she ended up, or in fact, if she is alive at all. So, six months later, when it was deemed safe for me to return to Pine Ridge, my fragile memory and the Rosebud Indian Reservation was where I left her. All right, Ravage. Im game. Why dont you fill me in on what the FBI doesnt know about AIM? Well for one, the FBI contends that AIM was established to fight authority. Theyre wrong about that. We are here to preserve our American Indian history; AIM protects what little American Indians are left; AIM makes sure they are no longer robbed by the government; AIM makes sure that their civil rights are protected. We do all this, and the authorities still categorize our methods as conflagrant to the white press. For 23 years, AIM has done battle against ignorant propaganda. It is time for the truth to come to light. Up ahead, signs that winter was almost over and spring eternal was near: A small group of thin-bodied, reddish-brown Pronghorns had descended over a patch of prairie grass, munching on the sparse vegetation that poked thru the melting snow. Graceful, willowy heads, sans antlers, turned at the sound of the approaching car, but they didnt seem all too concerned. As the Chevy drove past, the powerful muscles in the upper part of the pronghorns legs used for quick getaways remained slack. Collective noses sank back to the turf, where they resumed their dining with stylish calm. It was an exhilarating sight. I felt like I was perched atop the crows nest, far above the top shelf of Kerouacs America.
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Take a look at that one over there, the smaller one off by himself. Ravage singled out a young, thin buck foraging through the frozen turf alone, a fair distance away from the main group. I barely made out the inception of soft, tender antlers growing from the top of his slender head. By September, the knoblike growth would be full-grown; sharp, bony branches growing thru velvety hair, a razor sharp answer to the carnivores that roamed the plains. But at the moment, they were weak, harmlessSeptember so far away. Look at his neck, just above the shoulder joint. You see that? Yeah, I remarked after a few seconds of studying the frail animal. A lengthy, fractural patterned scar ran from his neck down to the point where his front leg began. I was no expert, but the scar looked to be recent. Do you know what caused it? It looks fresh. If I had to guess, I would say a wolf. One wolf, traveling alone. No way in hell that small buck could have fought off a hungry pack. Without pausing, Ravage launched into an immediate discourse on the inherent traits of the wolves that populated the region. In no time I knew everything, from the fact that wolves never hibernated, to their capricious, silverywhite winter coats, which grew thick at a time of great coldness. They were natural hunters, constantly in hunger, possessing large, yawning, wounded eyes, ever alert, and like the best brain surgeons in the world, they could scalp a single deer away from the main herd with steel precision, making it easier to bring the unfortunate lottery winner down. If that small buck knows whats good for him, hell stop ignoring the herd and start eating alongside them. Ravage said. I watched, wishing there was something I could do to prod him into mingling, but the young, quasi-rebel pronghorn had no such intentions. He remained recalcitrant, alienated from his brethren, inching away from them with an expression of indifference in his eyes. Out here, an animal is nothing by himself. Ravage said. And that scar will be that bucks constant reminder that nature uses the individualists as fodderI doubt he will make it past the summer. I detected a trace of sadness in his voice. Survival of the fittest, I offered. What do you know about death? Ravage spat out venomously. He slammed on the brakes, stopping the car in the middle of the road. He shifted the gear to park. He turned to me. I sat motionless, waiting for his next move. Only thing you know about deathis how to dispense it from the safety of 73
your law books and cubicle. I remained tightlipped, not wanting to feed his anger, which festered. I bet if I gave you my gun and asked you to put that young buck out of his misery, you couldnt do it, could you? I remained still, not breathing. Could you? Ravage challenged. In an instant, Ravage pulled out a small caliber gun from his waistband and tried to shove it in my hands. I wouldnt take it. I stared at him, my mouth dangling open, motionless. My hands clenched into a tight fist. The young buck lifted his head from the turf and watched the commotion with mounting interest. I could see the muscles around his chest start to tense up, much like Ravages were. The only difference was, the animal looked ready to take off at the first sign of trouble. Ravage, I knew, would hold his ground come hell or high water. I considered the question for a few moments. I put my palms up in the air in resignation. No Ravage. I dont think I could. Some hero, Ravage said under his breath. You dont know anything. You dont know how anything works out here. You think youre so smart, but you dont know shit about death or life. He thrust the gun back into his waistband, shifted to drive and hit the gas. His eyes turned back to the long road ahead. His interest in the animals had clearly dissipated. The herd slipped away behind us as we resettled into the silent context of our journey through the American heartland. As we drove, I tried to convince myself that Ravage was mistaken; that I knew all about the concept of life and death. You couldnt be an assistant DA and not have fundamental knowledge of these things. I knew I possessed the power to kill another living beingor rather, to send him to deaths door. It was an enormous responsibility, one I didnt take lightly. I also felt that in the past I had shown mercy and refused to send several hardened criminals to the chair when it would have been so easy to do so. But as the miles passed us by, the black asphalt boiling beneath us, I came to the stark realization that Ravage was correct. I knew nothing about deathand when it came down to it, I probably knew even less about life. My career gave me the power to dispense both. To add years to a sentence; to take away years. Addition and subtraction. It was a mathematical formula I had followed dutifully for years. Mathematics was my bargaining tool. Snitch on two suspects and Ill take off five years. Plead guilty, save me the cost of a six-month trial, and I wont give you five-to-life. Provide me with testimony that helps me win that special case and Ill make sure you walk scot-free. It dawned on me that I had 74
reduced human beingsbeautiful humans with families and fatal flaws, ugly humans with drug-addled pasts and no support group, lonely people with no one to care for, hungry people with no where to eatI had reduced them and the magic of life to mere mathematics and algorithms. I had done it for a long time. And in the process, I had forgotten just what it was to be human. May I ask you something? Ravage asked, after a lengthy bout of silence had filled the Chevy. Go ahead. Are you happy, Justice? Being a lawyer? The only thing I know about happiness, John Ravage is that it continues to elude me. Then why do it? Why dont you quit? I thought carefully about my answer. Punishment, I suppose. Nothing flashy or existential! Just good old-fashioned, corporal punishment, conjured up by your not-so-friendly neighborhood counselor Some people are born to be punished, Ravage. And others like me have been put here on Gods green earth to match the punishment to the crime Besides, I cant quit. Why is that? Because, not having the dilemma about having to work is a dilemma all in itself. But you said you are not happy. No. I said happiness eludes me. And Im not complaining. You asked. Besides, there are a lot of other things that elude me. Compassion being among one of them. But you are punishing yourself. Which is fine with me. For all I care, you can sell tickets to your next execution. But as it so happens, in this case, you are punishing two men that, like yourself, carry tribal blood. You are helping the government pick off the remaining Indians one at a time. You are doing their dirty work for them. And for what reason? Why is the Lake brothers trial so important to you? I was very disturbed when I heard you had taken the case. My mouth dropped open, registering sheer surprise. I stumbled on my answer. First of all Ravage, thisthis case is none of your business I cant talk about it. And second, how the hell did you find out about it? It couldnt have made the newspapers all the way up here. If you must know, AIM has a file on the entire case. What is in that file or how that file came into our possession is not
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important. I cant talk about it Another direct hit for Ravage! What is important is the future of those incarcerated men. Ravage, those men broke the law. They murdered an innocent bill collector in their own front yard. In cold blood, I might add. The poor guy was just trying to post a notice for an overdue bill. I dont really care if the Lake brothers have white, black, yellow, or even green skin. I would still prosecute them to the fullest extent of the law. Murder is wrong. Ravage nodded accordingly. I agree that they should be punished if they in fact, committed the crime. That is not my argument. Well then, what is your argument? They are members of the Cheyenne tribe, correct? Yes. But whats that Ravage put his hand up, demanding silence. They should be tried by the Tribal Council over at The Cheyenne Reservation. They have a courtroom and it has the same code of ethics as a state court. The judge wears the same robe of honor. They are capable of administering the proper justice. Im aware of that. Then treat the American Indian people like the sovereign nation that we are, and let us provide our own justice. This isnt personal. This is a matter of law. Of history! The Supreme Court ruled in 1959, that Williams v. Lee could be heard exclusively within the tribal system in order to promote and protect selfgovernment. I was shocked. Im impressed Ravage. You started your homework. But you didnt finish it. If you had, you would have known that the 1882 Mcbratney v. U.S. decision first legitimized the application of state law in Indian country by upholding state court jurisdiction over a murder of one nonIndian by another non-Indian. I smiled, satisfied with myself. But there was no statutory support for the Mcbratney ruling. Ravage surprisingly, was proving to be a worthy foe, citing obscure, archaic court references and objections that I myself had been unaware of before taking on this case. I was impressed by his obvious fervor for the law. Equally impressive was the fact that a man such as Ravage, who has committed himself to learning the laws insides and outs, to avoid its inherent pratfalls, commits something far more important than just time. For you must give a great part of your soul, a part of your body to the law books and classrooms and courtrooms because in that courtroom, justice is indeed blind and if you are unprepared to rectify its vision, there is never a dearth of knowledgeable opponents who can and will. The Indian 76
Country Crimes Act called for a federal court prosecution. Its quite clear, Ravage pounded a fist into the steering wheel. I jumped back, startled by his unexpected loss of emotion. Matters among non-Indians go to the state courts, while matters among the Indians go to the tribal council. Just who the hell are you, again? I stared incredulously at him. The guy was special, no doubt about that. Ravage, youre barking up the wrong tree. The Supreme Court applies that state law prevails over tribal and federal laws in regard to an activity that occurs in the Indian country and is not directly involved with legitimate tribal concerns. I fail to see how murder reflects those concerns. And furthermore, and not to belabor the point, but on many occasions, non-Indians have been tried in the reservation for acts committed while inside its boundaries. Why should the Lake brothers get a free pass and avoid a state trial? That is only so because the governments allotment policy opened many reservations to non-Indian settlement. The sheer number of tribes has created chaos on the justice system. The right to law has been diluted, and wrongly so. It is a situation that needs to be rectified, but I will not hold my breath. Admit it, Ravage. Youre just bitter because youd like to see Thom and Avarice Lake go free. Im sure theyd get a fair trial down at Cheyenne. Just as Im sure that the jury pool would be comprised entirely of Indians, and the volunteers to serve on it would overwhelm the tribunal. Well, thats not going to happen! Not while Im around! Tribal authority was not created by your constitution, Justice, I remained cool, unmoved by Ravages implication that I had turned traitor. Tribal sovereignty predated the formation of the United States and continued well after. The founding fathers thought that we would die easily under the weight of capitalism, Christianity, the military. But they were wrong about us. They misconstrued our resolve. We did not die out as predicted, and as a result, modern congress and the Supreme Court continue to acknowledge us as a form of sovereignty. And Ill be here, along for the entire ride. Call me a thorn in your perpetual side, Justice; a thorn to remind you of where you came from. Look Ravage, Im sorry you feel this way. I said, trying to mollify him. But I didnt write the playbook. Hell, I dont even call the plays. Im just here to make some sense out of the game plan. For this case you missed your grandfathers funeral. Ravage snarled. Nothing has been resolved. We are back at
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the beginning. We have done nothing but travel in circles, you and I. Oh, okay. Now I understand. This clears up everything. Im not here because of my grandfather. This is all about youyou and the Lake brothers. Little did I know I came all this way just to indulge in your sensibilitiesTell you what Ravage? I have an idea. Why dont you apply your own legal expertise and advise the Lake brothers yourself. You could convince them to use the Twinkie defense? That ought to help them win an acquittal. I am so glad that you can sharpen your smile at their expense. Doesnt it bother you that you are sending two of your blood brothers to the grave? You are setting a dangerous example. I sighed. More than you think, John Ravage, more than you think. Just ask me about my dreams sometime. Well discuss them over a double cappuccino. Ill tell you how I wake up every night, my mind in another place, that far-off place full of unfettered sadness, with no sense of where I am. Ill tell you how I have to wash my pillowcases over and over because sweat soaks through them on a nightly basis, the noxious poison of my nightmare seeping out into the open, out into the material world. We are all constant seekers of precedence, Ravage. You know. I dont know who is harder to understand, you or myself? Our shared laughter signaled a truce. All right. Its my turn to ask questions. I said, trying to change the subject. I asked you once before, and you gave me a lame answer. So now, on cross examination, Im going to ask you again. You wont have me swear on the bible, will you? Ravage mocked. Im serious. I leaned closer; ready to punch him in the face if I sensed any funny business. Why are you helping me? Youre opposed to my beliefs, and you hate everything I stand for. So whyd you pick me up? I told you before, Im quite capable of reading a fucking road map. Ravage thought for a few moments before answering. The weight of the silence served to increase my anxiety. Seconds became minutes. I sat at the edge of my seat, chewing my fingernails, ready to pounce. Because I owed your grandfather. My grandfather? What did you owe him? I owed him my life. Ravage turned to me with a grave look in his eyes.
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Your life. Well Goddamn it, Ravage. Im just glad youre not going thru all of this cause you owed him a lousy six-pack. Ravage ignored my remark. His face puckered up in that alltoo-familiar, serious expression that I was now getting used to. I crossed my arms, impatient, waiting for him to begin his tale. It happened in 1972. Before Wounded Knee. The reservation, however, was already in chaos at the time. The ghost dance had again become popular. For the first time in years, Indians celebrated in public, once again proud of their heritage. You could say the Sioux suddenly woke up to the fact that they were an authentic nation of people, and that a nation did not cease to exist when it was overrun by a more powerful nation if the people still pledged allegiance. Ravage picked up his cowboy hat, laid it across his lap, nervously fingering the brim. He licked his lips and continued. Every member that defects and rejects his or her history only adds to the general carnage. As it turned out, there were few defectorsVery few. He stressed his last words, and I fully understood what he meant. Ravage considered me to be a traitor, a turncoat anything but an American Indian since I had abandoned the reservation for a government run boarding school. An outsider named Richard Wilson ran for Chairman of the Tribal Council. This man, Wilson, was an Indian by birth, but he was not one of usSounds familiar, doesnt it? Ravages hard stare went through me as he continued his petty torments. I felt my face go flush with anger, but I bit into my lips, stifling any retaliation, for I knew that this would be playing right into his hands. And he was inclined to help the U.S. government. The man he eventually defeated, in what amounted to be a rigged election, Russell Means, was a good friend to your grandfather, and to myselfand one of the founding members of AIM. At the time, I had been with AIM only a few months. It was a neophyte outfit. My grandfather was affiliated with AIM? I leaned up in the seat, my curiosity suddenly aroused. Not entirely. He kept a low profile. Worked the angles and kept out of sight. But he was an Indian. And being an Indian, he could not ignore the injustice that was taking place around him. Hell, any Indian worth a damn found ways to get involved. Women. Children. Everyone You know that sign we drove by a few miles backthe one about the GOON Squads. I nodded affirmatively. I had been wondering about it all along. The GOONs were a fabrication of Wilsons. Put together to stop AIM from uniting the Indians. GOON stands for Guardians of the Oglala Nation. The GOONs worked closely with the reservation police, which in turn worked hand in hand with the BIA, which 79
made them very corrupt. They had many weapons, provided by the BIA. Illegal VCPs, or Vehicle Control Points were set up on all roads that accessed the reservation. They targeted the entire reservation population, not just members of AIM. They beat up many; murdered some. Many red drops fell and froze in the bitter cold back then. AIM had to act quickly. You see, the BIA and Wilsons men believed AIM to be harmless, mere conservatives. But in truth, even though we had started out geared towards that idea, we had by then already become reactionaries. And being reactionaries, wanting to go back to our simple past thru whatever means, AIM could do but one thing. We handed out rifles and ammunition and initiated the siege at Wounded Knee. We hoped to bring back the Ghost Dance; hoped that the mainstream media would report our plight to the masses. We hoped to stop the persecution by the U.S. Government, and hoped to restore our lost heritage. Well, if you dont mind me saying so, Ravage, thats a hell of lot of hope to be wishing for. But it still doesnt explain where my grandfather fit into all of this. About three weeks into the siege at Wounded Knee, I began to run ammunition and food across the lines to help out AIM. Like I said, the GOON Squads had set up checkpoints on all the roads leading in and out of Pine Ridge. If this sounds a bit anachronistic now, you have to remember that the Vietnam War was still raging. Nixons politics were dividing the country in half. It was only natural then, given the times, that wartime sentiments would find their way onto the reservation Anyway, the GOONs forgot all about the canyons and valleys. A lot of open country out there. A man could lose himself if he wanted to. And that was how I snuck in, night after night for months. I was good, too. Until the GOONs got suspicious and had me followed. One night, on my way to the bunker with a backpack packed with hundreds of rounds of live ammo, they cornered me. I remember that there were three men, dressed military style, right down to their black combat boots. Heavily armed with M-1 combat rifles and banana clips. They tied my hands together and took me back to one of the checkpoints. I knew what was going to happen. I had no illusions of making it home alive. They were going to interrogate metorture me if they had toand in the end, they would kill me, leave me out on the open road for the coyotes to eat. I could see it in their eyes. Murderous intentions are not easily concealed. Ravage pointed his V-shaped index and pointer fingers towards his
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eyes. He paused, as if old wounds had been ripped open to cross the time barrier from past to present. Go on, I gently prodded. They were going to kill me, but your grandfather stepped out of the shadows, armed with a sawed off .410, dressed in his tan ghost shirt. Ravage began to chuckle at the memory of dear old granddad running around in the night, dressed for all out war. I mean, how old was he at the time, eighty? To this day, I still dont know how he found me. He ordered the men to release me. Despite the fact that he was outnumbered, outgunned, the GOONs, after a few tenuous minutes, did as they were told. They unfastened the rope around my wrists and sent us off towards the valley. And all the time, two of the men held their index fingers over pursed lips, a signal for us to remain silent about the entire affair. Funny thing, Justice, after all these years, when I get to thinking about that night, I think the shotgun had less to do with my release than the fact that your grandfather was a respected man, venerated throughout the community. He wouldnt have used the gun and the GOONs probably knew that. But just the same, they released me. Funny thing...? His voice trailed off. He rapped the side of his head, tapping into the vat of his memory. I have a few remembrances about that night, images that will never leave me. I remember the eagles and bear drawn across the front of your grandfathers ghost shirt I remember assault rifles posed at my head, the mens fingers full of tension, eager to pull back on the trigger I remember the sheer darkness of the terrain, how I was completely surrounded, the red, glowing pinpricks of heat cast by the cigarettes that dangled from the mens mouths, forming a dimly outlined triangle in the dark. And I remember that later on, when I had returned the shotgun to the safe house, I had fallen to my knees and wept like a child, all the feelings of rage and terror spilling out onto the carpet when I noticed that the gun was empty. It seems that your grandfather, the old fool, had confronted the GOONs with an unloaded shotgun. Ravage suddenly became silent. I had taken him back through the tunnel of time. I had prodded him into an unexpected, veiled fall, a piercing of memory manifested by timelessness. I knew what was going on inside his head. I knew all about the internal conflicts, the emotions. After all, I had been though the tunnel myself, many times multiplied over. I had formed an intimate bond with this channel; I had become familiar with the disastrous freefall, the brooding lapse of time, and over the years it had proved difficult to distinguish it from reality. One could surmise then, a veiled fall is not unlike a 81
revisitation to our cribs. The futures of both are such that they are masked with uncertainty at best. It is a place that exists in the corners of our minds, where all bets are off. Integrity is disallowed, even to the likes of Las Vegas bookies. So he saved your life. I sympathize with you. My grandfather was braveor stupid, depending on how you look at it. But once again, it doesnt explain why Im sitting here with you inside thisautomobileand I do use the term loosely. You know Justice, when you get to be as old as I am, when youve been through all the things Ive been through, you learn about mans inherent nature. You learn that man has little idea who his true enemy is. The memories of his actions go up like so much smoke. And he never realizes, because he travels within the black cloud of lies, his true enemy, his only enemy, is himself. Perhaps there is a bit of the wolf alive in each of us. On that point, I had to agree with him. He continued. Wilsons men proceeded to kill many people throughout the midseventies. The occupation itself, however, lasted just over seventy days. After my encounter with the GOONs, I sort of hunkered down and kept to myself. Helped out when I thought it was safe. But mostly, I waited. Waited in the dark. Waited for the dim red glow of three cigarettes to come and finish the job they had started that night I began to drink. Lightly at first, but then again, my fear wasnt born all consuming. It metastasized, and as it grew, so did my thirst for bourbon He turned and faced me, I should be dead right now, Justice. Plain and simple! Ill never forget the hatred gleaming in the eyes of those men. You dont forget eyes like that if you live to be a hundred years old. I cheated death that night, and death never forgets those who pulled the wool over her eyes. I have a feeling it wont be long. Any day now, Ill wake up and hear death rapping at my door. Hopefully, before that day comes, Ill have cleared all of my ledgers And that is how you and I are connected. Thru fate, we both exist inside the same circle. Your grandfather saved me long ago, and his wish, spoken to me on his deathbed, was for me to help his lost grandsonyou...to find your way back home. To live again as an American Indian. Help me? What could you possibly do to help me? It looks like youve barely mastered the art of survival yourself. Yes. But I am still breathing. Look Ravage. Im not interested in just breathing. Im looking to do a hell of a lot more. If committing to survival is what you want, so be it. But to me, committing yourself to anything less than self-advancement is pretty pointlessI mean, look at you. I dont know you very well, but by that 82
hopeless look in your eyes, I can tell that you havent done much living. Youve done nothing out here on the reservation except carve out a simple existence. How does that feel? Survival is just as much of an illusion as justice. A person creates his own version of the truth. Long ago I made a choice, and I am happy with it. The question of my happiness, whether it is an illusion or genuine, should not concern you. We are not here to worry about me. Ravage dipped into his breast pocket, pulled out a faded Polaroid and handed it to me. One thing that is not an illusion is this photograph. Where did you get this? I asked. It was a picture of my father, dressed in army fatigues, standing against a barracks wall alongside a group of similarly dressed men. His right arm rested casually over an Armalite M-16 rifle that hung from a strap off of his right shoulder. The other men also displayed weapons. All the men wore gritty, determined expressions on their faces. The harsh sun cast shadows over stoic grimaces, parched lips set in resoluteness. I looked over at Ravage for an explanation. It was taken a few days before he left to Vietnam. 1971, if I recall. You see right there, Ravage put his finger on the photo. Your father is still wearing the stripes of a private. Then you knew my father. I stared into the heavily creased Polaroid, the ragged lines of age cutting through it lengthwise. I hastily gleamed over the details, storing what I could into my immediate memory before returning the photo to Ravage. Although people had often remarked that father and son shared an uncanny resemblance, I could find little of it in this particular photo. My fathers hair had been shaved neatly to the skull, in typical military regulation cut. His handsome, chiseled face, deeply lined and sun burnt from six weeks of basic training, gave him the appearance of a Latino rather than a Sioux Indian. In contrast, I had learned long ago to steer clear of sunlight. My skin, over time, had lost much of its red pigmentation, but I knew the genes that directed skin color were pliable, capable of lying dormant for long periods, waiting for the proper time to come into bloom. I kept my hair collar length, although it still remained jet black in color. Nothing I could do about that. Unlike the genes of skin color, those that ruled the hair were more stringent, less malleable. I had tried hair dyes to lighten it, but that quick-fix solution had failed to be pragmatic. I guess some things werent meant to be changed. Light brown tinted contact lenses further added to my disguise.
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I knew him very well. We often trapped deer together. Your father was one of the best natural trackers I have ever seen. I guess its what made him a good soldier. My grandfather taught him how to track everything from coyote to eagles. I was small at the time, so I wasnt allowed to go with them. But my dadhe was amazing! Nothing on the plains could escape him. Animals outran him all the time, but he would eventually catch up with them. He had a penchant for knowing just where animals would go to hide, where they would go to lick their wounds My fingers traced the outline of my fathers sturdy jaw, recalling countless stories related to me by grandfather during many campfire nights. I was struck with a sudden melancholy that ran deep into the pit of my stomach, a savage grief not lacking in surrealism as it hit me that my father was killed in action just a few months after this snapshot had been taken. Despite his many strengths as a soldier, his tour was distinguished only by its brevity. A few months in country, his personnel carrier had struck a land mine near the highlands at Quang Tri, killing all eight men on board. My father expired near a ditch, his eyes rolled upward towards a brutal sun, shrapnel in his chest, and the rank of Corporal over his heart. Five months into his tour, and the army begrudged him a ticket out. Five lousy months got him a permanent burial at Arlington. In the end, his life hadnt been worth a plug nickel. And thus, he became the distant father I would never get to knownever get to hunt with. Why didnt anybody stop him from enlisting? I asked. Why dont you just ask the bear to stop being a bear? The sun to stop rising each day? We tried. Many of us did. He would not listen to any of us. He paused. You have to understand Justice, that fighting is a way of life for the Indian. From Sand Creek to Bighorn to Vietnam to Desert Storm, Indians identify heroes thru battles You miss him, dont you? He died when I was five. I dont remember much about him. To tell you the truth, I dont know what to feel. I paused, searching for a feelinganything concreteto underscore my emotions. Unfortunately, ambivalence is the only word that creeps to mind at the moment. But you are bitter about his death. You carry that anger inside of you. You carried it with you until you were old enough to understand what it was. And then, because of it, the first chance you got, you left the reservation, no? Sure, Im angry that he left me. But lets face it. Its hard to get emotional over someone I barely knew. I tried to conjure up a memory of my father, but failed. His face appeared briefly in my minds eye, but it was fractious, an amalgam of naked 84
emotions devoid of character, devoid of substance. It lingered ghostlike inside synapses, a distortion flowing through watery conduitsand like a ghost ship that lay scuttled in a bone yard, after seeing the picture, after Ravage had brought him into my life again, my fathers hulking presence was now doomed to remain with me indefinitely. You have all the right to be upset. No good comes from death, Justice. Especially when it involves a red man fighting the yellow man in a war fabricated by the white man. I respect your fathers decision to serve, but while he was stuck in a guerrilla fight ten thousand miles from home, we were hapless to prevent one from occurring right here on our own reservation. Sometimes I think he could have changed all that. You talk like he was some sort of savior. What could he have done? He was just a man. And not a particularly smart one, if you ask me. Your father was a very strong voice at the Tribal Council. He was a natural leader. Had he stayed, and decided to run for appointment, Richard Wilson may have never stolen the election. And the GOON Squads would have never existed and we might not have had that second standoff at Wounded Knee. Unlike Wilson, your father would have worked to unite the reservation with the BIA, but he would have done away with the corruption. Ravage leaned in closer, almost whispering. Your father was one of those rare individuals capable of altering history. He spent time with the white man and understood him. Because your father volunteered to fight with him, a brave Indian warrior died in a land far away. The day the white cross went up over his grave, the Indian nation lost a great leader. Yeah. And I was left without a father. And I ended up at boarding school. And you still cant tell me why he enlisted. Your father was wild at heart. His wings were far too strong to be locked up at the reservation. I think you have an idea of what I am talking about. A lot of his wild streak has rubbed off on you. There has to be more, Ravage. He wouldnt have left his only child behind without a good reason. Its difficult to explain. Your father wanted you to be raised in the Indian tradition. Something that proved to be difficult for him. He was too fond of the white way of life. He craved for everything outside of the reservation. He yearned for the freedom outside of those lines. Once that life gets inside of you, Justice, there is no looking back. Deep in his heart, he knew he couldnt teach you the things your grandfather was capable of. 85
Well, just so theres no confusion, Ravage, you are aware that I ended up in Indiana right? At The Wahsheton Indian School? Im sure that youre familiar with their splendid reputation Tell me Ravage, do you think my father would have found it ironic that I eventually ended up at the white mans school and learned everything I could from him? I recalled at once the vicious beatings, the powdered DDT thrown over me on my first day there; the immediate trip to the barbers chair that ended with most of my proud hair lying on the floor, nothing left but an inch high buzz cut, and the subsequent monthly visits aimed at keeping my hair military length. The primary order of the government teachers that ran the school was to take each new arrival and eradicate his Indian past under an iron fist and a shameful itinerary of indoctrination that would have done the Vietcong proud. In the absence of shame, what lies in the dark, a malignancy so sublime, terrifying, yet still? One day, in the fall of my second year, I watched in horror as toxic DDT fell into the eyes of a young Indian boy. The boy I cant recall what tribe he was from, couldnt have been more than seven years old. I was working in the supply room, right next to the shower facilities, handing out plastic shaving razors when he first entered. He had just come over from the barbershop. I could tell that he was frightened by the way his eyes rapidly scanned the room, not registering anything. The boy had tiny, raccoon-like hands. I only noticed this because as one hand absently rubbed the military scruff left behind by the barber, the other clung to a small leather pouch in a furtive manner. It was obvious he didnt want anyone to know what the pouch concealed. Minutes later, I heard screaming from the shower room. I dropped what I was doing and ran back to discover the boy, huddled in a corner, covered from head to toe in white powder, squirming and lashing out in agony, two tiny paws covering the sweaty, red masses that were his eyes. The pouch lay open beside him. It was then that I discovered what he had smuggled into the school. Dozens of colorful marbles lay scattered all over the cold tile floorcats eyes, shooters, and agate Aggies all bounced towards the center drainpipe and disappeared down into the black cavity. As the marbles bounced, they conducted a loud clackety-clack, clackety-clack symphony that echoed off the concave walls, filling my ears right alongside the boys frantic yells. Over and over he screamed that that he was going blind. Meanwhile, the employee that had deloused the young boy walked away
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without a care in the world, as if leaving a boy in the blind rage of tears was a perfectly normal thing to do. It took several hours and washings to clean out his eyes, which had swollen shut, as if many angry bees had stung them. The boyGod, I wish I could remember his nameeventually recovered, although for a few months after, his eyes were so sensitive to light that he had to wear sunglasses whenever he ventured outside. I wish I could say the same about me, however. That incident served only to exacerbate a growing self-awareness; a force that had first materialized within me that night long ago when Tracer had hunkered down in the stable, cringing from the dry lightning. There are literally hundreds of stories I can attest to of my time spent in the school, each one bearing a cumbersome weight, each one serving to instill me with exponential hatred, but in the end, each story is the same. Each boys mind dies the exact same death. The wounds stack up. Over the years, the fragmented moments that have piled up so high ruthlessly chip away at a little boys psyche. That day in the shower remains imbedded in my memory for one reason only. For no one ever forgets the precise moment in his life when the arterial walls solidify and compassion makes a premature exit through the doorway of lost emotions. And as my compassion died, my capacity for exacting revenge only flourished. In time, this faculty grew white hot, much like a knife tip laid out over a gas flame, the colors evolving along with the angry temperatures. That day, I decided that revenge was in my future. And to succeed, I would need a vessel from which to work from. What better platform for dolling out punishment was there than law enforcement? A cop? No, that wouldnt do. Revenge does not have to be primitive and brutal. It does not have to be processed into a clich. An attorney? A possibility. But better still, a trial lawyera vitriolic, vituperative, recriminating trial lawyer with a quick wit and nothing to lose. Perfect! Absolutely perfect! I could drown myself in the riches of both revenge and money at the same time. It was only natural then, that in the conflicting aftermath of emotions, after this future promise was created in the mind of a young teenager, a resultant lifeline was appropriately forged the tangible connection between the Wahsheton Indian School and myself will remain forever tethered to my minds eye, looming just outside of compassions reach. I have heard about that place. Didnt they close it down for good a few years back?
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Yep. Four years ago. 1992. I answered Ravage. As I spoke he boasted a strange, unearthly glint in his eyes, a sparkling twinkle that I had yet to see in him. Some suspicious thought or idea was churning the wheels inside Ravages mind. I shrugged and proceeded. I heard that the legislation received pictorial evidence of the gross misconduct that went on in there. Can you believe it? Gross misconduct!? If any of thoseincidents of gross misconduct had occurred anywhere other than inside of the schools walls, federal charges would have been filed and some heads would have rolled. So the staff got lucky. No indictments were ever handed down Thankfully though, because of this evidence, the school was permanently closed. Not even the powers that be could stop that from happening. All things aside, Justice, you are a better man for having studied there. Am I? I lashed out irritably. Yes. You studied hard, you graduated, and you went on to college. You eventually earned a degree that would have been impossible to acquire on the reservation. And you have succeeded as a lawyer. There should have been a homecoming for you. You should have returned to us Because, you know Justice, sometimes things have a way of picking up where they left off. What do you mean? Have you realized the full extent of what youre doing? Youre prosecuting two American Indians for murder. Had you come back to us, there is no doubt in my mind that you would have taken your fathers place at the council. This is no longer about the Lake brothers. This is about you, Justice. We lost a young child after Wounded Knee. Fate made a young child follow his father out thru the reservation gates. Owing to that great act of fate, you are now working against the Indians, and not with them. You could be defending the Lake brothers instead. This is the circle of life. One cannot avoid it. Only as I see it, you have yet to turn the circle in full. Over the course of the next few miles, I thought long and hard about Ravages rhetoric. I had to admit, I didnt take much stock in his assumption that I was capable of leading an Indian council. That idea seemed ludicrous. The difference between a person possessing intrinsic leadership qualities and passing the bar exam was greatan unplumbed depth that ran so deep it negated the very laws of light. A leader needed soul. Spiritualitytwo traits that I made no pretense to having. Sometimes, back in Oklahoma, after a particularly tough case, I would drive west into the empty panhandle, with no destination in mind, taking the isolated stretches of Route 66, 88
driving past the dilapidated drive-ins, the deserted mom-andpop diners with their homemade apple pies, and filling stations that still worked with manual pumps. I would head out during that time of day when little or no cars were on the highway and the reticent sun burned low to the horizon. Staring thru the windshield at the liquid, red balled-mass dropping beneath the earths curvature, it dawned on me that a force so pure and omnipotent as the sun had to possess a soul. I wondered if the sun had a place to go to when things got too tough to handle, or if the thought had occurred to her that humans viewed her as nothing more than a parlor trick, a mysterious force requisite to human survival. And I got to thinking about my own soul. How it had been poisonedor rather, how I had allowed it to be poisoned through years of unsettled debt. How the future offered little hope for renewal. It dawned on me that the courtroom was a place for hard justice, not for spiritual reawakening. And so, the taste of revenge that I had by then cultivated became a bittersweet pill to swallow. I thought about my days in the reservation. How they seemed distant, with all but a handful of images left scattered throughout my mind. I had become an Indian in only the strictest sense of the word. Like an Eskimo dropped by helicopter into downtown Manhattan, I felt conflicted that the term Indian reflected my mantle. The question that needed to be answered was why? Why did I feel abhorrent towards the Indian nation? They had done nothing to me except give me life. And the established white government had taken it from me, my father in Vietnam, my innocence at The Wahsheton Indian School. Yes, my father. There it was again; the enigma unfurled. Conjuring up his image was proving to be distressful. What should have been an uncomplicated matter of the heart was turning out to be an exercise in futility. The Native Americans have a saying. The way to center something is to abandon it. Im not sure what that means exactly, or if the term even applies to me at all. But I did abandon my grandfather, the reservation, my horse, the memory of my father, long ago. Not out of unbridled hate, or some misbegotten symposium of thoughts and visions. To tell you the truth, I cant even recall the time frame in which I had abandoned them, if my neglect had occurred in a fraction of a second or if the exit from memory lane had been marked by a lengthy, drawn out process. But as the saying goes, the bear that relieves himself inside of the tent is still a bear. I committed these selfish acts 89
because thats what humans do best. We discard everything from used batteries to photo albums to Christmas trees to relationships. We do it every day of our lives, perfunctory behavior carved out of rote precision. In my case, I had become first-rate at discarding people. Every time I accepted a new trial I abrogated the lives and liberty of the accused as if they were bad poker hands dealt from a marked deck. I had a built in system and I used it accordingly. Time. I traded the lives of prisoners in for time. Time, in some sordid twist of fate, had become the measure of my punishment. And I had become adept at dispersing that measure. Sometimes however, that system would turn around and deal to its handler a vicious bite. The hands of the clock, angry with the watchmaker, would point back at me accusingly and impose upon me a sentence of their own. That sentence, often times, came in the form of my father. I was destined to live forever with my fathers aura deeply imbedded into my cyber consciousness. There, he appeared in the mist of my dreams, a vague apparition that had no name, no face. The white-flecked foam that sloughed off crashing waves and vanished into the airthat was my father. Only deep-rooted psychotherapy could extrapolate him. That, or an Indian familiar with the unexplained workings of the subconscious. What do you know about dreams? I asked Ravage. Not much. Supposedly, dreams are a source of spirit power. They can channel power directly from the spirit world to the individual. For what purpose? Well, according to some, your dream world is a parallel world to the one that you live in. But I cant help you interpret that power. You need an elder. So if theres something evil lurking in your dreams, it can become a part of your physical life. Supposedly. I guess it all has to do with karmic retribution. Lets say a warrior dreamt that he drowned in a river. That warrior needed to be wary every time he came near water. All water, mind you, not just the river in his dream. A glass of water, the rain; both of these things could, in theory, kill him. I thought about the dreams that haunted me, and how, if there was any accuracy at all to what Ravage was saying, they had crossed over some imaginary boundary and over into my physical realm, bringing the Lake brothers to boot. If I did my job properly, as I was apt to do, if I followed the simple ABCs of prosecution, the Lake brothers were doomed to proceed
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directly to the electric chair and my career would receive a solid boost. But what then, would become of the dreams? I shivered slightly. Suddenly I was very frightened. There was a good chanceno, a great chance!that by the time this case was complete, I would have evolved into a slayer of Indians in two worlds, the physical as well as the spiritual. And by then, the darkness that had attached itself to my soul would have stretched well beyond the limits of imagination. Redemption, if it existed for me in the future, would be all but impossible to attain. Id be lying if I said I was unaware that something dark and sinister had wormed its way underneath my skin long ago. There the intruder lay; anchored dormant, waiting for a sudden outburst of anger, a flood of hatred to unleash itself into my lifeblood. In time, I had familiarized myself with this presence, and it with me, until our breathing patterns merged in a harmonious circadian rhythm honed to synchronized brilliance. It slept when I slept. It ate when I did. And it awoke with me each morning for years, a gleaming red-deviled eye that helped lift the veil that obscured my vision. It taught me that corruption exists in degrees, grows by leaps and bounds, in line with evolution. In the end, this vision became my own. And what ensued was a uniform corruption. Once it gained my express approval, it began its systematic destruction, poisoning my soul with pure invective, until everything I ever cared about, every ounce of good will Id ever nurtured, every trace of sympathy Id ever mustered, was bled dry from cold collapsed veins. Because when it is all said and done, a dark side lives inside each of us. And in a thin margined few, the darkness is the side that keeps us breathing. That is the unmitigated fact of life. The dark exists, only because of the light. The light could not lead to salvation unless the darkness paved the way through destruction. Im fucked! I said. What? Nothing. Just a little fortune telling, thats all. Ravage brought the Chevy to a halt and exited at the junction where I-90 and U.S. 212 met. And there it was suddenly, a few yards ahead, an ascetic sign that read Little Bighorn Battlefield. With little aplomb or fanfare, Ravage entered the parking lot and guided my eyes to the famous sight where one of the greatest massacres in history had taken place. So this is it. This is where it all took place Do you believe Ive never seen it? The sight was no more than 250 miles away from Pine Ridge, yet I had never bothered to visit. 91
They erased Custers name from the battlefield in 1991. 120 years of history reversed instantly, Ravaged snapped his fingers. Like that! All through the insistence of AIM. And we didnt stop there. We petitioned the U.S. government every year until they built a monument to the Sioux and the Cheyenne, right here on the same sight. The newspapers all along reported that we were wasting our time. But we never gave up hope. And now, white-eyes and American Indians lie together in sleep. He looked directly at me. Our victories are small, but built atop one another, they will some day make us whole. Ravage parked the car near the expansive river of pastureland the Sioux called greasy grass. We exited the car and walked towards the edge of the lot, which was well deserted. A few months away from tourist season, no more than a handful of tourists roamed the grounds. As I basked in the isolation, one of Ravages strong hands found my shoulder and kneaded away at the muscle, while from the other hung conspicuously a bottle of Old Crow. This must be a special occasion for you, Ravage. I bet youve been counting down the minutes. What are you going to do, have a drink while you tap-dance on Custers grave? Our eyes met dead-on in a steadfast duel of irises that brought a palpable anger to the surface. At that second, I realized that Ravage was not enjoying the moment anymore than I, and the bottle of bourbon hanging from his fingers was not there for the expression of joy, but rather from the discomfort caused by the sudden appearance of death, whose shroud hung over the battlefield in the blanket of early morning mist. I had read him wrong, and felt guilty about it. Apparently, death was more discomforting to Ravage than it was to me. Forget I said that. I was just making conversation. This sight is pure. There is no corruption in this battlefield. Everything that happened here happened for a very good reason. You and I will drink to the purity of the moment. He lifted the bottle to his lips and took a long swallow of amber fluid. Wiping his lips on a shirtsleeve, he offered me the bottle. I passed. He shrugged. An invariable calmness had overcome him. He pointed towards the fateful grassy hills area where Custer and some 200 plus soldiers of the U.S. 7th Cavalry had fallen. I turned. For the first time, my eyes came upon Last Stand Hill, an isolated prominence standing some fifty yards to the east. The first thing you notice about the battlefield, other than the mass grave sitting atop the hill, are the markers. Several hundred white stone markers stood in stark contrast to the 92
greenery, half buried, juxtaposed throughout the gentle slope. Ravage explained that each marker marked the precise spot where a soldier from the 7th Cavalry had fallen in battle. Many of the markers, I noticed, were clumped together in tight groups. Some bore extreme signs of incongruity, resting in odd places near a copse of trees or stranded far from the others, giving me the impression that the soldier in question had tried to make a run for it and failed. It was an eerie scene to say the least. The presence of markers had all but condemned the battle to play itself out forever for the benefit of greedy tourists; or for the haunted eyes of relatives who came in search of answers, in search of patterns in the chaos. Right there he pointed to a spot near the crest of the hill where about thirty markers protruded in a tightly assembled cluster, Right there is the spot where Custer fell. It seems that his men tried to protect him to the very end. So foolish. I squinted my eyes to block out the sun. Is he buried over there? No. The marker just signifies where he fell. The government took his body and buried it at West Point. Ravage said malevolently. I think they shipped it COD. Thats not funny. I said, unappreciative of his timing. Ravage nodded curtly and took another swallow. I stood, watching the windswept prairie grass as it undulated in lazy, rolling waves. I could feel the specter of the cold bodies, still clinging to the stone monuments, unable to forget the horror of that day. I imagined arrows soaring thru the air, striking their marks with savage flawlessness. I saw men screaming and dying in systematically defined scenes as Ravage continued to relate the story behind the battle with an odd, detached voice. He explained how for 48 hours after the initial battle that killed Custer, a cavalcade of warriors had trapped Reno and his men on a hilltop seven miles away. The Indians circled continuously on horseback, and when it became night, they shot thousands of flaming arrows up into the void, a vast network of rudimentary flares that cast light and shadows over the hapless soldiers. The men became frightened, and many of them died accordingly, a direct result of the their maker at least once in those forty-eight hours. The arrows fell like a continuous meteor shower, Ravage said. I shuddered, my head filled with those ugly mental images. What a truly horrible sight it must have been for those trapped men as hundreds of bloodthirsty warriors, illuminated in the dark candle night, churned the prairie sands in furious, unremitting columns. From countless photos and lore, I knew 93
the sight of Sioux warriors on horseback, buttressed by long, colorful headdresses and an armada of weaponry, evoked the most haunting images of the conflict with the white man. A curious thing happened. Two days after the battle, Army engineers diverged upon the hill. Of course, they found everyone dead. Everything was still, except for the rushing sound of the river below and the prairie grass, which rustled in the wind, softly, making dull, scraping sounds against the bodies of men and horses. Ive read some of the army field reports that have been released to the public. What bothered the engineers most as they picked over the strewn bodies and animal carcasses was not the terrible smell or the horrible mutilations that marked them. No, it was that constant dry scraping of parched grass against corpse. Every man heard it. There was no escaping it. The sound resonated above the wind itself and lingered in the air right up until the final moment when they removed the last body. I met one of those engineers many years ago. At the time, he was in his nineties, and had long ago retired from the military. But his recollection of that day remained untainted. I asked him about the rustling sounds. Yes, he had heard them; and no, he would never forget them. Even after all those years had passed, the noise still haunted him. Sometimes when he lay awake at night, during the hot summer months, the dry, rustling prairie grass outside his bedroom window brought him back to that day, and he would break out in cold sweats. This would go on, night after night. The old man endured the most unimaginably torrid days, his mind flush with the searing reminder of what he had done in the name of his country. After a time, he came to realize that what he was listening to was the siren song of death, and its presence outside of his window was a reminder that death would soon be calling on his own soul, just as it had on the souls of Custer and his men. Now the last I heard, before that old soldier died he asked to be buried on Last Stand Hill, wanting to lie forever underneath the sound of grass scraping against grass. In his own hour of death, he wanted to go back to the very thing that had caused him great pain during his life. Can you imagine that? But the army denied his request. Buried him in a military cemetery. The Army did what it was good at, abandoning one of its own at his hour of death. The engineers found one survivor among the carnage Captain Keoghs horse, a charger Comanche. Even though the horse had numerous bullet and arrow wounds throughout his body, he stood faithfully alongside his fallen master. The saddle sagged underneath his belly, struck with so many arrows it 94
resembled a leather pincushion. For some reason, the damn horse wouldnt leave his side. The charger could have escaped into the prairie or gone down to the riverbank to drink. But he just stood there, for two days, not eating or drinking, just waiting for the captain to rise. And had it not been for the engineers carting away the Captains body, he would have probably waited there an eternity Ravages voice trailed off. Horses have a habit of doing that. I replied, concealing my gaze from him. Ravage studied my downcast eyes and decided not to press for an explanation. Had he poked the light of inquiry into my eyes, I would have told him exactly why the charger Comanche had chosen to wait. I would have explained to Ravage that to some creatures, and people, there were far more important things in life than freedom. There was the warm blanket of familiarity. There was the self-made promise never to set foot outside of the customary. The way I saw it, Captain Keoghs horse never even had a choice. Tracer didnt have a choice either, did he? I would have told Ravage that the old engineer, in his final hour, had welcomed death as a friend, not as a villain to run and hide from. And my explanation would not have lacked conviction, because I had gained intimate knowledge in the subject. I had watched as the hardest of men; killers, rapists, and racists, alike had commenced that languid walk thru the blind corridor that led to the steel doorway that hid the chair, the squeaking laughter of the guards brand new leather shoes filling the cavernous hallway, and at that moment, oftentimes, I felt like retching as an unsettling hollowness shot through my gut. The minister would follow a few steps behind, keeping pace, reading scripture that entered our minds as so much white-noise, and all the while the condemned wore that blank look of resignation on their mugs, accepting the impending dissolution of their wretched lives virtually as a fait accompli. Do you believe in karmic retribution, Ravage? I watched, fascinated by the opalescent interplay of light as it reflected off the stone markers. In another tract of land, in another moment in time, I would have described the radiance as beautiful. Ravaged manufactured a sly smile. I believe that Custer got what he deserved, if thats what youre asking. I just might very well agree with you on that one, partner But dont ever repeat what I just said, okay. It could cost me my membership in The Minutemen. I joked. Amen to that, Ravage said. And then he pressed the bottle to his lips once again. Hey, easy with that stuff, Ravage. I dont want the state cleaning up after me with a highway marker. 95
Yes, we wouldnt want to burden the DOT. They have enough work cut out for them as it is. We left the battle sight behind us, hitting the highway just as the winds picked up. A blast of air smacked the Chevy broadside, an invisible hammer that almost pushed the hulking car off the side of the road. From the bowels of the earth came a dreadful sustained howling, sweeping unchecked through the gaps in the hills and bounced off the litter of trees that pockmarked the prairie. The nerves in my gut tightened. The ghost of battles past was not letting me escape so easily. I stuck my face outside of the window, studying the long river of grass that led away from the battle sight and angled down into a gentle swale. In the benevolent sunlight, the grass swayed side to side in cresting waves, a million upright centipedes on a synchronized march above the melting snow. I spotted Renos Hill a quarter of a mile away. Naked and surrounded on all sides by empty pastureland, with not so much as a tree visible that a soldier could use as cover, it was a wonder he and his men had survived for forty-eight hours. The boy general should have remained with his woman that day. Ravage said, matter-of-factly. He leaned in closer. The smell of bourbon was heavy on his breath. It was hard to say, though, if the alcohol had affected his judgment. It was our time. Out there on the plains that day Custer was outsmarted. Many bees awakened and swarmed out of the hive. Crow, Blackfoot, Cheyenne. The general was a mere child, playing war against the CaddoThe true chiefs. In the end, the bees stung the golden fox Ravage suddenly became glum. Of course, you know, that was the end for us, too. After that, the U.S. Army hit us with all their might. Colonel Miles completed what Custer started. By 1890, the Indian menace as Miles put it, was gone for good. I dont want to be a smart-ass Ravage, but what did you expect? I never expected the holocaust. Ravage reached under the seat and neatly tucked away the bottle. Thank God! You know, Justice, despite what the white history books say, Custer was not scalped. You looking to score points or something? Or maybe a three-day pass to Disneyland? You can hang out in Frontierland and reenact the battle with all the white suburban kids and scalp as many of the little buggers as you want. Would that make you happy? No. It wouldnt make me happy Although it might be a cure for my insomnia. Ravage laughed proudly at his witty retort. I just think history should reflect the reality of the 96
battle and the brutal legacy it left You know, you should be proud that you come from the Sioux. The Sioux are the hach winik (true people) of the plains, the last of our respective Native tribes to beat the white man at his game of war. That was before the white man and his technology brought the evil of the Hotchkiss guns and used it on women and children. So what. I suppose that American Indians are completely innocent? Of murder? Stealing? Scalping? Back there on that hill, you showed me a perfect example of how warriors acted when things got mean and nasty at the breakfast table. If I recall correctly, the battle for the plains was bloody on both sides. And maybe they didnt scalp Custer, but they did mutilate many of the other bodies. That much I do know. Whether you agree with me or not, Justice, your skin is as red as the blood that runs through your veins. Taking the white mans side is not going to change that. You may work for the government, you may have been reared as a child of the government, but you were born on the reservation. He paused. You know, history books call us savages, but the second pope wrote that natives descended from Adam and Eve, just as the white man did. Yet even as we were vilified, union soldiers were credited with bravery beyond the call of duty. Custer himself was posthumously brevetted for gallantry while we were labeled as cowards who attacked unsuspecting women and children. And yes, the golden haired general was defeated, but as I said before, his defeat at Little Big Horn brought final disaster to all Native Americans tribes. Soon after, U.S. troops were dispersed in greater concentrations throughout the plains. The retaliation for Big Horn was intense, fragmenting Native American resistance until very few of us were left to roam free. He paused. By the early 1900s, there were more wild horses roaming the plains than there were natives. All Native Americans had been sent to live on reservations. But even there, our tribes were not safe. The white man infiltrated these camps, placing crooked officials and suppliers in charge who made graft bigger business than your government could have ever imagined. Entire families were imprisoned on the reservations, which were run more like concentration camps. We suffered horrible privations. Seven years of government legerdemain culminated in 1889 when the reservation was cut in half. The government cut the existing beef ration; The Sioux were starving to death. My own grandfather had to slaughter his last remaining horse one winter so my parents could have food on their table. Look Ravage. I admit it. American Indians have had it rough. Ill give you that. What Im saying is that it takes two 97
parties to burn a teepee. Indians fought back, and at the very least, its been proven that they were capable of committing unthinkable atrocities. Face it Ravage, when it comes to killing, American Indians were as skillful as the whites. Its only natural. The Sioux are a byproduct of the hunting grounds of the plains. Ravage shook his head in disagreement. The highest form of bravery, Justice, according to the Sioux, was touching the enemy or stealing his horsenot killing him in battle. We call this counting coup. A warrior was bestowed with greater honor if he rode into a white mans camp and stole a horse, or took a piece from his uniform and made it home safely. Instances such as these brought the warrior much-coveted honor. The more of these coups a warrior accumulated, the greater his status among the tribe. Yes, the Sioux killed many of Custers men that day. And yes they scalped more than a handful. But dont confuse yourself. While scalping is considered a coup, it is a practice much frowned upon by our people. It is only practiced because it represents the spiritual death of the victim. Do you know where the Indians learned the art of scalping? I dont know Knitting class at the Y, maybe? It was from the Spanish. Ravage barked. His patience with me had disappeared. Your tribal name, what does it mean to you? I remained silent. Do you remember what it is? He persisted. No. I cant recall. I thought so. Yet you stand here today, and a white mans name flows from the end of your fountain pen, guided proudly by your hand. You have fallen victim to acculturation. Just as many other American Indians in this country have. You are all victims. Your identities have been obliterated to some degree by white mans society. Only in you, I see society has inflicted greater damage Didnt you ever have an Indian hero? No. I answered truthfully. For me it was Crazy Horse. No one fought the generals like Crazy HorseExcept maybe Geronimo. But he was a ruthless son-of-a-bitch. Hed trade his own mother in for a pack mule No, sir, Id take Crazy Horse over Geronimo any day of the week. We both broke into raucous laughter that lasted a few moments. And then, because I sensed our trip was winding down, I asked him about Esperanza Ridge, if he had any idea why my grandfather wanted me to climb it. You will find out shortly. We are almost there. A few buildings came into view at the far end of the road. And none 98
too soon, as I was going crazy trapped inside the cramped metallic shell. A while back, Ravage had raced over a bump on the road, and when the Chevy had come crashing back to earth, the glove compartment had sprung open, dropping a heavy flashlight, unpaid parking tickets, and a slew of papers and crusted fast-food wrappings onto my lap. Since then, the plastic lid had refused to remain shut. Periodically, it would loosen and slam down harshly on my knee. Damn it Ravage. Why the hell dont you fix this thing? All you need is a damn screwdriver. I shoved in a handful of papers and slammed the lid back in place. It held for a second or two and then dropped open in a wide, toothy grin of paperwork. I doubt you remember this, but your grandfather was a great chief. Ravage disregarded my struggling. You are a simpleton. I said, my anger flaring up again. However, I would like to stress that the act of calling John Ravage a simpleton was not to be confused with the term stupidity. Not for a second did I associate that particular adjective with John Ravage. In ignoring me, he was simply putting to use a system that I was all too familiar with, and used quite frequently in the courtroomAttack and distract! It was a ploy with one goal in mind, to keep an opponent off balance thru the use of half-truths, lies and well-timed ambiguity. Now Im not saying that Ravage had applied its use through deliberate intent. Hell, I didnt even think he was aware that the tactic existed, or that he had been using it during our conversational joustingwith great effectiveness I might add. I think it was just Ravage being himself. So with that in mind, I found it easier to cast aside his apparent lack of social niceties, because at heart, Ravage was a good man; as good as he was uncomplicated. Some people do not exist unless others are watching. No other place was this maxim evident than in the entrails of the justice system, full of murderers and loudmouthed braggarts that harbored the misguided belief that the world was interested in hearing the explicit details of their crimes, or that they were innocent pawns railroaded by an inhumane justice system. With Ravage, quite the opposite was true. Many times on our drive, he had spoken as if no one else was present, as if entertaining himself was the only thing that mattered. In a quiet, non-assuming manner, he had grown on me, even if his sporadic bouts of self-righteousness occasionally drove me to anger. And in return, he begrudged me the same respect, as he again ignored my callous remark and continued to speak as if nothing had been said. 99
A month before he passed, he told me his one wish was for you to come home to Pine Ridge; to see for yourself the bleakness of our situation. In life he did not succeed in doing so. You ignored his calls. His letters. And in the end, you refused to come to his funeral. You Justice, have become a yuki (stranger) to your own people. He believed he could change that. He believed that somewhere deep inside, you still carried a soul. We talked a great deal about you in the last weeks of his life. Oh yeah. What did he say? I cannot tell you. It would be disrespectful to your grandfather. And I will not dishonor him by telling you what we shared. Especially since you still havent asked me how he was at the time of his death. You do not show concern, even now after I have shown you a little of your own history. You will have to wait and see what the white earth brings to you. It will all come to you when you open up the box. By the time the wimimula (round moon) visits you tonight, there will be no more secrets left to tell. Thats right, my inheritance? My eyes opened wide with revived interest, just as we pulled up to the entrance of the car rental agency. It was a one story, austere building with a glass front and a few pitiful rows of old, unwashed rental cars filling the small lot. Coffee colored flags that were once electric with the bright colors of the rainbow hung from drooping cables that crisscrossed the lot. I was wondering when you were going to get around to that. With a maximum degree of effort, Ravage turned his body towards me in the seat. The steering wheel poked uncomfortably into his ribs, the Chevys confining interior refusing to cooperate with even its owner. Before you go, there is one thing I want to ask you, Justice. I braced myself and waited. What do you know about your grandfather and Wounded Knee? Nothing really. Just what you told me earlier. No. Im talking about the original siege at Wounded Knee. In 1890. You did know that your grandfather was involved, didnt you? Thats impossible, Instantly, my good humor dissipated. My face scrunched into a big frown. Carefully, I subtracted the years, going back to It is possible. Your grandfather was 106 years old when he died. He was born two months before Wounded Knee. I dont understandI thoughtI thought everyone died at Wounded Knee. 100
Listen closely, Justice. Im only going to tell you this once, because I really dont like to talk about it. Two days after the massacre, a group of missionaries went back to bury the dead that the Army had left behind. They did this in the midst of one of the most severe blizzards to hit the area in some time. So certain were they that there could be no survivors, they did not even bother to bring rescue supplies. What they found Ravage had that far away look in his eyes, and I could tell, as he began his recount, that he had launched himself back through the obstinate tunnel of time and memory. What they found amidst the carnage could only be described as a miracle. You see, Justice, winter does not hide her secrets well. Everything left in her clutches becomes a frozen footprint of time. And I can assure you, there is nothing more unsettling to the human eye than stumbling upon the footprint of mans treachery, left behind, frozen in the snow, a naked, obscene gesture for the world to seeThe missionaries sifted through the snow and began to remove the bodies At this point Ravage paused for a few moments. I waited patiently, with the door handle grasped firmly in my hand. He seemed to be choking on his own words, fighting to hold something back. Not tearsI knew better than that. Ravage wasnt the sort of man to lose control in front of a total stranger. No, what he was fighting back was a force largely unseen that made its home in his mind, something inert that had been there long before I had come into town. Some of the bodies had frozen solidly into grotesque shapes. And one by one, as the missionaries retrieved the bodies, they came upon four babies that had somehow survived through two days and nights of frigid temperatures. Each was buried underneath several feet of accumulated snow, wrapped inside wool shawls, lying on top of their dead mothers. The womens arms had frozen stiff around the babies, clutching them tightly against their own hearts. Perhaps they thought that the cradled arms would be enough to overcome the cold? I dont know. Those mothers died, Justice, they died with only one thing in mind. Hope. They hoped to save their babies. They had no illusions as to their own fate. They knew the Army didnt care about them. To them, death was inevitable. But what did matter were those four babies. Think about that for a second, Justice, before I go on. Out there in the cold, a long time ago, four dying mothers each took it upon themselves to save a life even as death lurked around the corner. Each mother, unbeknownst to the other three, made a silent pact to never give up hope, even as the light in their own eyes was extinguished. Ravages gray eyes bore holes thru me, wanting to put something concrete 101
between us. Unnerved, I lowered my gaze, letting his gaze ricochet off my cheekbone. He continued after a short lull. Imagine being one of those mothers, Justice. Imagine what they felt in those last moments, as the blood in their arteries hardened, and their breathing became shallow. They knew that it would take a miracle for their young to survive. Yet as their lives ticked down to the last seconds, they clung to hope. They thought of little else but miracles. And in the end, it seems, a miracle is what they got. So, youre telling me that my grandfather was one of the four babies that lived? I said, astonished. No. Im telling you that your grandfather was the only baby that lived. The other three babies died within the next few weeks. Pneumonia. FrostbiteI couldnt tell you how. But what I do know is that your grandfather made it. That strong son-ofa-bitch found a way to live. He emerged into this world a fighter. And you know what? He left the same way. And you werent there to see itExplain to me why, Justice? Why was it so hard for you to come to the funeral? This is the question I would like you to answer before you go. I fidgeted, struggling to overcome my newfound guilt. The thought of my grandfather lying in the cold, naked to the elements, hungry Well, that was just too much for me to comprehend at the moment. Surprisingly, I felt tears welling up. I fluttered my eyelids rapidly to suppress the salty tide. I answered Ravage, unable to repress a weak excuse. I guess it just seemed easier not to come, Ravage; Easier to forget him, to forget this whole place. Sometimes you have to turn your back on things. In the back of my mind, a series of images: my father lying on his back, bleeding from mortar fragments, his hands gripping muck; my appaloosa standing by his side, shells going off blindly around him, zeroing in, his long tail swishing at flies, breathing heavy, not moving, not going anywhere, the humidity biting, because a horse will never choose freedom over his fallen masterAnd far away, overlooking the scene from a bluff was my grandfather, a ghostly apparition taking the form of a northern wolf. The wolf with his cavernous eyes, the unplumbed depths of pain, sensing the far reach of mortality as it delved thru each layer of his prideful coat, not knowing how to ease the suffering below It was time to part company. I hesitated, unsure of what to say. Stupidly, I offered Ravage both thanks and money for gas, gestures he dismissed with a perfunctory wave. I have to ask you something, Justice. Is there any chance I can convince you to stay and work with us? Ravage asked. 102
Nope. Why not? Do you find it so unpleasant here? No, not at all. I suppose it does have its subtle charms, if one can overlook the poverty, the alcohol problems, the fact that there is little future. Tell me Justice, what lies in your future? If youre not interested in changing the world, why are you so interested in public office? Legislators make the rules, for all the men to follow like fools. I said, spoken like a true, premature ejaculator. Why the hell did I say that? Thats a good question. Maybe theres knowledge to be gleamed from the adventure. And maybe thru knowledge I can find compromise. Compromise? You have found it already. Just look at yourself. You are already compromised. Have you taken a good look at your heart, Justice? Even I wont go that far, Ravage. Be careful. Knowledge and wisdom are nothing without heart. Ravage shook his head in disgust. Nothing at all. And what good is knowledge, anyway, if you dont use it to do good? In all of this time, what have you learned from the law? It made me smart enough to forget my name. Has it occurred to you Justice, that the way to center something is to abandon it? You know, Ive heard that somewhere before. The only question was, what was to be abandoned, and in the aftermath, what would crawl into the circle to be centered. You remind me of this feral cat we once adopted. This cat, you know, he tore up all our furniture so we had to get him declawed. Yet, a week after the operation he returned, sharpening imaginary claws on very real furniture. Who even knew if the cat was aware of what had been done to him. He didnt seem concerned or bothered. He just went on doing what he knew best, sharpening his claws on whatever objects he could find. You see, it was instinct that drove the cat to constantly sharpen his claws. And no operation in the world could take that from him. Instinct drove him to act. In fact, it is what drives us all. Whats your point, Ravage? I have to get going. That is my point. You are that cat, Justice; a cat that has been de-clawed and hasnt realized it yet. So you still look for things to sharpen your claws on. Because it is in your natureIt is your instinct. You think that by sending the Lake brothers to the chair youre going to get even for all the wrong that youve seen in this life It doesnt work that way. Life does not resolve itself in neat little packages. And a man like you, Justice, a man
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that carries no guilt, is susceptible to head on collisions. Ravage argued in his usual dogmatic manner. Well then, I guess that explains all the white DOT markers lying around the roadside, doesnt it? There must be an excessive amount of antipathy in these parts. I paused to let the insult sink in. Dont get pious with me Ravage. You havent had the experience. Where were you when your friends were dying during Wounded Knee? Did you run when you saw the FBI coming? Dont remember? Well, let me help you out. You crawled off into a corner of the universe and buried yourself in the bottom of a bourbon bottle. I spat out venomously. Perhaps there is enough redemption to go around. Ravage lamented. Maybe so. Maybe you wont be so lucky in finding it. But then again, there are all kinds of cheap. What do you mean by that? I mean, as long as you keep your nose in the bottle, selfmedicating yourself, redemption isnt going to come along and bite you on the ass. You have to be able to feel apathy in order to cure yourself of it. You see, Ravage, I also have my theories. The degree of your redemption is directly proportional to the amount youve suffered for it. If your pain is realif you keep it alive, a deep cut that never stops flowingthen in the end, when you eventually repent, youll experience all the joy in the world, no matter how much of a shitbag you were in the past. I paused to collect my breath. I checked my watch, eager to get going. Daylight was burning. Tell me Ravage, how many dark corners of the world have you visited lately? Enough to know I like the light better. Hmmm. I dont like the light. The light is something lawyers try to stay away from. Our magic is far more effective in the neurosis of the dark. Sunglasses work! They dont work at night. And they dont allow them in courtrooms. I said. The young Indian boy at the Wahsheton Schoolthey didnt work for him either, did they? I dont wear them at night. No, thats true. You have the bourbon. I exited the car, slamming the door loudly behind me. What I saw, reflected in the glass window left me a little less than horrified. An ancient, tired face stared back at me, a face flush with deep, dark circles that reached up to pat heavy lidded eyesthe same type of eyes marines were known to carry back from overseas, two hemorrhaging wounds peering out wearily underneath sandpaper eyelids, and not even the refracting sunlight could 104
dispel the thousand-yard stare in them. When was the last time I had slept, I wondered? Hell, when was the last time I had had a peaceful night? It took a few seconds to get my bearings. My mind, brittle from the road trip, fought the bodys rebellious urge to jump back in the car and fall fast asleep to the V-8 engines soothing vibrations. I located the office and headed towards it. I gazed up at the sun, trying to abscond some of its warmth over my face. Gods dry brush of light painted balmy affection over my cheeks, anointing me with temporary respite from the drudgery. My mind went blank, peaceful. And then Ravages car horn cut through the silence, a shrill that stopped me in my tracks. I turned and shuffled back to the Chevy. Justice. Did you forget something? Ravage asked. Oh yeah. I said after awhile. How stupid of me. I leaned inside the drivers side window. In Ravages hand was the mahogany box that my grandfather had bequeathed me. Etched a good quarter inch into the boxs exquisite lid was a perfect circle, about four inches in circumference. I believe there is a letter inside that will explain a great deal to you. From my grandfather, God rest his soul. A gift causa mortis... I did my best Perry Mason imitation. I grabbed the box, my fingers fingering the rich engraving. What does this circle signify? The simple geometric shape ignited a vague memory. I had seen it somewhere long ago. The bridge on Ravages nose crinkled as he considered an answer. To the Sioux, the circle is a sacred shape; A symbol of interconnectedness of the universe. The circle is also a sacred hoop. It was inside of this hoop that the Great Spirit Wakan Tanka created the universe. All the good and badpeople, religions, beliefs, values, they all exist as a single entity inside the sacred hoop. And one can never exist without the other. What else is inside here besides the letter? I asked, shaking the box. Something heavy, rocklike bounced around and struck sharply against the sides. Your grandfather did not specify. And I did not ask. Well then, I guess I dont have to worry about estate taxes. Ravage, I am confident you have acted in good faith. As they say in Montanaor KansasI forget whichIm off to see the wizard! One more thing, Justice. The Polar Easterlies are restless today. An occluded front is on the way. The weather will turn unstable. If you are still up on Esperanza Ridge when the dark comes, pay attention to the sky. It will tell you if you are safe.
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At nightfall, if it is crimson red in color, the weather is all clear and there are no more storms on the way. And if it isnt red? Lets not think about that, Ravaged grinned mischievously. Because you will not see me again until tomorrow If you are lucky. You mean a blizzard is coming? None of the forecasts had called for snow. Quite possibly. Maybe an inch or two of snow. Snow? How? The skies seemed pretty clear. And Goddamn it, I remembered the meteorologists words quite clearly. Snow, Justice. It begins when ice crystals are born in the cold clouds above. They grow large; too large for the clouds to hold. And like children that have grown restless, they fall and strike out on their own. Apparently, the agent had his own healthy sense of sarcasm. The meteorologist said the cold front wouldnt hit the area for a few more days. I studied the sky. A few scattered gray clouds had assembled far north, forming a jigsaw puzzle sky overhead. There they had coalesced together, smack in the middle of my intended path. They looked harmless enough, I thought. But then again, what I knew about weather these days was limited to what I caught on cable TV. Those television people are from the other side. They do not know the Powder River Country like I do. Maybe, if youre lucky, all you will get is rain and lightning. Fair enough. Ill keep all that in mind I paused then, trying to find the right words to leave him with. Hey Ravage. I just want you to know I understand what you were trying to do back there. Your effort was not completely wasted. Ravage managed a weak smile. Good luck to you Justice You know, the fact that we disagree in fundamentals does not make us enemies. You and I come from the same ancestors. We do not have to fight so much. Try and remember that. I will. And RavageThanks for everything. He nodded politely. By the way, if you care to know, your native name is Little Mouse That Roars. Your grandfather chose it. Ask me upon your return. I will tell you how it was given to you. Great. I thought. Little Mouse. God only knew what stupid gesture I had committed in the past to earn that moniker. Ravage procured the bottle of bourbon, put it to his lips and took in a fair amount of the high proof liquor. He turned, offering me the amber liquid. One for the road?
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Its a long road. I indicated no. Nothing personal Ravage. I never drink. Something to do with the Indians inability to process liquor, I guess. I have never seen an Indian who does not drink. And I have never seen an Indian that cannot process liquor. He spit out the word process as if it were pure poison to his lips. Its keeping it down, thats where the challenge lies. I have yet to see an Indian that can master that art. You havent seen a lot of things, have you Ravage? No. I have not Little Mouse But I have seen many things vanish! Hey Ravage. Before you go, tell me something? Do you believe in karmic retribution? I asked, hoping he would not dance around the question again. Ravage shot me a sly smile, put the Chevy into drive and peeled off towards the exit, leaving my question hanging unanswered in the air. As he exited, I saw his black hat poke out of the window. His voice cut through the air one last time. Little Mouse That Roars has become Little Mouse That Hides Behind Fat Cats, I heard his laughter, so loud and abrasive it played over the Chevys muffler. And then he was gone. The monotonous Chevy, with a broken windshield and twenty odd years of history behind it disappeared in a cloudburst of prairie dust. How many dark corners of the world will both of our futures visit, huh Ravage? It was the unceremonious end of John Ravage and the beginning of my own journey. Alone in the cold parking lot, I was left to contemplate the degree of the insult. Great. Some people get an accredited tour guide. I get the fucking Indian from the antipollution commercials. Fifteen minutes later, a rented, comfortable, red Ford pickup leading the way, I raced south down Highway 90, made a quick left on Highway 29, the two lane blacktop that would take me northeast towards my destination, Esperanza Ridge. I had already pushed thoughts of Ravage, the box, and my grandfather back into the farthest reaches of my mind. Left in their place were anxious thoughts about the upcoming trial how far behind I had fallen on my work? How in the world was I going to get a murder conviction, I wondered? So focused was I in my ruminations that I failed to notice, in the course of my expedient driving, I had outraced the good stretch of weather and caught up with the narrow band of lowlevel Cumulus clouds I had spotted back at the rental lot. Not even a sudden increase in the wind speed, which pushed the truck across the asphalt like a Tonka toy, sending the steering
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column in my hands into an oscillated roll, pulled me out of my stupefied immersion. It was too late. For the clouds above, the box lying beside me, and myself. We were all locked on a true course towards Esperanza Ridge, a greatly maligned confluence of battered souls, scattered lost among the wind.
By the time I had finished exploring Esperanza Ridge, it was just past three oclock and the sun had begun to angle its way down the horizon, casting much of the rounded plateau in deep shadows. The previously brilliant blue sky had toned down to a duller shade of gray. The grassland thousands of feet below had lost much of its exquisite green luster. The endless stretch of prairie grass still swayed in rhythm with the passing breeze, but it no longer resembled the majestic, sea green waves that had danced across the lowlands at midday. The prairie substructure looked plain and beaten, as if a million buffalo had recently stampeded across it. A far off river meandered across the valley floor for miles, no longer glittering. In the fading sunlight it looked like a dead, harmless tropical snake. That was it, I thought. Everything around me looked and felt dead. I had spent the previous two hours searching the grounds, rooting thru the abundance of trees, peering underneath mountains of decaying detritus and tree fall, walking over large, unstable rock piles. I had even stumbled across a deep fissure in a sandstone wall that served as the entrance to a rogue cave, which led some twenty feet into the mountainside. But nothing! Not so much as a single clue had emerged to explain why my grandfather had wanted me to climb to Esperanza. I had put it off long enough. No more wasting time. The moment had arrived for me to open the box. Here goes nothing, I sighed. I walked back to the pickup, my eyes sweeping across the ridge in penlight focus and childlike wonder. Snow crunched underneath my plodding, incoherent footsteps. As nightfall approached and the suns powerful rays weakened, the last of winters snowfall hardened into a uniform blanket of ice, making it treacherous to get around. Nevertheless, I trudged onward, feeling the weight of the world crawling onto my shoulders. I removed my lambskin gloves and threw them into the long bed. I opened the trucks door. Looking down, I spotted my meager inheritance, lying innocuously on the passenger seat. I 108
reached out and grabbed the beautifully crafted mahogany box. Its weight was impressive, delicately balanced. I turned it over in my hands, inspecting the attractive dark-brown, interlocking grain. The box looked expensive, that much was apparent to me. The high luster and beautiful ostrich plume effect on the wood paneling marked the sign of professional craftsmanship. To my knowledge, my grandfather had never endeavored in the art of woodcraft; the probability that he had built the box himself was nil. Since the wood was not native to the area, the box must have been crafted somewhere far away, possibly Mexico or South America, where the eloquent Mahogany trees grew in forests so dense their branches often entwined. In any case, it was obvious he had gone through great expense in acquiring it for this occasion. I only hoped that the contents would justify the time I had wasted. Time was precious to me, a commodity I did not enjoy wasting. Because humans tended to measure life in blocks of timeeach second that ticked off the clock, each minute that courted an hour, each day that could not be recapturedhad to invariably master the illusion that was perpetual motion. In a fit betraying my calm, inner bearing, I hastily put my fingers to work unwrapping the boxs leather binding. It gave away almost immediately. When the binding was free and clear I reached to open the cover, only to feel a sudden chill, an invisible weight pressing down on the lid, and I drew my hand back into the cold. I spent the next few moments staring at the enigma resting on my lap, chewing nervously on my fingernails. I had visions of Pandoras box. I vacillated between thoughts of abandoning the task at hand to continuing, giving rise to the very real possibility that were I to proceed, I would likely unleash a stream of past ghosts into the physical world. For the greater part of the day, the box had nagged at my conscience, a silent passenger acting as co-pilot. A few times over on the drive, I had come close to breaking the unspoken, implied pact made between grandson and grandfather and relieved the box of its contents before reaching EsperanzaIn part because I wanted to get back to Oklahoma as quickly as possible, but also, and I was loathe to admit it, a large part of me was curious as to what the box contained. From mounting anticipation had emerged a nascent curiosity, which brought the night out to the cat, the cat in for the kill. However, since human eyesight is the precursor, the true illuminator of common sense, and the box could not escape my field of vision, I acted out by not acting. In the end, intellect got the better of my emotions and I was able to refrain from divulging 109
the box of its secrets. I faithfully observed the protocol placed upon my inheritance, and as a result, the past waited, boxed in. The pastThe past is a maiden with opposable, iron raven clawsReveling in her steely breath during the hot, torpid nights are untidy secrets ready to tear at the fabric of your very existence. With that thought in mind, it was not lost on me that if I did open the lid, exposing present day to the vacuum of the past, I would be setting a trial date with this fair (or should I say unfair) maiden. Inside that vacuum, inside her belly, lived secrets so corroded that to unearth them smacked of perfidy, bordered on the disturbing, even if it was my grandfathers dying wish that I do so. For some odd reason, humans are attracted to this nefarious creature. We ache for the past the way we seek the neon lights in a deserted alleyway when a stranger is following. With sheer persistence, we reach for the warmth it exudesin the dusty hallway mirrors of gutted tenements that once were our homes, a school bus full of children squealing to a stop in the rain, the bright windowpanes of the staid shops lining 5th Avenue. We provide the past a room inside our minds, a room whose synapses hold the key to a lifetimes worth of relationships. And from that moment on, it has access to everything. It flicks on at will the dim 50-watt bulb hanging from the rooftop of our minds, chicken wire exposed to the naked walls that line the corridors of our brains, the chemical compounds and intransigent electrical charges flooding the canals of reasoning, and what is left, if we are lucky, if we do not dwell too long on her parting lips, if we have lathered copious amounts of lubrication to the maidens rusted heart, is a person that has escaped, if only temporary, the clutches of efferent madness. I looked down. For such a small object, the box carried a lofty presence. Not an overbearing one, mind you, but not one to be taken so lightly, either. What to do with it? The answer came to me as the last sparkle of sunlight careened off the splendid wood and into the corner of my eye, bringing to light a sententious thought. It is impossible to presume the future. That much we are all aware of. It is common sense. But in the same line of reasoning, it is also practical to second-guess the past. And as far as I was concerned, inheritances left in the clutches of a small, mahogany box fell somewhere between the two. If I didnt like what the box spilled out, I could simply forget or discard it. Leave it here on the ridgelike it never existed. And Id go back to the strict set of guidelines that governed my life, back to the occupation that defined my
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personality, back to being an audacious attorney without fear of reprisals. I smiled slyly. It was a pleasure to have all your bases covered. Armed with that knowledge, my next course of action was made all that easier, and not even the gentle tickle of the coming night could dismiss it. I inhaled a deep breath. Tucking the box in the crook of my arm, I walked over to the north edge of the plateau, which afforded me an unblemished view of the low country. I sat down on a rock ledge, my legs dangling over the side, peering out into the encroaching darkness. The stillness of the prairie had an instant soothing effect on me. The twister had plowed through the lowlands and frightened away all signs of life for many square miles. The grounds had become an empty void that only time would fill. It was hard to imagine that less than one hundred and fifty years ago, hundreds of thousands of buffalo had wandered through the area, cutting wide swaths through the untainted tract of land. I wondered how many throughout the years had sought refuge among the island that was Esperanza, the rocky outcrop that dangled the promise of sanctuary to all the prairies creatures, winged or four-legged. How many buffalo had found protective ramparts within the thick tree line that hugged Esperanzas rugged coastline? Hundreds? Thousands maybe? Now, thanks to mans greed and incessant hunting, the buffalo were all but extinct. The great beasts that once formed the armature of the grasslands were no more. As they disappeared, so did the Indian settlements. And much of the wildlife. Each was dragged into compromised obsolescence. To the unseasoned observer, little of value remained: Stretches of grassland haunted by indiscriminate piles of calcified animal bones; scattered trees, leafless and deeply rooted, imploring the heavens for water; animal tracks pressed, fading in the soil, mislaid tributaries leading out from the pale heart; the vestiges of cowboy angels, ghostly riders haunting the full moon nights on horseback, lamenting the lost herds, riding thunderously over the vaunted grassland, the thick grass parting before them as they sought out life in the calm seas. The truth of the matter is thisreality cannot exist without its accompanying paradoxes, and in this case, the fact remains the miles and miles of lightly shaded grass, ground zero to much of the history of the American west, past home to a million American Indian hearts, ethereal residue for American lore, was nothing more than an accidental assemblage of species with similar responses to a particular climate. Kind of like humans, when you think about it.
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Only unlike humans, the troika of animal and plant species, along with the weather of the Great Plains has figured out a way to coexist. Lightning fires maintain the grassland where forest would otherwise prevail, assisting in the regeneration of pine trees. The animals assume a preordained pecking order where the strongest survive. Those that dont become a source of food, enriching the substratum for a myriad of wildlife ranging from mountain lions to turkey vultures. This was all done with marvelous simplicity and diplomacy. The species themselves, through munificent evolution, have learned to take the good out of the bad. These often-ignored specifics mark the foundation for the ecological community that is the Great Plains. The area was as simple as it was mesmerizing; as laconic as it was dangerous. Ironically it had taken the death of my grandfather to bring it all back to me. My grandfather. Black Crow of Midnight. That was his name. Thats what Ravage called him. How long had it been since that name had parted my own lips? Fifteen years at the least. Christ Almighty. How did I ever let that happen? The iron maiden was kind for a brief spell, opening her floodgates to the past. As the light bulb flickered to life, intensifying, I was able to conjure up in the spatial recesses of my memory a certain sequence of images derived from the night that I had last seen grandfather. I left the reservation in the waning weeks of a long, hot summer. It was nightfall. Yes, it was, I remember keeping the government people waiting outside in the black station wagon until the blazing, torpedo sun had dropped sufficiently enough to allow me to hose down Tracer one last time in the shade of twilight. As you already know, the choice to leave was mine and mine alone. And in retrospect, grandfather never voiced much of an objection. For fifteen years, I believed that he had let me go because he was too old, his body too effete to put up much of a fight. But now I realized that he just wanted me to be my own man, like my father before me when he enlisted in the Army. A man had to clear the path ahead of all dissonance, grandfather was fond of saying. As I picked up my suitcase and turned to leave, he commented that I had just made my first true decision of the many that would mark my long journey to manhood. Of course, he was oblivious to the fact that I had already made my initial decision a few weeks before, when I had unsuccessfully attempted to free Tracer. The damn horse just wouldnt take his freedom. What was I supposed to do? Stay and rot alongside him?
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With heavy footsteps, I walked over to the wagon, dropped my twin suitcases and turned to face him one last time. I remember him standing in the doorway of our home, filling the slim opening with his thick, rangy body. I remember his traditionally styled long hair, wrapped in red felt pigtails, hanging down to his waist. His broad, deeply lined face, lips set in a sad curl. The rosy skin around his cheeks drooped noticeably, accenting his sorrow. He came to me. As he walked, an undiminished fluidity was apparent in his graceful, powerful strides, and for an instant the spry steps made me think of a young, noble warrior, not a man who was about to commence his ninth decade of existence. He grasped my shoulder with a firm hand and said to me, Little mouse, do not forget who you are, or where you come from? Many of the people you will encounter at the school will force you to unlearn your native tongue, your native values. You must fight them. Be strong. And always be proud of who you are. I will keep a constant watch over you. That was the last time I ever saw him. For the record, it was also the last time we spoke. Leaving the reservation and grandfather behind had been easytoo easy in fact. As fate would have it, I never looked back. That decision, however crude as it may sound, was not made out of spite or festering hatred aimed toward him. When I left, I was young and scared. My mind was flush with the injurious vision of Tracer embracing his captivity and an even more appalling recognition that the vast majority of the people living in the reservation harbored that identical instinct. I guess it all boils down to a choice between life and death. Get busy living, or buy a decent couch. And all the soliloquies, haikus, the closing arguments, late night infomercials, the constant need to feel loved, and the hallmark cardsthey are distractions that prevent us from asking the right questions, from seeing the bigger picture. We are all prisoners of something. And nothing in the world can change that. Funny how things slip your mind, as you grow older, I thought. Lest you think that I am a man cast from the diehard mold of pure evil, one who spews out the undiluted venom of antilife, I would like to take this moment to inform you that I did, on one sole occasion, entertain thoughts of returning to the reservationalthough at this point, I dont expect that this intimation will help me score many points in your hearts. This moment of near quasi-contrition occurred about four years ago when I found out that Tracer was teetering on the 113
brink of death. The news of his deteriorating condition had come to me via one of my grandfathers letters. Though I half suspected some sort of ruse to get me to return, I wished to see my horseafter all these years I still considered him to be mine, how selfish was that of me?one last time, to ignite in the fragile cornea of his eye a spark of recognition that would light the candle in his mind. Understand, horses in general possess incredible memories. It is said they never forget a face. So naturally, I was curious to see if Tracer would remember me as the one who had ridden him out to the edges of many a state line, the one who had offered him freedom a lifetime before. I cant recall why I demurred and failed to return home, but the very fact that I cant remember tells me my reasoning could not have been all that important. Tracer died quietly in his stall at the age of twenty, alone and broken. I was hundreds of miles away. Unmercifully, I am still here, painfully living and touching each day the bright candlethe iridescent flame of hope that I failed to bring to an Appaloosa, and I hope that the day I draw my last breath, the light in my own eyes will flicker away in the same gaseous extinction, for in this world, that is the just punishment for abrogation. Ravage was right about one thing. Letting my Indian heritage slip away was the inevitable consequence of acculturation. One could argue that, within reason, the five years I had spent in The Wahsheton School turned out to be the final nail in the coffin of my Indian heritage. Ravage! Suddenly, I knew. Knowledge gleamed its fiery eye down upon me the way the sound barrier is greeted by high-speed rifle firethe sonic wave out in front propagating, caressing the metal projectile in voluminous lovemaking right up until the moment the bullet cracks through and syncopates the bond that made them one for a tiny fraction of a second. And in that instant, when truth and reality and time became meshed as a whole, when nothing was left to lose, everything came spilling out to the surface to converge. What good is knowledge if there is no heart behind it? The truth came to me like the bullet piercing the armored sound barrier in my brain. John Ravage! After all of these years, the mystery had suddenly cleared itself up. How did my grandfathers letters find me? They found me through the work of one manJohn Ravage. John Ravage was the constant hunter on my tail. Ravage, the man who was capable of lifting an angry snake with his 114
bare hands. Ravage, the man who could forecast the weather with uncanny acumen. Ravage, the man who once crawled through the barren landscape at night like Paul Revere to deliver light to a burgeoning cause. It had to be. It made perfect sense. Simply put, my grandfather had always been a step ahead of me. Having been well trained in the art of surveillance, Ravage would have had an easy enough time tracking my movements. It was Ravage, after all, who had walked up to me at the general store in Billings in an unwavering, confident manner, as if we were lifelong friends that had met just the day before. Yet, he had not laid eyes on me in a very long time. How was it possible then that he recognized me? Simple. Ravage knew what I looked like because he probably had numerous surveillance photographs of me. And most definitely, a file. I suddenly cringed, fighting back the bile that welled up in the back of my throat. Back in the car! What did he say? The census bureau used the term Native American as a tracking device used to keep inventory! And hadnt I been dutifully checking the box besides Native American all these years, on everything from student loans to car loans to the actual census itself. And didnt Ravage have in his possession a file on Thom and Avarice Lakes murder case, the case that I had been assigned. What did he say? What is in the file, and how the file came into my possession is not important. Of course he couldnt comment. He couldnt comment because he had acquired the file through his subversive connectionsa shadowy entity that was adroit at the art of warfare, a group of men and women that had forsaken conservative beginnings and turned reactionary. One group instantly came to mindAIM! Holy shit! I exclaimed. The school! The Wahsheton School! It had been forced to close down. Why? Someone, or some group, had sent recriminating photos to the Indiana legislature someone with a hidden agenda, who had something to gain by closing down the schools doors for good. Someone who valued the Indian way of life and sought to preserve it, by any means necessary. Someone who took the savagery that went on in there very, very personally. I will keep a constant watch over you. My grandfather echoed those words to me as I entered the wagon to leave for the school. As it turned out, he was true to his word. And just then I recalled the evil little glimmer that had shot up in Ravages eyes when he had broached the subject of the schools closing. I knew it right then and there. Ravageby 115
himself, with my grandfather, or working with AIMhad pulled all the strings like a master puppeteer. He was the driving force, the eye of the angry hurricane that had orchestrated the demise of an institution that had been around for nearly 100 years. After all, if AIM had bull-rushed the government into erecting a monument for the Sioux on the exact, sacred hillsight that honored Custer, then in my eyes, the closing of a school was mere small potatoes. John Ravage and AIM had been tracking my movements over the last fifteen years, from the Wahsheton School to law school to the commencement of my professional legal career in Oklahoma City. They hadnt been following the murder trial of Tom and Avarice Lake after all, as I had previously thought. Instead, in the course of tracing my whereabouts, they had inadvertently stumbled upon the trial. Unbeknownst to me, I had led them right to it! That was how my grandfathers letters found me so easily. A tracking device for the U.S. Census Bureau! John Ravagethe man I had believed to be a simpleton proved to be nothing more than an efficient, uncompromising tracking device devoted to AIM and to the preservation of the Indian Nation. Thus, the circle that Ravage had spoken about was now complete. Ravage to me, back to my grandfather in the reservation, and now back to Ravage. I had put forth a zealous effort throughout the years to shed my cloak of Indian heritage. In stark contrast, my Indian heritage had refused to abandon me. Two men made that possible. Two men were always there, looming in the shadows, ready to infuse my hemorrhaged veins with their lifeblood. Ill be damned, I said, scratching my head in wonder. Ravage you old son-of-a-bitch. We are all prisoners of something. I had uttered that phrase no more than a few moments ago. Yes. But only now did I garner respect for its true meaning. Some people are prisoners of love; others are prisoners of drugs and libation, while others yet still, become prisoners of their own devices. As for mewell, that was easyI was a prisoner of John Ravage. The question was why? Why was I so important to AIM? Why hadnt they allowed me to vanish into obscurity like so many Indians before me? Why?
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Was it because my Grandfather was dying and time was running out on a last reunion of sorts? No. That wouldnt explain the constant years of surveillance. Then what? Maybe, just maybe, I thought, the answer was sitting on my very lap, tucked away inside the mahogany box, hiding underneath its snug, form fitted, stately coverture. I pulled the lid away, setting it gently on the ledge next to me. Although the box was but nine inches deep, it was hard to discern its contents in the fading light. I reached in with a resolute hand, and from that moment on, there was no turning back; the skirmish line had been breached. The first item was made of cloth-like material. It had been folded into a neat square that matched the exact dimensions of the box. I pulled it out and unfurled it. It turned out to be a large shirt, deep tan in color. Upon closer inspection, I discovered the ornamentation of frill quillwork and painted symbols. Various shapes of eagles and bears emblazoned the front of the shirt in bright blue and red, running the entire length of the sleeves. The shirt was heavy for its sizethe cloth-like material turned out to be heavily fringed buckskin, and had been sewn together with sinew instead of thread. A dozen golden eagle feathers adorned each sleeve in a meticulously lined pattern. I recognized it instantly. It was my grandfathers ghost shirt; the one he had worn throughout AIMs occupation at Wounded Knee. I carefully fingered the rough texture of the leather, marveling at the explicitly detailed drawings. A slight smile appeared on my face. The shirt was one of my grandfathers proudest possessions, and to have received it meant a great deal to me. I reached over to a small overhanging tree branch and hung the garment, where it would be safe from the wet ground. The next item, on first inspection, was far less dramatic. It was a black rock, rough-hewn and sharp on the sides, and fit comfortably in my outstretched palm. Nothing special at all about it. I was about to toss it aside for the moment, and then stopped. My eyes blinked rapidly, unsure of the pinprick interplay of light and color that had just flashed in front of them. I brought the rock closer to my face. In the dying light, I could make out certain spots where the rock bore flecked patterns of yellow. I tossed it upwards in my hand, marveling at the rocks uncharacteristic density. It had the reassuring heft of a baseball. Then again, I reminded myself, rocks that nestled bold slivers of gold ought to feel as heavy as baseballs. 117
I brought the metallic lump closer to my face. I bit gently into it, my teeth acting like miniature pickaxes. I pulled away and spat out black grime. Left on the trailing edges of incisors and canines was a glorious mixture of metallic grit and saliva. My fingers rubbed away at the rocks surface with all of heavens fury, and after some time I succeeded in eroding away most of the black grind. I was amazed to find that the underbelly of the rock in fact, glowed a dullish yellow all over. It was gold, about five ounces worth if I had to guess. I turned it over one last time, and satisfied that it was genuine, tucked it into my breast pocket. I made a mental note to check out the price of gold on the commodities market once I returned home. The third item rested inside a red, velvet jewelry box, the kind old widows used to hide tennis bracelets, antique wedding bands and stock certificates. I pulled out a decorative medal. It was a gold, five-point star framed by a single band of shiny emerald, hanging off a skyblue ribbon imprinted with many white stars. On the front side of the medal, I read the word VALOR, which had been engraved just underneath an eagle with an open wingspan and what looked to be the profile of a Roman soldier wearing a crested helmet. It instantly dawned on me that what I was staring at was none other than the Congressional Medal of Honor. What the? I studied the aged medallion that dangled from my hand. It spun in ceaseless, fluid circles, the ribbon gently spread across five splayed fingers. Where had it come from? It wasnt my fathers. The only two medals he had received at Vietnam were The Purple Heart and The Bronze Star. Was it genuine, I wondered? It looked real enough, although not ever having actually held one, I had virtually no means to make a comparison. However, like the gold nugget, the medallion nurtured a measurable decorousness that instantly infused upon it a sense of erudition and authenticity. I placed the gorgeous medal inside my breast pocket, where it would reside, appropriately enough, right next to the gold nugget in a traditional meeting of the essences required to fuel the war machine: money and gallantry. The words of a famous general came to mind. You can start the war with one or the other, you can fight the war with one or the other, and you can even stave off defeat with one or the other, but in the end, to outlast the enemy, to reign victorious, both these elements must converge at an approximate 60-40 clipthe 60 of course, being on the money side. So much for faith in ones own soldiers. 118
The next article lay on top of a legal sized, white envelope, and therefore stood out abruptly. It was a black colored eagle feather, with a gleaming tip that looked as if it had been dipped in molten gold. It bore a striking resemblance to the feathers attached to the ghost shirt. The sole divergence seemed to be the age. This feather appeared much older, terribly frayed, and like a vintage Rolling Stones song, looked like it had been thru many battles. Someone had sliced a pair of jagged triangular cuts onto each side of the ten-inch shaft, four distinct, asymmetrical clefts that ran right down to the feathers pinnate rachis. As I ran my fingertips along the deep cuts, I could tell that a very sharp object, probably a straight razor had been used, as the feather vanes showed a distinct uniformity in the assault that had been committed against them. Someone proficient with the knife had obviously been involved. Maybe even someone who had scalped skins before. Could it be, I wondered? I ran the feather several times over an extended palm, slowly familiarizing myself with each slash, feeling pity at the way they interrupted the feathers otherwise unbroken silky texture. There was an obvious, unexpressed connotation present, but not one that I could recognize. It dawned on me, however, that the black feather, being the lightest of all the objects in the box, ironically carried more purposeful weight and meaning. I set the feather on my lap. One last object remained. And so far, I was no closer to finding that elusive resolution. Nothing of parenthetic value had been delivered into my hands. Exasperated, I reached into the box to pull out the final item, all the while praying that some merry prankster in AIM hadnt fashioned a rudimentary bomb underneath it as a sick joke. Taking a deep breath, I pulled out a harmless envelope and turned it over in my hand. The paper was expensive, of the heavy bond variety, light-honey in color. A circular dollop of black paraffin wax sealed the flap shut. Nothing else, no writing of any kind was present. I broke the seal and pulled out a sheaf of neatly folded stationary paper. The pages felt stiff, crisp in my hands. It was the infamous letter all right, an elegant manuscript written in black ink by grandfathers firm hand. At last, I said under my breath. It was time to proceed and put foolish things aside. I began to read: To Little Mouse That Roars: 119
Grandson. It has been a long time since I have called you by your true name. And longer still is the time since we have met face to face. If you receive this letter, Little Mouse, it means that any reunion between us is impossible. As I am writing these words to you, I sense that my time on this earth is nearing an end. I am a jicaque (ancient person), and it is time for me to leave and become a dweller of the spirit lake. My ni (life force) will leave me soon, but I have no doubts that it waits for me inside the great circle beyond. I will soon be part of this circle, although I am afraid that the circle can never be complete for me. That is because I failed you, Little Mouse. I failed you as a teacher and as a guardian. I failed you as an Indian. And I cannot let go of it. For it is fact that a warrior forever dwells on his disappointments. Many years ago, I allowed a young Indian boy to leave the reservation, expecting a strong Indian man to return one day to lead his people. This boy became a good student, raised in a government school, and eventually blossomed into an educated man. This man settled into a career as a lawyer. From what I have been told, he possessed the great gift of persuasion. And in his infancy, he used that gift to right the many wrongs of the wasicun (white man). How proud I was of that man and all that he accomplished. But the man never returned to the reservation. He turned his back on his people. The boy that grew up among the atsina (white clay people), nestled among his poison streams, turned his face away from the current that carried his proud heritage. And when he reached maturity, the boy no longer remembered what it was to be an American Indian. He became an Omaha (people that go against the current). That boy was you, Little Mouse. And the man you became now sits on the distinguished seat of judgment. And from that very chair, you judge your own kind. And every action you commit betrays the white Christian name you have chosen for yourselfJustice. It is with great sadness that I write this letter, because I wished to speak to you of these matters 120
in person. But alas, my time left on earth could not match your obstinacy. You would not return my letters or acknowledge our bond as family. Not once did you return home. Not even for your horse, which you loved so much. But it is never too late for change. There are many seasons in us all. This is why I still carry a basket of tunatya (hope). I will not fail you again, Little Mouse. This is my last chance to instill in you what I failed to do all those years ago. There are those in our circle that say that I should let you go, to cast your memory onto the prairie wind so that your poison will be scattered and commit less damage. But I believe the greatest damage has already been done. And it has been done to your soul. And it is up to me to undo it. This is the reason I wished for you to have your last contact with me on the sacred rock that is known to the Ogllala as EsperanzaEsperanza, the Spanish word for hope; Named so after the many Spanish horses that took refuge there as the ranchers and gold diggers encroached the Great Plains, seeking to capture and tame all the wild horses for their own needs. Little Mouse, you were born a Sioux Indian, of the Ogllala tribe. For the first part of your life, you made The Pine Ridge Reservation your home. You have forgotten this, as you have forgotten how the Sioux nation was born. But I will remind you. Many years ago, there was a great flood upon the western plains. Many tribes came to the hills to escape these waters. But the waters rose, and many people drowned. And then miraculously, a golden eagle appeared in the bluest of skies, flying so low a woman caught its feet and was carried far away to a great rock, which rose above the floodwaters. The eagle placed her gently on the rock, and on this rock, she gave birth to twins, fathered by the great bird. And from those twins, a new tribe was born. This tribe soon became Tatanka oyate (Buffalo Nation). Vast in numbers, we inhabited the Great Plains for many years. We hunted tatanka by day, and slept under the wimimula (round moon) at night. It all started upon the simple rock that I hope you are now standing as 121
you read this letter. Yes, Little Mouse, Pine Ridge was our home, but Esperanza Ridge is the birthplace of all Indians. When you left me on that night fifteen years ago, I sensed a nascent betrayal growing in your heart. The white man has left a terrible legacy on the Indians of the past and you are no exception. He claimed you among his ranks. But the injustices imposed on you by government teachers were not the first to be celebrated by the white Europeans, and they will not be the last. The white man has many years left to practice his art of ruthlessness. Lost in the shadows of his inconsistency, the white man has failed to learn a valuable proverb To create or destroy is the ultimate evolution of choice. And nowhere is that choice more apparent than in the bloody legacy he has left behind in the Great Plains. We have seen it time and time again, this illogical seduction of annihilation. Well, it is time to undo this grand foolishness. And it must start right here with you. You will notice that I have left several items to your care. By themselves, they prove nothing, although they do contain great historical value as well as sentimental. The truth be told, these items belong in a museum. Their value to collectors is incalculable, as you shall see in the next paragraphs. But I place them in your hands, Little Mouse, with the hope that you do the right thing with them. These items I left for you can piece together the little boy that you left behind, or they can make the present man very rich. As I stated before, to create or destroy is the ultimate choice that faces us all. The time has come for you to choose. Many years ago, when your father passed away, you chose me as your new father, and I in turn embraced you as a new son. I raised you to be proud of your Indian heritage, even if the Indians of present day do not have much to be proud of. Even though we have not spoken, Little Mouse, I have followed your career with earnest. In the past, I have told many people of your success, and that you would one day return to work with AIM and 122
make us proud. They return my comments with laughter. They tell me that I am wrong; that you are working with the government to condemn your fellow Indian brothers to death. And you are doing this for no other reason than to build a foundation to your career. I recall when you were a small boy; I took you many times to the prairie to hunt wild rabbits. I taught you how to read the tracks they left behind in the snow. I showed you how the rabbit ran, using his fore and hind limbs in perfect unison. We watched together behind a rock as a young snow leopard chased a rabbit through the snowdrifts. You wagered me the rabbit would get caught. And I told you that although the rabbit appeared frail, he was very deceptive. And clever. And as we waited together, the rabbit shook free, and the leopard tumbled into the drifts. And you could not believe your eyes. You picked up an Inyan (common stone) in your hand and threw it in disgust at the rabbit. I explained to you the rabbit escaped because he used the leopards momentum against himself. You did not forget this lesson, Little Mouse. In just a few seasons, you became a remarkable hunter. I impressed upon you mans relationship with animals. How we were both equal in the eyes of Wakan Tanka, and respect had to be given. And here we are, so many years later, and I realize that when I taught you to track animals, I taught you only too well. For now you have become the most feared hunterone who hunts his own kind. And from what Ive been told, the prairie grass is always full with prey when you are on the hunt But beware of the circle. One day, in the shadow of your dreams, the rabbit will visit you, and he will use your own momentum against yourself. And your hunting days will be at an end. And, I pray Little Mouse that the hunt will not have left you a defeated man, as it has for many Indians. This letter is my last hope. Tunatya is all that I have left. It is what has kept the Indian tribes going ever since the Europeans arrived. Hope, at one time or another, has come to us in many forms. Hope darkened the earth with the intensity of many buffalo. And, sometimes it came disguised in the 123
might of the pen; The Fort Laramie Treaty of 1868 promised that the United States would leave the Indians be, and would not pursue war or Indian lands. This treaty granted the Indians eternal rights to the Powder River Country and the Black Hills. This treaty was ratified in the court of law in the same manner that foreign treaties were ratified, yet under the precept Might makes right the government broke it. They dashed what little hope we had left the day they went back on their word. And for what? The answer lies in front of you. It is to be unearthed from the box that I left in your care. Let us begin with the golden rock, for it is the crux of betrayal. It was tilled long ago from the soil of the Black Hills. The white man discovered gold in the Paha Sapa (Black Hills) in 1872, four years after they had signed the treaty that gave us those hills. Settlers and miners invaded the territory with a vengeance, searching the sacred hills and clear streams for the bright yellow metal. This was an act tantamount to a declaration of war upon the Indian people, who had every right to defend their land and did so after Washington ignored our many protests. Leading this migration was none other than Pahuska (General Custer), who during the Moon of Red Cherries led many soldiers into the territory through what would later be called Thieves Road, in order to protect the miners. He established camps and ran the flag of the United States up his flagpoles, in stark defiance of the treaty. In the end, the land proved too rich and valuable for the white man to abandon. Congress would not uphold the treaty and sent many columns of soldiers into the hills to squander all Indian resistance. The year was 1875. They took the Black Hills from us and destroyed our tribal government. And in the process, they inadvertently laid the foundation for the Battle at Little Big Horn one year later. The cache of gold from the Black Hills was so exorbitant that miners used it in everyday trading. It was not uncommon for a man to trade a small nugget for a bottle of corn whiskey. My own father acquired the nugget that now lies in your hand, 124
trading for it his hunting bow and a quiver of arrows made of buffalo hide. Even on my deathbed Little Mouse, I find it incomprehensible that the end of the Indian nation came not from disease or famine or war, but from the rich bounty that belonged to the earth, not to the white man as he laid claim to. This yellow metal marked the end for us. And the end of the plains Indians was not quick and honorable, but long and drawn out, the dying wail of a death song carried on the highest of winds. The poetry and romance of our long lasting struggle vanished, and in its place, it was a band of bedraggled creatures looking not like proud warriors, but much like escaped prisoners that met Custer at Big Horn and finally, at the massacre at Wounded Knee in 1890, which turned out to be the coda of Indian resistance. From that moment on, the U.S. government eloquently morphed our defeatism into a diaphanous program of indoctrination that forced all remaining Indians to assimilate into a hostile culture. The wars of the plains are Americas Iliad, Little Mouse. Never forget that. Crazy Horse fought Custer among the wild plum and crab apple blossom. But bitter was the taste of victory when it should have lingered long and sweet. The years after were marked with bitter defeats and many tragedies. I was a young infant at Wounded Knee, so I cannot speak directly as to the tragedy that occurred on that frozen ground. What I do know is that life is cruel, and is not without its sense of irony. It was the victory over General Custer at Little Big Horn that gave the Indians false hope. In the end, it proved to be our final victory of The Great Plains Wars. It led to further heartbreak and sorrow. It led in the direction of Wounded Knee. And after Wounded Knee, the white mans power could no longer be reigned in. When I was old enough, I revisited the sight at Wounded Knee where the missionaries had long ago gathered the frozen dead in wagons and buried them in a communal pit. The dead included women and children, who were shot down like so many buffalo. My own mother, as you are now probably aware of, was shot down. Many Indians were buried in their ghost shirts, which they had believed would 125
ward off evil spirits and stop the bullets. If you choose to visit Wounded Knee in the future, Little Mouse, you will feel the lingering presence of the spirits. They will rush in and put their arms around you. They cannot leave this earth until justice comes to free them. Soon after the battle, twenty Congressional Medals of Honor were given to the soldiers of the 7 th Cavalry who perpetrated the massacre. Congress, it seems, could not act fast enough in rewarding their soldiers with the mantle of heroism. As so many things happen, the massacre at Wounded Knee made the circle complete. The latter day 7th Cavalry avenged the death of General Custer fourteen years earlier. It seems that even in death, Little Mouse, revenge has a way of leaking out of the cold earth to hide among the living. One of those medals now lies in your hands, Little Mouse. Legend has it that one of the soldiers, perhaps full of shame and awareness, returned to the sight many years after and placed the medal at the grave sight. Many people say that he spent the day alone, weeping. Some say that his spirit was broken, and he had become yet another victim of that cold December day. Whether that is true or not, it is not for me to judge. But the medal of his dishonor now belongs to you. It is up to you to do the right thing with it. Tell me, when you look at it, what do you see, Little Mouse? Do you see it as a rare treasure to be valued? Does it feel good in your hands? Around your neck? Will you find the soldiers family and offer it to them along with your consolation? Or will you take it back to Wounded Knee and place it on the gravestone, where it belongs, buried alongside our ancestors? And what of the other nineteen medals? What stories do they tell? Can you find it in your heart to seek them out? I know it is possible, because tracking is a pastime that suits you well. Can you explain to nineteen families that the object they are holding onto is anathema to the spirits that still haunt Wounded Knee? With that said, let us turn our attention to the ghost shirt. It was given to me by Red Cloud, himself, a very long time ago. Red Cloud was a great warrior, and on one occasion, returned from 126
war, dazed and bleeding, a Crow arrow protruding from his side. He was wearing this very shirt. If you look closely, you will find a tear in the fabric, the spot where the arrow penetrated. Red Cloud later claimed that it was the magic of this shirt that had shielded him from an early visit to the afterlife. In this respect, I believe him. I wore this shirt oftentimes as the reservation encountered turbulence during the mid seventies. It was an inimical time, and as John Ravage will attest, the shirt helped me outlive The GOON Squads on an occasion or two. Red Cloud was a great man, and he gave the Indians great pride. He was one of the first to forecast the doom that the white man would bring to the plains people. When the white man offered the Indians money in exchange for the Black Hills he warned us all, If you wish to possess the white mans things, you must begin anew and put away the wisdom of your fathers. And when your house is built, the store rooms full, you must look around for a neighbor whom you can take advantage of. When the others spoke of war, Red Cloud preached peace between the two nations. He knew the Indian nation would never emerge victorious. The whites outnumbered the Indians by a vast amount. He likened them to the stars. Never count the stars because the impossibility of counting them makes it a foolish past-time. No matter. Many times I find myself alone in my house. When the darkness comes, I go outside, settle into my chair, look up at the sky and I begin to count the stars. Because I know if someone tries hard enough, if the night bleeds long enough, the day will eventually arrive when the stars are all accounted for. And then it will be safe for the remaining Indians of the earth The feather I have enclosed belonged to an unidentified Santee warrior. Many Indians believe that it was this Santee who killed the golden haired general at Bighorn. The feather is part of Indian tradition known as Counting Coup, given to a warrior for his deeds on the battlefield. This feather was given to the Santee in 1876, just after the battle at Big Horn. 127
You will find it ironic that these Indian coups are tantamount to the medals and stripes the government bestowed upon their own soldiers. I presume that in some ways, especially on the battlefield, we were very much alike. The feather has four jagged notches cut into it, which means that at some point in the battle, this particular Santee committed at least four acts worthy of receiving coup. Unfortunately, this also means that he scalped one of the soldiers Such an atrocity, and I do not condone it, but as I mentioned before, our warriors grew to have much in common with their counterparts, the government soldiers. The scalping was the inevitable reaction to many years of oppression and bloody transgressions imposed upon our people. I have kept these things with me throughout the years, not as souvenirs of a great victory, but as a constant reminder that anyone is capable of committing such violence. And worse still, are the rewards reaped upon those that commit these acts. And as long as I had this feather in my possession, the blood of remembrance remained on my hands. Remember Little Mouse, that for every victory there is a terrible humiliation imposed upon a human life. After your trial is over, will you celebrate the fact that two more Indians have been wiped away from this earth? The white man surely will find ways to congratulate you. Or will you claim this feather as your own battle coup? I have carried these artifacts with me for the greater part of my life. And now, as the hour is late, I entrust them to you, Little Mouse, because I know that the spirit of our ancestors still breathes somewhere deep inside you. The time will come when you will have to decide what to do with them. You cannot lock them away in your closet forever. You do not realize it, but the last fifteen years of your life have been a prolonged vision quest. Hopefully, this letter, this excursion to Esperanza will be the final answer to that vision quest. May they each serve as a spark to remind you of who you once were. Remember what I said about choosing between creation and destruction. If I have done well my job as your guardian and instilled within you a sense of 128
decency, then this choice will come easy. This is your chance to make good with your life. The choices you will face in the next few weeks will mark the rest of your life. In the meantime, with what little time I have left, I will pray for your soul and hope that you do not become as the man who was turned into a nighthawk, cursed to perpetually grasp at shadows. No matter what your choice may be, long ago I made the choice to love you forever. We will see each other in the next life and laugh about all of this. Forever your loving grandfather, Black Crow of Midnight
For the longest time, I didnt move. I did nothing except breathe. I sat statue-like on the ledge, stuck in a trance, staring down at the vast, open basement far beneath my dangling feet. Long after I had finished reading the letter, I still clutched it in my hand, unable to put it down. A sober mask had slipped over my face. Visions of my grandfathers own weathered face flooded the internal banks of my mind. I remained awestruck, a sponge soaking in lifes alkaline lesson. This small, wooden container, being no bigger than a shoebox, holding very little yet at the same time so much, had unlocked the door to my imaginationa door that had succumbed long ago to the law of inertia and sent me on a frenzied drive for perpetual motion. I wasnt sure what to make of things. On the one hand, I had my grandfathers letter, which, coupled with Ravages incessant, sanctimonious preaching, had enlightened me to subjects I had long ago ignored or pushed deep into the cavities of my mind. Both men had used the gentle persuasion and firm manner of the great poets, sparing me the boisterous courtroom theatrics I was so accustomed to. Their comparative rhetoric had acted not like a collective assault on my senses, but more like the sublime, prickling of an intrusive thorn that had somehow lodged itself inside my shoe. Being an attorney first, however, the analytical side of me sprung into immediate action. Like clockwork, my mind charged into overdrive; the essence of my courtroom persona was now on full display. Time was the issue at hand; or should I say, the 129
lack of. The absence of this precious commodity had been plaguing me ever since I had taken the red eye the night before. I suddenly felt very tired. My body grew limp, lifeless. A dull ache charged into each muscle. My body was no longer the lean mechanism that had started out on this excursion. My eyelids grew heavy and coarse. I fought to keep my eyes focused, in the game. The Lake brothers and the trial suddenly seemed so far awayAnd unimportant! I didnt know if this was due to newfound perspective, physical exhaustion or creeping humanism. What I did know was that a nascent plan had begun to formulate inside my head. There it was nurturing itself, trying to make the transition from a tiny white light of an idea to an act of overt, concrete brilliance.
It was nightfall. The sun had slashed its way across the horizon in broken intervals. I sat transfixed, bathed in a beautiful, golden arena. The dimming, blood red mass wavered ever so slightly, halting every few minutes, as if it wished to reveal one last secret before it quietly slipped away for the night. The stars were busy arranging themselves to their assigned constellations. Although my astronomy was shaky, I easily made out the emerging North Star and its accompanying group that formed the Big Dipper. With each passing moment, the field of stars intensified in brightness, spilling a blanket of luminescent softness over Gods playground. In a few hours, the prairie would be center stage for a brilliant display of optical prestidigitation. It was hard to fathom that 15 billion years ago, an explosion expanded the universe from the size of a pinhead, occurring with such precision that, had the atomic mixture been altered in the slightest within the first microsecond, the planets, moon, and stars would never have come together; another testament to just how fragile the connection was between all organic things. I held my breath, hoping to witness the birth of a star or some other primordial sequence of exploding gases. No such luck. God had no miracles scheduled for the night. The twilight sky, the fragile partition hanging between heaven and earth, merely spun in rote rotation over the earth, shifting the constellations using preordained geometry known only to itself. I took the piece of gold and the Medal of Honor from my breast pocket and placed them back in the box, right alongside the feather, which I had wrapped inside a piece of protective cloth. The metallic rock was cold to the touch, a reminder that I 130
needed to find my gloves in case the weather turned severe. I stuffed the letter in my breast pocket and moved the box away from the ledge, ensuring that it would not accidentally keel over into the abyss below. I stood up, located the Ford and began to walk over. I stumbled around in the twilight, picking my way over patches of ice, deviating out of necessity from my previous path. It was by pure happenstance that I stumbled upon the tracks. I looked down, startled. The blood in my arteries retreated, becoming an instant ice age. My eyes grew wide as they methodically registered an undeniable trail of paw prints that led in a southerly direction, paralleling the ridge face for about twenty yards before disappearing into the thick strand of trees near the trail head. From my experience, I knew the tracks had been laid by a large animal, quite possibly a hungry carnivore, which was probably lurking somewhere nearby at this very moment. In the twilight, I knelt down in the snow to further study the prints. Despite the scarcity of light, I quickly took notice of a few peculiarities. The prints were in a pristine stateprobably no more than two or three hours old. Had they been left even earlier that morning, they would have already begun to melt, as the sky had been largely cloudless and the sun had shone fairly bright throughout the day. A thirteen-inch gap separated the left side prints from the right side prints. They were asymmetrical in nature and noticeably disparate in size. The imprints left behind by the animals hind legs were about three inches in length, two inches shorter than those left by the fore limbs. The toe prints on the larger prints were well formed and spread out; the toes on the smaller prints were attenuated and imprecise. The tracks however, had been laid out carefully, methodically. The imprints left in the snow were fully developed and evenly spaced, a tell tale sign that the animal responsible for leaving them had not been in much of a hurry. He had no doubt sifted through the trees and the rocky terrace like a gold prospector funneling a river stream through a sieve, sniffing out corporal odors, keenly inspecting the very trail that I had left behind with as much curiosity as I had revealed upon discovering his. Hurriedly, I searched through the Rolodex of my memory. In seconds it snared the animal responsible for the prints. A wolf! It had to be, and a large one judging from the size of the prints. At least four years old, which left it one birthday shy of the mortality rate. With a little luck it would be a gray wolf,
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an animal so uncommon that reported contact with humans was rare. I suddenly grew nervous, recalling Bergmanns rule of increased body size. Animals that lived in northern latitudes were far larger than their southern counterparts. And more proficient at hunting, I thought to my chagrin. Yet for some odd reason, I wasnt frightened. What I felt could be fairly described as acute self-awareness. It had crept up inside of me, this onrush of adrenaline, the moment I had first laid eyes on the tracks. And in complete truth, it was exactly what I had needed to pull me out of the doldrums. I was beginning to slough off my weariness and feel alive again. I struggled to recall a shred of the many wolf lectures grandfather had made me sit through in the past. Like Ravage, grandfather knew the wolfs characteristics and mystique inside out. So knowledgeable was he in wolf lore, so in tune with this feral creature was he, in fact, that many times as a child, I had looked into the black, hollow pit of his eyes and believed him to be an indirect descendent of the lean, dweller of the plains. They tended to move quietly, he had said, so it was plausible that the wolf had snuck up on me even as I explored the ridge. Was I being hunted? I broke out into a sudden, cold sweat. I had always viewed myself as a predator, and even extracted great pride out of the fact. But suddenly, I found myself on the other side of the predatory fence. Never had I felt at such a disadvantage. In a delusional moment, I considered fashioning a rudimentary weapon, but the only object that came to mind was a tree branch. To get one, I would have to walk over to the very tree line that had swallowed up the wolfs tracks and wander about in the blind of night, rooting through the trees. And as insanity had yet to touch me sufficiently enough for me to embark on that adventure, I forgot about the weapon and instead chalked up another win for the side of the defense, who in this case happened to be my secretive, four-legged stalker. I stood paralyzed, gazing at the thick copse of trees that stood barely a hundred and twenty feet in front of me. In the dark, the line of growth seemed shadowy, foreboding. The nighttime forest had come to life in full stereo. Leafless branches broke under the weight of God-only-knew-what, crackling like shotgun blasts; armies of birds chirped softly, bedding down for the night. The wind rustled through the cavern of wooded tree trunks and boles, sending strange grousing noises to my ears. Somewhere far off, I heard dripping sounds as the last of the winter snow melted off to vertical 132
rivulets that trickled down the sheer rock faces of Esperanza, the final tears of a long winter expelled. If the wolf was indeed hiding within the thicket and chose to attack, I would not hear his approach until it was too late. No matter how I looked at it, my hands were empty, my mind being the only weapon in sight. I was easy prey and that unmitigated fact did not sit well with me. While I was down I was not out entirely. I had one advantage over the wolfthe ability to think and decipher his weaknesses. Think fast, I told myself. The wolfs sense of hearing and smell were among the most acutely developed in the animal kingdom. So chances were, he was already aware of my presenceas I was aware of his. That was a plus for my side. The tactic of surprise had just been robbed from us both. The only difference was, I knew it and the wolf didnt. Unlike the wolf, whose night vision was far superior to mans, I was traveling blind. At this moment, I was probably resting in the crosshairs of his sensitive retinas, as he lay still in the brush, a patient sniper encumbered in a concealing thicket of blackness. I imagined forest eyes lathering me over, sizing me up for the kill. Was it possible? Was this animal capable of attacking a human being six feet tall, weighing in at one hundred and eighty pounds of prevoyant recoil? I was skeptical, yet refused to cross over to the side of overconfidence. Another plus in the column. I was remembering grandfathers lectures in batches now. For all of his physical attributes, the wolf lacked fundamental common sense. He was notorious for using poor judgment. Hadnt a fair number of common wolves limped into the reservation throughout the years, their limbs shattered from illconceived attacks on larger animals? And hadnt Ravage himself pointed out the pronghorns injuries earlier that day? That deer, although a juvenile, would have still weighed in at at least two hundred pounds, slightly heavier than myself. I shuddered, pondering the ramifications that had just been shed to light. I had just answered my own query. Owing to my relatively small stature and the wolfs blatant lack of sagacity, I was fair game. A big minus on all columns. Like the Indians whom they shared the Great Plains with, wolves were known to tenaciously defend their territory, oftentimes to the death. Had I inadvertently stumbled upon his domain? Was Esperanza his home? Likely. Recalcitrant to hibernation, the wolf was a constant dweller of the deserted, winter landscape. From the great vantage point of Esperanza, he could conceivably stalk his 133
victims at will using behavioral patterns passed to him through lineage. Indians had their war paint and battle cries. The wolf had fur and stealth. Behind the camouflage of a silvery-white coat, which grew to formidable thickness as the thermometer dropped, the timorous wolf had established dominance over the terrain. Wolves laughed at severe snowstorms, scoffed at bitter cold spells, two elements that brought man easily to his knees. Using this dialectical approach, it was only natural that the wolf would leapfrog man as the mighty hunter of Esperanza, and man in turnin this case, mewould be reduced to the weak link, anathema, falling into the unenviable spectrum of the hunted. No matter. My weakened position aside, man still loomed as the wolfs one true enemy. Twentieth century civilization had all but made obsolete the howl of the wolf, just as a hundred years earlier, it had made the war cry of the Sioux an anachronistic memento. I followed the wolf tracks warily, inching my way towards the trees, my eyes and ears ever vigilant. I looked down, puzzled. The compass had somehow materialized in my hands. I couldnt recall the exact moment when I had pulled it out. But there it was, wrapped like a baby in the blanket warmth of fingers. Although it was useless, I kept it there, comforted by the cool, reassuring weight that pressed into the palm of my hand. In some strange way, the compass conjured up the illusion that I had found strength, and suddenly I didnt feel vulnerable anymore. I heard a loud crash in the underbrush ahead. Some inexplicable force put my feet into motion. They forced me forward towards the tree line, even as my mind begged them to backtrack. Rapidly, without thinking, I closed the distance between the tree line and myself to no more than ten yards. A slight respite as the wind died down, and in the ensuing silence I again heard the noise; I was able to focus all of my attention on a small area. I gave my eyes a few seconds to adjust to the low lighting before proceeding. Human eyesight was not particularly acute to night vision, but in detecting movement, it went unparalleled in the animal kingdom. If there was an animal lurking out there, I would not allow it to hide from me. I paused, scanning a gap in the trees to my left. I caught a quick flash of silver-white movement, as if the snow itself had come to life and taken flight. My eyes remained perched in a continuous tracking shot. First there was nothing. Only ink black trees, existing in even greater darkness, the naked branches swaying forward in the breeze, coal-black limbs reaching out for the bleakest ends of 134
my soul. And then slowly but surely, my wolf revealed himself to me. He separated himself from the black void, nudging forward at a snails pace as his natural curiosity overcame his shyness. He now faced me, his body a few inches out in front of his wooded canopy. A square muzzle, whitish-gray in color, sloped upward to reveal large, black, eight-ball eyes that glared at me through the trees; soulless, bottomless pits that abrogated light, resenting my presence, for I represented the cruel race that had forced him to live in this obsolete palace of ice. I made rapid mental calculations. Just twenty feet and a few seconds now separated us. Every inch of my body was calibrated to the tuning fork of survival. Every subsequent step I took would be measured in microseconds, while every breath the wolf engulfed, in contrast, would be drawn out at great length, for he was well versed in the art of hunting, and the thick coat he boasted was waterproof, adept at shrugging off the impatience of amateurs. And then rising above the high-pitched winds, I heard ita guttural, infernal, growling. At first it was soft, almost imperceptible. Seconds later, though, the pitch increased to an angry rumble that, I considered somewhat madly, was not all unlike the V-8 engine in Ravages Chevy. And since I had been lured to sleep once before by those comfortable vibrations, I had to remain extra wary that my mind would not lose its edge the momentum of continuous thought. If the wolf acted first, I didnt want to freeze in my tracks. And since what I had just been given was tantamount to a final warning, this likelihood was very real. I braced myself. I told myselfNo!I persuaded myself that I was ready. I froze anyway. Even as the wolfs head and shoulders broke the tree line and he squared off to me in a discomforting prefight stare down, his appallingly deep black eyes never wavering from my throat, I found myself stuck in the quicksand of indecision. What the hell was I doing? I assessed the insanity of the situation I was orchestrating. By holding my ground, I was forcing the wolf to defend his sanctuary. And in the process, by acting as the aggressor, I was painting myself into the corner of reprisals. To impede any further suddenly seemed stupidly criminal. I stumbled backwards, putting distance between the tree line and myself. I kept my eyes locked on the wolf, which had by then taken a courageous step forward, and was now standing completely out in the open, the tree line three feet behind him. 135
Funny the things one thinks of while trying to extricate himself from a self-imposed, virulent situation, but in my eyes, the wolf suddenly lost his entire hostile demeanor. Maybe it was the winters leanness that clung to his frame like saran wrap or maybe it was the way his tail hung down sadly between his hind legs, wagging meekly, but the urge to run and hide suddenly vanishedand in its place emerged an almost irresistible urge to approach the wolf and run my hands through his voluminous fur. The seconds hung frozen between us; as I tried to formulate a rational plan, my clumsiness emerged to free the moment of all restraints. The wolf leaned forward suddenly, a moist nose poised delicately in the air, sniffing out the very essence of the intruder, when my nerves shot off a systemic reaction that saw me take a blind step backwardright into a stagnant pool of water! My foot made an abrupt splashdown in slushy runoff that proved to be about nine inches deep. The icy bottom caused me to slip and slide, and as I twirled my arms side to side in an awkward effort to keep my balance, my boots like two oversized coffee stirrers churning the cold water to a murky consistency, the compass fell from my hands and splashed down into the waters covetous reach. The wolf in kind, responded by crashing back into the safety of the brush. A wave of equal parts relief and anger overcame me. I hoped I hadnt scared him off for good. Thats just fucking great! I snarled. Bending down at the waist, my bare hands dove into the water, sifting madly in a blind effort to recover the compass. The water was cold. Very cold! The sudden thought of frostbite pushed aside the wolf in my list of top things to worry about. My hand soon bumped into a foreign object. I rolled back my sleeves and reached deep into the pool. My face dropped low to the water as my fingers corralled the object. I snatched the compass, saving it from a rusted, lonely ending. As my face pulled back from the mirthless film, I caught a reflection building on the waters surface tension. There it lingered evanescently, disappearing a moment later when my hand, acting as a separate entity, dipped in and began to stir the water in gentle circles. A long moment was conceded before I realized that the face that had stared back at me was none other than my own. The water became still again. The reflection of pure, radiant evil returned. I watched, mesmerized in the faint light, as the face came together in pieces. Heavy lines grew on the countenance like telltale horns. A sudden breeze cast miniature 136
ripples over the pool. The face undulated weakly in the waters near-languid motion. The light particles that made possible this reflection spilled open and scattered throughout the water, pertinent homage to the laws of light. When the water calmed, the colors returned once more, gliding selflessly onto the glassy mirror, moving in the same languorous manner as water does when it is near freezing. Like it or not, this was my face, my constant companion; the lines of despotism it had long cultivated now appeared to be a permanent fixturewe will call it the facial hair of miscreants. I brought my hands to my face in innocent wonder, trying to stifle the reflection. I imagined a heart that lay broken beneath that surface, pumping the lifeblood of hate with great efficiency. This ugly emotion had kept the vessel burning for far too long. An unrelenting, stalwart, physical and emotional presence, it had come to me long ago, a vanquishing power disguised as a best friend. I felt a sudden wave of nausea overpower me. I dropped to my knees. Beads of sweat trickled down the creases on my forehead. My core temperature shot up, and for one insane moment, as the candle blazed deep inside the hearth, I considered ripping my shirt off. I fought to repel the pressure inside of me but it had gone unchecked for so long, restraining it was all but impossible. When the ugliness emerged from within, it came bullet fast. I tossed my head forward and vomited a thin stream of odorless bile into the pool. Moments later, after the last ounces of decadent matter had been expelled from my esophagus, I lifted weary eyes and vermouth mouth from the carnage. I gasped for breath. Peering down, I noticed the reflection had vanished, to where I neither knew nor cared. The nausea, however, continued unabated. My stomach heaved once more in a valiant effort to expel the ugliness from within me. Nothing came out but a thin hacking of air. I had to spit several times to remove the last of the vituperative poisons. When I was finished, my body was free at last. It took a great deal of effort to quell my trembling body, but I soon had limbs and organs under control. My breathing became more natural, responsive. After that I felt well enough to move around. But I had to first find water. The dry heaving had left me dehydrated and thirsty. I walked over to a nearby snowdrift and extracted a handful of fresh, clean snow. I pressed the white purity to my lips, savoring the exotic taste. From somewhere within my deeply ravaged memory, sharp ice flows of the past emergedvisceral layers of uncontaminated moments piled high, sweet tidal
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blossoms that only the purest form of snow was capable of dredging up. I swallowed a thin shard of ice. Winter slid down my throat, a surgeons scalpel that sliced deep into the walls of my heart. Downward it went, quenching next the ball of fire that resided in my stomach. The scalpel reached in and tore out the portion of my soul filled with absolute decay. I did not realize it, but a serendipitous metamorphosis was taking place inside my body. Out here in the capricious esplanade of solitude, I was experiencing a gradual process of dying, and with it came the natural process of healing. It was a beautiful progression, this commingling of spiritual entities, blushing with symmetry, growing with swift immunity over my skin and bones Silence obliging solitude. Sentience overcoming simplicity. Sagacity obtaining solubility. The under volt of electricity passed through me, from skin to hair to organ, rejuvenating my body with the fury of a lightning strike. My grandfather used to say that lightning was nothing more than heaven reaching down to the earth to unify in a passionate kiss. At that moment, that was exactly what I felt. I had made a deal with my new self, a pact sealed by the coppercoiled kiss of ages. Yet at that moment, as I basked in this ascension, I could think of nothing else but the wolf. Where was my black-eyed wolf? My black-eyed wolf that seemed to know me so well? Had he crawled back down to the rooted black forest before I could offer him my gratitude? He had found me so easily. The wolf had been direct and true, a magical creature created in the molten core, dispatched from a deep fissure in the earth. In an indirect manner, his appearance had fueled this transformation in me. For a few seconds, he had come so willingly and offered himself to me, his true common enemy. And because of this, the person I had come to know, come to rely upon in the past, was slowly bleeding away. Destroyed. In his place stood a tenderfoot American Indian man, alone and cold and lonely. My neophyte eyes were awestruck, taking in my surroundings with mirrored fascination. Esperanza Ridge appeared different to me. It was no longer foreboding or dangerous. It was a thing of beauty. We have all heard at one time or another the axiom that life is all about process, about change. Without it, stagnation would run a rampant course. Without it, we may as well remain lodged forever in our baby cribs, staring up at suspended musical toys, listening to fairy tale music to successfully filter out the futures uncertainty. Many of us turn our backs, 138
ignoring lifes tired lessonThere is no sanctity in sameness. There is no shame in spotting the wool over your eyes. The process of withdrawal is not clear-cut and dry. Whatever was happening to me, it was just the beginning of a journey that would last some time. I had been shown the light, so to speak, but I wasnt out of the woods yet. I had danced with death for so long we had fused together in a connubial union. It was my aim to retain that union for a while longer, as I planned on visiting the mass grave at Wounded Knee, hopefully accompanied by 20 Medals of Honor. In deference to the dead, I would place the medals in their rightful place in the sun. Only then, when my task was finished, when death had been extinguished from my heart, would I file for divorce from my old friend. I turned and walked back to the Ford, which waited in the shadows like some noxious beast. The red paint appeared dull, faded at the onset of night. Its presence seemed unwelcome, inconsistent with the ambient natural beauty that surrounded it. I located my gloves and shoved cold, stiff fingers into the protective lining. I threw the rucksack over my back and headed back to the ledge. I felt like a remorseful child at Christmas time, one that had woken up on a morning not far from Christmas day and realized that if he didnt change his ways, Santa would bring him nothing. This time, I did not stumble. In the apogee of newly unfurled emotions that quenched a lifetime of self-degradation, I found my aim to be constant and true. This was only natural, as the ghosts were beginning to abandon me in droves. I reached the ledge, sat down, placing the rucksack beside me. I opened it, pulled out the various food items, arranging them around the flat middle section of the rock. It was then that I realized that I was hungry. So hungry! I decided on the apple. It seemed like a natural choice. I tossed it from hand to hand, enjoying the warm feeling coursing through my body. I bit into it and the sweet juices rushed into me, and I knew then why Tracer had savored them so. Yes, Tracer. I would have to make plans to visit his grave. For that occasion, I would drop everything. It was time to reflect. What was next for mefor Justice Reywal? I had made my decision. What more, I was ready to stand by it at any cost. Tomorrow, at first light, I would return the car and 139
head back to Billings with Ravage. I would bring him up to speed on my burgeoning plan. From Billings, I would take the earliest flight to Oklahoma City. Once there, I would schedule a meeting with Thom and Avarice Lakes public defender. I would meet him in my office, without so much as a change in clothing. In this meeting, I would offer the Lake brothers a one-time only plea bargain down to manslaughter. And I would not leave the room until that agreement was sealed in writing, although the truth be told, the PD would likely jump up and sign it before the ink of my own signature was dry. The Lake brothers would probably serve no more than 7 years in a state prison, maybe less depending on good behavior, but at least the specter of the electric chair would be removed for good. And of course, a murder conviction would not haunt them for the rest of their lives. Professional blood of attorneys thrived on conflict and derision. I would give the justice system a taste of both. I would instigate my plan without consulting the District Attorney of the State of Oklahoma, who would likely burst a blood vessel or two upon hearing the news. After that, it would be all out warfare. The DA would most certainly launch an all out offensive to impeach my credibility in an effort to get the deal overturned before a judge put his final stamp of approval on it. Therefore, out of sheer necessitation, I would have to court the press, make them my associates. I would spin and weave a decent twist to the case. I would grasp the presss spotlight in my hand and shine it back at the reporters own eyes, doing my best to obfuscate the details of the crime. I would make the Lake brothers seem like nice fellows who had suffered a spurious attack of human weakness that had fueled an isolated exhibition of callous disregard for his fellow man. I would stake my reputation that the brothers were not all that bad or dangerous, and hopefully in the end, if things worked out, the deal would move thru the system intact. And if things didnt go well I still had that professional blood to fall back on. And though one could argue that this act of mine was tantamount to an assault on my sworn oath, I just didnt care anymore. I would take whatever punishment the state bureaucrats could conceive. And brother I can tell you, as sure as I breathe, that those punishments would not be long in coming. Not counting the aforementioned plea bargain, there were four possible outcomes. #1. At the very least, the D.A. would fire me. That was a definite certainty. But I already had plans in the making. I was sure that AIM would take great interest in hiring an ambitious, 140
ex-assistant D.A. from Oklahoma, a Sioux Indian who had been known to fight the good fight from time to time, a man who was known to be tough but fair, a man who carried the blood of his ancestors who had fought so staunchly in many of historys wars. At the far end of the spectrum was #2. Disbarment. Such an ugly, revolting word. Disbarment. The mere whisper of the word has brought the strongest of lawyers down to their knees. I shrugged with indifference. If it happened, I was fairly certain I could live with the stigma attached, although it would surely put a crimp in future plans. I would be prohibited from practicing law; therefore, I would need to find some other capacity in which to help out AIM. But John Ravage was living testament to the fact that this was possible. They could take away my license, but they could never take away my mind or my ambition. #3. I could recuse myself from the case, citing bad health or personal reasons. I would escape unscathed, and take time off to ponder my future. But that wouldnt help the Lake brothers out in any way, shape or form. The judge would delay the trial until a new attorney familiarized himself with the case file. At some point, though, the brothers would likely go down for murder. No, this wouldnt do. Helping them beat the rap was the cornerstone of the deal that I had made with myself. #4. I could quit. Just like that. Walk away from the whole scam and disappear into the wild outback. And then no one could hold me accountable for the trials outcome. No one would be able to say that Justice Reywal helped convict two of his brethren to the chair. Yes, that was true. But then again, the Lake brothers were likely to be convicted anyway. It didnt matter who was behind the drivers wheel. The case against them was that airtight! And there were many other young, hostile attorneys waiting in the wings who would gladly jump at the chance to work such a case; The demand to prosecute the case would be as such, that the line of attorneys would very likely stretch to the rear of the old brick courthouse. In the end, this stark abandonment would only accomplish what I had set out to do all alongwin a death warrant for the state. Although the death certificate would bare someone elses signature, the blood used to sign it would still carry my DNA. No, it had to be the plea bargain or nothing at all. It would be another first for me, since in the past I had frowned indignantly upon this legal ploy. Seven years was not that much of a stretch. The Lake brothers wouldnt suffer that much. I 141
would see to that. Maybe, in conjunction with AIM, I could get them remanded to a minimum-security prison. In a world inclined to traveling in circles, anything was possible Could my plan succeed? Unfortunately, to that effect, I am just as curious as you areProbably more so, in fact. Because no matter how well I prepare, no matter how many aces I hold up my sleeve, the outcome boils down to two thingsthe roll of the dice, and the harshness of the judge that rolled them. In truth, although I am the weaver, the master of this legal prestidigitation, because of the way the judicial system is laid out, I am also a mere hitcher along for the ride, playing the pass line, a Lake brother to each side of me. As an advocate of the law, it is my job to present the evidence clearly and objectively to the presiding judge. This I could easily fake. Because plea-bargaining is ethically a neutral maneuver, it is a common occurrence in legal circlesand an easy one to conclude because of the court backlog. The only requirement, and in my case it posed a risky one, was the fact that I alone carried the burden of convincing the judge that the defendants deserved the plea. Therefore, I would up the ante in order to succeed; I would give the plea bargain the Rolls-Royce treatment. I would be forced to show mitigating circumstancesHell, I was prepared to go out on a limb and fabricate mitigating circumstances. Needless to say, I did have my work cut out for me. The legal terminology for what I had in mind is Duress Per Minas. Simply deconstructed, it means that the defendants were admitting to the crime, but forces beyond their control had appeared previous to the commission of the crime, playing a great part in the hereafter completion of the crime. It was here that I was free to improvise using the elastic parlance of jurisprudence. Whos to say the bill collector didnt threaten the Lake brothers? Whos to say he didnt pick up a rock or branch and wave it menacingly at the brothers? The fact is, there were no eyewitnesses whatsoever that could disagree with that contention. As a matter of fact, with Ravages help, I doubt I would have trouble rustling up about five or six Indians that would back up my statement, even swearing happily on the bible You know this as lying. American Indians see it as getting even. Would my tactic demean and damage the process of pleading out? Yes, of course it would. But lets face it. Our legal system, while at times eloquent and gorgeous is still designed for bargain basement justice. And long after I have sprung from this mortal coil, as a famous poet once said, that system will still be here, collecting dust and men. 142
I sat on the ledge, the day winding down to its precious few hours. I thought of the changes my life would incur in the near term and how well I would be able to handle those changes. Out on the desolate prairie, a change of another kind was taking place. The sky had darkened by rapid degrees. As I watched, transfixed, the wide blue band of sky faded to a pinkish-white, and then deepened to a rich, reddish-gold that marked the suns fall from grace. The curtain of black beads fell in, ushering in the contusion that man knew as night. I turned and stared at the vacant black hole that was the East. Not more than a few hours ago, the cities of the Atlantic seaboard had encountered this silent rogue. Arriving on the heels of twilight, the night had met the sun head-on, forcing the wave of golden light to retreat westward, turning its back to the cities of the east, whom were swallowed whole in the inexorable sweep of black ocean. Atop the wave crests and swells came the black magic carpet of emotions that breed quietly in the night, pushing abject ideas such as desire to the forefront. Yes. That was it. Desire. It is what my soul lacked. Desire. Desire for life. Desire for redemption. Redemption, that fleeting, capricious, illusory notion that one must poke and prod and extract to the open, from needle to vein, yet my unwieldy hands could not muster the prerequisite sophistication to turn the trick. After all, how well does one often do when he tries to capture lightning in a bottle? As I will attest, it is nearly impossible. Redemption is the energy of echoes, nothing more, and to arrest it, one must put an ear to the wall to gleam the dissonant words to clarity. Redemption is the answer to our crass, vile-spewing mouths and terrible misdeeds. It is the precursor to enlightenment. To encounter it, one had to have paid a high price. For a few moments all was still. The wind had dropped to a minimum. The birds had ended their song and gone off to sleep. It seemed that every living animal, the ermine, the wolf, and the golden eagle had retreated down the mythical rabbit hole for the night. Even the temperature remained steadfast, refusing to drop, even as the sun dipped over the horizon. And then it came without warning. A sudden microburst of Chinook wind swept in over the ridge. This warm blast of air was a harbinger of things to come; the first clue that spring was around the corner. A tiny miracle of sorts. I knew then that the 143
weather would hold thru the night. I needed it to, as I had resolved to spend the night on Esperanza Ridge. Earlier in the day, Ravage had warned me to watch for red skies. I scanned the horizon faithfully. Moments later, out of the corner of my eye, appearing in the farthest reach of western sky behind a gentle tuft of purple clouds, I saw it. The birth of a crimson sky at night, the first one I had ever witnessed. A deep red blanket with the brilliance of cherry blossoms adorned the panoramic sky, fiery backdrop to the bright constellations and the full moon. Coming directly on the heels of the warm Chinook Wind, I felt secure, the cold front reduced to a distant mirage. Ravages forecast for cold weather had been wide off the mark. It seems, after all, that the man was no profit. I would not forget to mention his error to him the next time we met.
I was close. Everything distinct and organic that surrounded me the trees, the stars, the distant planets, the ridge, the melting snow, the red skies, Ravages gray eyes, Tracers inexorable fear of the lightningeach of these things became intimate to me as I wrapped myself up inside a wool blanket. I was closer to a new beginning than Id ever dreamed of. I turned my ear to the prairie. I sensed the tormented land was now ready to disclose to me its many lost secrets, and I in turn, fully ready to listen, waited breathlessly. I leaned my body forward, coming to rest over the calm updraft of air, showing no fear, waiting for the ghost song to begin. In my heart, I knew that it would not disappoint me. In time, my eyes would adjust to the lack of light, and when that moment occurred, I would scan the grass table below, sure to find a circle of Indians, led by my grandfather, Black Crow Of Midnight, all wearing ghost shirts, wild headdresses and war paint, all dancing in circles around a large fire in the triumphant return of the ghost dance, all chanting prayers of remembrance. I reached into the box and retrieved the gold nugget. I flipped it over a few times. It had gone cold, lifeless, and in the darkness, the gold had lost its rich luster. To a stranger, the lump would appear to be a common stone, completely worthless. Only I knew differently. I knew that many lives had paid dearly for it. Only I fully realized the cost of what I was about to do. I stood up, spreading my legs out for balance. The red sky had expanded to take up the entire horizon, holding its own against the night. The starburst red swatch grew in boldness, 144
as if the earth beneath had been set ablaze, illuminating my presence. Somewhere out there lay the Black Hills, and it was my intention, no matter how ridiculous it may sound, to send the gold piece back to its birthplace. Taking one last look at the golden rock, I reared back, intending to deliver it to the very feet of the red night, and let loose. My arm, however, lacked the strength and the stone, gliding on a gentle parabola, soon ran out of energy and succumbed to gravity. I caught a last, fractured glint of gold as the rock tumbled in a veiled fall of its own, coming to rest in the alluvial base where the rock had fanned out into a lasting sanctuary for so many wild horses. The agreeable buoyancy that followed, the healing itch that caused my heart to sputter, was encouragement that I had done the right thing. I leaned back on the ledge, resting my head in contentment. I shut my eyes and waited for sleep to come, waited for the peace it would bring. I had spent my entire life running, and now the thought of lying still in the openness, letting history seep into my bones, letting time pass me by while I did nothing, seemed virginal, exciting; a seminal moment unearthing for me a new set of laws to guide my future. And most of all, I felt the first faint stirrings of hopewhat the Sioux tribe called tunatya the Spaniards, esperanza. Somewhere in the hills tonight, I hope that an Appaloosa runs wild and free, marching rampant underneath the red night, through the snowy tundra, drinking the milky mist of dawn, passionate and unafraid as he passes through the mightiest electrical storm, not worrying about captivity or man or the saddle, just runningrunning for runnings sake. I hope that my black-eyed wolf will return and sit with me, to watch together the pale return of morning, and I could run my hands and warm them in his thick coat, and I can stare into his feral black eyes, searching for a hint of color, and I can tell him about the ghosts that had brought me to his home in Esperanza. I hope that in the morning, a golden eagle, a day closer to maturity, will emerge from the bright blue column, flying low, so low in fact, that I might grasp his talons in flight, and he could whisk me off to a far off mountain, far above the flood of humanity, far above the reach of the law, far away from guilt, and drop me to the place that I dreamed about as a child, and I can start all over again without fear. I thought about the Hotchkiss guns, grinning in the cold, steam emitted from the torrid cycling of cylinders that kept spinning even when empty, hungry for more ammunition. I thought of the numerous graves dug throughout the western 145
plains, long forgotten, concealed by the long grass, the resting place of thousands of American Indians that fell in vain in the war of the plains, each suffering thru his own Wounded Knee, each deserving of his own monument. I hope that I will wake up tomorrow, free of the Hotchkiss guns that haunt my dreams. I hope to never again see those Indian bodies lying cold and dead in the frozen wasteland that lives behind my sleeping eyes. I hope to never again see my face, my mask of death, staring down the sights of a rifle. I hope that sometime in the near future, I will have the time to search for 19 Medals of Honor. I will sit and explain to the families all that I have come to know. I will tell them about Esperanza. I will teach them a different version of history. And when I am finished, I hope that they will hand over the medals so that I may take them to Wounded Knee and place them next to the men, women, and children that gave their lives in the cold. The stars now numbered by the hundreds of thousands, pinpricks of melted furnaces glowing in the clear night. Sometime later, I will spend my last remaining hours on Esperanza counting the stars, down to the very last one. And I will visit my grandfathers burial place, kneel down on the plot of freshly turned grass, and whisper to him a final number that he had so desperately sought, even as time had run out on him. I will laugh, agreeing with him that Red Cloud was mistaken counting the stars was not an impossibility. What is it that makes an ocean void reflect the stars back towards a canvas night? I thought about my Grandfathers final resting place. Wanting to lie forever close to his mother, he had chosen a burial sight near Wounded Knee. I thought about the mass grave posed on the hilltop. And I remember that long ago, another man was sacrificed on a hill very similar to that one. I have my crosses to bear. We all do. Some are taller than others. Some have shoots that sprout high into the air, saplings sewn with the unconditional seeds of deceit. Some grow out from the hillside, twisted and mangled, only to discover that in their self-pitying shadows, a myriad of swarthy life still finds shade. I hope that one day these crosses will all come tumbling down for me. I hope. I hope for my sake. I am not a religious man. Nor I am inclined to follow the edicts of the mighty philosophers, the self-help gurus, or selfaggrandizing bureaucrats. Yet some events in life bewilder me and give way to contemplation. Sometimes a cold answer is sufficient, while other times necessitate the asking of probing questions. I keep 146
thinking back to Ravages statement that we are all reactionaries. I now believe that to be true. I believe that most people yearn for a simple past. I believe that time can change a man; bring him back to that simple past. I believe that compassion can sometimes break through the time barrier and reach out to save us. I believe that man cannot measure himself as an equal to the concept of time. Time is everything that we are not. It could happen. Time can alter a mans life. I have seen it with my own eyes. Ive seen the dry lightning come down from the heavens and shift time forward, then backward. I have seen it pierce through the night and spell out a future, ignite the past. I have seen heaven and earth merge thru the power of an adhesive strike of immaculate light, and if it could bring these two celestial bodies together, it could somehow find a way to bring redemption to my door. It has happened before in other tracts of time, in other far off places, to those that never gave up hope, and it will happen again. I know it will. But for the life of me, I never would have thought, that as I wallowed thru time destroying those around me, that the dismantling of my own ghosts would come about not thru a savior or a miracle, but by the unexpected appearance of a box. I had traveled long and hard across the great divide, a nighthawk grasping perpetually at shadows, and suddenly I found myself standing, standing beneath a red sky at night that illuminated my past sins, my future penance, a red sky that brought the stars closer to the touch and opened my veins to reclaim compassion, a red sky that pushed my physical body through an obcordate sieve over into the spirit world, as easily as the battered and bruised night passes her impenitent baton to the morning sun. The night stretched on, seamless and beautiful. I laid my head to rest, the box never more than a few inches away. This simple mahogany box, built by the simple hands of a simple carpenter had won a place near my heart. It had searched all over for me, refuting time, refusing to quit, and when its journey had ended upon landing in my hands, a journey of my own had quietly begun
It dawns on me still, on dried out summer nights when I am fast asleep, and the tall weeds growing outside my bedroom window reach out and scrape against the glass, elegant stalking fingers trying to enter my home and join me in sleep, and the crickets are in a full state of song, after all of these months 147
have passed, my eyes still sometimes catapult wide open in the dark, sifting, searching for something that just isnt there. I stare at the door leading out to the hallway, beads of sweat forming on my face, waiting for the return of the dry, ghostly footsteps that once crawled across the vestibule, into my room, my sleep, and into my dream world. I wait still and quiet, even as the dry copper taste of death fills my tongue. Many times I thought about the old, weathered Army engineer whose misfortune it was to have found the bodies of Custer and his men. I remembered his haunting story, and how these very same ghostly reminders haunted his nightly dreams. And only when my eyes fully adjust to the dark, and I see that I am alone, alone and safe, not yet part of the spirit world, and I turn to see that the box is safe, that it is safely laying atop my dresser, only then could I return safely to the womb of sleep. It has been many months now since Esperanza, and the terrible dreams no longer haunt me. Instead, I wake each day to the dry itch of returning emotions: compassion, sympathy, benevolence, shame and fortitude. I have discovered new virtues, such as self-deprecation, mercy, selflessness, and selfrespect. I have begun the long journey that will hopefully lead me back to my past. I have vowed to retrace the footsteps that long ago carried a young boy away from his home at the reservation. I have begun my search for the other nineteen medals of Honor given to the soldiers at Wounded Knee. To this day, I have not found any, but my failure, though abject, will not deter me. I have vowed to find the families and talk to each of themtalk to them about the ill-fated deeds their ancestors may have performed in a cold, cold land so many years ago. And when I am finished with them, whether I succeed in impressing upon them my newfound sagacity or not, my day of respite will have arrived. I will look up at the sun and smile broadly, for I will know then what true happiness feels like. For the most part, I know that a peaceful sleep waits for me in the near futureA future delivered to me by a box; a simple wooden box that will forever sit on my bedside, an arms length away; a box that crossed over many time barriers and reached out to me one night, and upon landing in my arms set me out on a journey, a journey that began with me traveling one late winter day, not so long ago, traveling at the behest of a once great warrior, traveling thru a land I had long ago forgotten and abandoned; a once desperate man, traveling cold and alone on the Snowy Road to Esperanza.
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The Five Laws of Light - The Snowy Road To Esperanza

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The Five Laws of Light - The Snowy Road To Esperanza

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The 1st Law of Light

Everything that the power does, it does so in a circle. Lakota Proverb

The Snowy Road to Esperanza

I was speeding down Highway 29, tucked away in a remote

The Snowy Road to Esperanza