Journey of the Spirit Page 2

  Two

  Andy’s heart went in reverse. He froze, staring at the Indian. At least, he thought it was an Indian. He dressed like one, but he sure didn’t look like one.

  At first, Andy thought he was going to die. Many times on the wagon train, he’d daydreamed of what he’d do, how he’d act if this situation came up.

  Now, the time was here, and all he could do was gawk. His heart fluttered like a feather in the wind—roaring in his ears prevented him from hearing any other sound. He couldn’t breathe, and on weak, shaky legs, he thought he’d collapse at any moment. Certain the Indian would kill him, a fierce determination came over Andy not to let his fear show.

  Several minutes passed, and neither uttered a word. The creek bank, thick, green brush, and fertile grass spun like a top.

  Andy had doubts whether the stranger was an Indian. He wore a breechcloth and moccasins, but he didn’t resemble any Indian he’d seen or heard of.

  With his thick black hair and tanned skin, Andy looked more like an Indian than the one sitting before him.

  The person who sat on his horse looking at Andy with piercing black eyes had light skin and long unbraided, brown hair, the color of an acorn.

  When Andy didn’t believe his heart could beat any faster, it did when the strange-looking man walked his horse toward him. The Indian, or whatever he was, had an arrow notched and ready to fire.

  As the strange Indian dismounted, he kept his horse between them. Although scared half out of his mind, the ease at which the Indian dismounted surprised him, and reminded Andy of Mr. Thule.

  The Indian spoke for the first time, but Andy didn’t understand a word. He guessed the stranger was an Indian after all.

  As if reading the blank expression on the boy’s face, the light-haired one attempted some signs with his hands, but he didn’t know this any more than the language.

  The Indian jerked his hand fast, motioning for Andy to mount his horse. Andy pondered what he should do. How could he tell him he was too small to get on the horse?

  He figured that if he tried to mount, the Indian would understand he couldn’t do it. After an attempt to mount, the strange Indian grunted, and strode forward, lifted Andy up on the horse, and without a word, mounted his own like someone would straddle a chair.

  He couldn’t be much older than Andy, but he’d ridden horses all his life.

  Without a backward glance, the Indian walked his horse away from the creek, never glancing back to see if the boy followed.

  He could take off on Charcoal and there’d be no way anyone could catch him, but where would he run? He had no place to go.

  The Indian led him on a trail going away from the creek. Facing away from the sun, he knew enough to know they traveled west. A breeze blew the odors of the Indian back to the boy. His nose wiggled at wood smoke and other, unfamiliar smells.

  On the wagon train, Andy had listened from the shadows as the men discussed these Indians. Most believed they were savages, less than human with no God, just silly superstitions.

  Andy’s father never joined in these conversations, but Mr. Thule would argue that the Indians were no different from whites, just observed different customs. He said that there were good ones and bad ones like all people, but the other men would talk him down and he’d walk away shaking his head. Now, Andy wished his father had joined in these conversations. He desperately wished he knew what his father thought about Indians.

  All morning they rode in silence, but with the sun on top of them, the Indian stopped at a small stream in a valley. The creek, only about three feet across and four or five inches deep, allowed them to drink and let the horses have their fill.

  With the horses fresh after the water and grass, they traveled until the sun dipped in the west toward the horizon. As time passed, Andy’s fears lessened. Late afternoon they crossed over a ridge covered with low growth and topped a hill. Here, two other Indians met them.

  * * * *

  As he looked into the eyes of the white boy, Curly knew the boy was not a spirit. A thought gnawed at him—he was convinced the Great Spirit had sent him. But why?

  Should he kill the boy? He didn’t think so. If he killed him, this would anger the Great Spirit.

  What should he do with a little boy? If he left him, someone would kill him and he’d be responsible. If he took a white to the village, some of the others would want to kill him, and if they did, the Great Spirit would hold Curly responsible.

  Whankan Thanka had to have a reason. He’d take the boy back. His father would know what to do.

  Curly tried to talk to the boy, but knew he didn’t understand, and he didn’t get the sign language either.

  Exasperated, he saw the white boy couldn’t even get on his own horse. What good was it to have a horse if he couldn’t ride him?

  After Curly helped him up, he didn’t check to see if the boy followed. If the Great Spirit had sent this boy, he would follow. If he didn’t, the spirit didn’t send him, and he didn’t have to worry what happened.

  He was right. The white boy followed. Whankan Thanka sent him, but why? What could he do with a white boy?

  * * * *

  Like a giant thunderclap, fear returned to Andy when they met the two other Indians. Maybe the strange one was taking him to his tribe so they could help kill him.

  As the strange Indian talked to the two others, they glanced at Andy. While they talked, one of the Indians turned his horse and left. The other talked with the strange Indian for another couple of minutes and both of them went in the direction the other Indian had gone. Neither one glanced at him to see if he followed.

  As they rode out of the forest, wood smoke billowed from campfires. When they neared the clearing, tepees came into view.

  Andy’s teeth clattered. He clenched his jaws to stop the two Indians from hearing. He was determined to die well, as he’d heard the men on the wagon train talk about. Not sure what they’d meant, he would try since the men of the wagon train seemed to think so much of it.

  As they entered the village, a strange sensation washed over him. It appeared the whole village had turned out to gawk at him—older adults, men, women, and children. Obnoxious odors caused Andy’s belly to revolt.

  With a tingling up his spine and a thundering stampede in his heart, he stared as spectators gathered, whispering to each other.

  A large group of Indians circled around him. The strange-looking Indian dismounted in front of a large tepee, and an older man strode out to talk to the light-haired one. Not knowing what he should do, Andy remained sitting on Charcoal, waiting for the worst to happen. It was too late to run, now.

  While the Indians talked, Andy’s attention riveted on the tepee. It had several different colored horses painted on the outside by the door. Most of the horses ran or jumped. Stick figure riders shot bows from the backs of the horses. He calculated how he’d change the stick figures into real people. He’d have their long black hair flowing in the wind instead of sitting lazily on their heads. The horses were also wrong. Their legs didn’t look natural, and the paintings had no shadows.

  Andy’s attention jerked away from the paintings. With an angry scowl, another Indian stepped forward and joined in the conversation. Not knowing what they said, Andy knew it couldn’t be good. The Indian with the scowl shouted and gestured at him.

  The mad one turned and said something to Andy, but the boy didn’t know what he wanted.

  With narrowed eyes and a mouth compressed into a thin line, the Indian strode forward and jerked him off the horse. Andy landed with a dust-raising, dull thud on his back, and lay gasping for air.

  The mean Indian strode toward him, but the strange one and another older male stepped from the crowd to stop him. Angry shouts spewed from the mean one and some of the others. Andy wondered if they argued over who would kill him. He hoped they didn’t let the one with the hate in his eyes do it. He’d torture him.

  The strange-looking Indian helped Andy up. After brushing him
self off, he stood straight and attempted to show them he wasn’t afraid. He was sure he didn’t fool anyone, but he tried, anyway.

  The mean, angry one still glared and stepped forward once with his hand on his knife, but the older man who had stepped between them before did so again. The mean one turned and left with more angry words. Another Indian stepped forward and spoke to Andy in broken English.

  “Sit by lodge.”

  After he sat on the ground by the tepee flap, the strange looking Indian who had brought him to the village and several of the older ones entered the tepee. Most of the crowd started to leave, but some of the children tried to stay and look at him. Other adults, probably their parents, returned and chased them off.

  As he sat by the entrance of the lodge, a steady stream of people, mostly kids, found something to do in the area. Andy thought he’d do the same in a similar situation.

  What seemed liked hours passed until a young woman inched over and handed him a big cow horn.

  He took it, but asked, “What do I do with this?”

  She looked at him with a confused expression. When he peered into the opening of the horn, some kind of liquid filled it, and the aroma made his stomach rumble and beg.

  In an eager voice, he asked, “Is this food?”

  She indicated he should drink by turning her hand up to her mouth as if she held the horn. He took a small sip. It tasted strange, but not too bad. He was so hungry he could’ve eaten the south end of a northbound mule. He didn’t know what this meant, but his father had said it more than once.

  He gulped the food down in moments, spilling some of the liquid down his chin, onto his shirt. The stew, as he thought of it, contained some large chunks of tasty meat. He didn’t know what kind of meat it was, and didn’t care. When he finished, she took the horn.

  “Thank you,” he called after her as she hurried off.

  In normal voices, the men inside the tent continued talking. Not sure what they talked about, it pleased Andy that the yelling had stopped. Every once in a while a voice would rise, but not too often.

  * * * *

  Tension inside the lodge gripped the warriors. Mans Afraid Of His Horses adjusted his legs. “Why did you bring this white boy to our village?”

  Curly’s eyes dropped to the robes he sat on. He took a deep breath. “I had a vision from the…Great Spirit. He sent the white boy…to me.”

  Crazy Horse, Curly’s father and the spiritual medicine man for the tribe, took in an audible breath. No other sound, except the pop and crackle of the fire, disturbed the warriors. At last, the medicine man asked Curly, “Are you sure you experienced a vision?”

  “I think so.”

  Frown lines creased Crazy Horse’s forehead. “Tell us about the vision.”

  Curly hesitated for a moment to gather his thoughts. “I sat on a forested hill overlooking a great fight…with the whites. Mans Afraid had led a war party against a large wagon train. His courage and guidance…led the Lakota people to a great victory over the white man. One of the white men …had shown uncommon courage. He’d fought by himself for a long time…first with the gun that kills from afar and then with his hands. He fought well and protected his woman.

  “An arrow hit her in the head…surrounded, and wounded several times, he fought on. In the end…Mans Afraid charged him on his war horse and thrust a spear through his chest…but my hunka, my adopted uncle, wouldn’t let anyone take the man’s scalp…or that of his woman because of the great courage that he had shown.”

  Crazy Horse, Curly’s father, sat with a lit stick from the fire in his hand, tapping on a log that burned. “That’s how it should be. The great Whankan Thanka thinks enemies with great courage should go to the heavens with their scalps. Go on, Curly.”

  “Our people looted the wagon train that had come…to our sacred hunting grounds. I wanted to leave… and join the triumphant warriors on their way back, but I couldn’t.”

  His father and Mans Afraid gave each other a meaningful look.

  Crazy Horse asked, “Why couldn’t you leave, Curly?”

  Sparks popped out of the fire and an ember landed on Curly’s arm. As he jerked his arm back, he scooted away from the fire.

  “I’m not sure…I wanted to. It was like my spirit got stuck in deep mud…and couldn’t pull itself out. No matter what I did, I couldn’t leave.”

  Crazy Horse looked into the fire, and a long silence prevailed while he thought. “What happened?” Crazy Horse asked at last.

  “I saw the spirit of the…courageous white man.”

  “What? Are you sure of this?” Mans Afraid spoke, in a strange voice, the first words he’d spoken in a while.

  “I’m certain. Smaller, but they dressed alike…and had the same look.”

  “Do you mean that they looked alike?” Crazy Horse asked.

  “No. They had the same look in their eyes.”

  “What do you mean?” Mans Afraid asked.

  “Their eyes and face showed no fear. Even when the white man fought for his life…and knew he’d die…he didn’t show fear. The spirit I saw had the same look.”

  “Is this the only reason?”

  “No…he rode the giant spirit horse.”

  Crazy Horse and Mans Afraid took in a sharp, deep breath. Again, Curly’s father tapped the stick on the log. With every tap, small sparks skittered away in the dim lodge. Curly watched the sparks while waiting for his father to respond. He wondered where the fire sparks went when they burned out.

  “Black like the deep of night?” Curly’s father asked.

  “Yes.”

  Again, his father and his uncle looked at each other.

  “Go on, Curly,” his father said in a hushed, anxious voice.

  “The spirit rode away from the burning wagon train…headed east…I wanted to join the warriors but I still couldn’t. My horse joined the spirit and followed…the black horse. I tried to bring the horse around…but he wouldn’t turn away from the spirit. I kept at a distance, and followed for almost two days…and nights. The spirit never had a fire to keep warm, and rode away in the morning…without eating.”

  “What happened?” his father asked.

  Cross-legged on his blanket, with a deep thoughtful frown, Mans Afraid stroked an arrow shaft in his hand. Creases radiated up from his nose to his forehead.

  “I got ahead of the spirit and moved to meet it…at a stream, but the spirit had changed…into the small white boy walking the black spirit horse. He faced me with that same face…of no fear.”

  * * * *

  Scared and bored, Andy passed the time drawing designs in the dirt with his finger. After what seemed like days, a younger man left the tent for a long time. When he returned he had another Indian with him, and both of them entered the tent.

  The strange Indian who had brought him to the village came out. He motioned for Andy to enter into the tepee. He didn’t want to go in, but it didn’t appear he had any choice in the matter.

  Walking into the lodge was like walking into a different, new world. He’d never been in a tepee before and didn’t know what to expect.

  They had a fire going, and the smoke drifted out of an opening at the top. With his eyes stinging and watering from the thick smoke, it took a little while for him to adjust to the dim light.

  The older man who faced the entrance to the tent motioned for him to have a seat. One of the younger Indians moved over so he could sit near the fire. The older Indian said something to the new Indian they’d brought to the tent.

  “How are you called?” asked the new Indian. It startled Andy when he spoke English. He knew why they’d sent for him now.

  “Andrew Jackson Johansson, but I’m called Andy,” he said in a quivering voice.

  When the new Indian translated the name to the group in their language, several shook their heads like they didn’t understand, and a few pronounced his name aloud in English. It made Andy happy to see there weren’t too many annoyed faces in the crowd.


  The older spokesman of the group said something to the one interpreting.

  In halting English, he told Andy the older man’s name was Crazy Horse, and Curly was the name for the young strange one who had brought him to the village. The tribe’s name was Hunkpatilia or Sioux in the English language. Andy had never heard the word Hunkpatilia, but he didn’t think he should interrupt to ask about it.

  For a couple of minutes, the older one called Crazy Horse talked to the one who spoke English.

  After listening, the interpreter turned to Andy. “My son brought you here to our village. No one has harmed you. We’ve fed you, and you’re a guest in my lodge, and in this village. As a rule, our people don’t take prisoners into our village, especially whites. My son has made you his guest. Remain here as long as you want. You’re not a prisoner. Come and go as you choose. If you decide to stay, you must learn and obey our customs like any other Lakota. No one will harm you here.”

  Several of the Indians looked pleased, but Andy could tell some didn’t like the decision. He didn’t know what to think or say. He’d come here expecting to be killed. All he could think to say was, “Thank you.”

  As Andy glanced into the dark piercing eyes of the one called Curly, he found it peculiar the translator had also referred to him as the strange one.

  Three

  Life didn’t become any easier for Andy. As time flew by, he realized he was in different surroundings and in a different way of life that he didn’t understand. He couldn’t speak the Indians’ language, and they couldn’t speak his. Friendships were difficult. He didn’t like to admit it, but he cried himself to sleep many a night after everyone in the lodge slept. He was lonely and missed his parents. He still believed he was responsible for everyone’s death in the wagon train. If he’d waked his father about the sleeping guards, no one would’ve died.

  He constantly argued with himself about who was right—Mr. Thule, the wagon train scout, or the others. At times, he could see both points of view. The Indians acted like savages, and many of the boys were not only hostile, but mean toward him.