Journey of the Spirit Read online

  It took them a couple of hours to haul enough grass to feed the horses for a week, but Andy discovered that the horses wouldn’t get the grass. The boys began their next job—stuffing the cut grass into an inner lining that the females had draped inside the teepee. This time, he didn’t have to ask why they did this. He figured the grass would also keep the cold out.

  With the village set up, Little Hawk ran off some place, and the young men and warriors were off hunting fresh meat to eat. Andy wandered by the lodge where the women decorated the outside coverings. Many of the paintings on the hard buffalo hide had faded in the sun or been marred by the move. Andy’s adopted mother and sister mixed the paints to repair the decorations.

  Andy sat down and helped them. Fascinated, he’d never seen anyone make paint before, or paint anything.

  They had several containers of different dried plants and bark that they’d pounded into a powder. They used oak leaves to make green—yellow came from the bark of ash trees, white from the bark of maple, and when they mixed white with charcoal, it made black. Sitting cross-legged, Andy used a stick to mix walnut oil with different powdered plants and discovered he could create a rich palette of colors.

  The women took several slender willow branches and stripped off the bark. They cut them thin like hair and tied them together to use as a brush. Andy had fun helping them paint the lodge coverings. Soon, the women sat back and watched the white boy paint. Stick figures came to life with the brush in his hand. Horses moved naturally, with shadowing and realism.

  When they asked him who taught him to paint, he shrugged. No one had taught him. He’d always noticed these things. Curly returned, stood with one eyebrow raised for a long moment, his head cocked, mumbling something about women’s work, and went into the lodge.

  Andy didn’t care. He enjoyed painting.

  The days and nights turned colder. Curly seemed lost in thought most of the time, and spent a lot of time away by himself—when he wasn’t sneaking around to look at Black Buffalo Woman. His shyness amazed Andy. He wondered why Curly didn’t go talk to her.

  Visitors from other tribes came often to camp and this way the people kept up with what was going on in the other villages. One of the Cheyenne visitors told them the white chief had sent most of the whites back east because of a great war going on. This was good news for the village. Most seemed to think that if the white men killed each other off, then the Indians wouldn’t have to do it.

  Andy remembered talk of this war that might take place when his family had left on the wagon train. He remembered they called it a civil war, but he wasn’t sure what it meant. The men of the wagon train had talked of this a lot, but he hadn’t understood, and after a while didn’t pay much attention. He was sure though, when this war ended, the whites would return to the Indian hunting grounds. He wondered how the coming of the whites would affect him.

  Four

  Frigid winter blasts froze Andy’s ears and made his fingers and toes stiff. He had to rub his hands and stamp his feet to keep blood circulating. He’d never seen cold like this. Now he understood why the Lakota took so many precautions in their winter camp.

  Once snow piled up in the brush around the base of the lodge, cold air stopped coming underneath, and with a fire going, the tepee remained warm and snug. Unfortunately, they had to leave the lodge’s warmth at times. One morning, when they woke to feed the animals, it was warmer. When Andy opened the lodge flap, a solid wall of snow met him. He dug out with his bare hands.

  By the time he made it through, his cracked and bleeding fingers had no feeling. He blew on them but the warm air only made them tingle.

  He would’ve been content to stay in the lodge for the winter. Although the women melted snow to cook with, the boys had to feed the horses and break the ice in the creeks so the horses could drink. Andy and Little Hawk trudged through the snow searching for dead limbs small enough to carry. Their task was difficult because they weren’t the only ones looking. Moving fast, they gathered a few and sped back to the lodge to warm up before braving the wind’s nasty bite. Andy woke in the mornings dreading the day ahead. As days passed, they needed to go farther out to find wood.

  Although the women saved the wood for the worst of winter, using horse and buffalo chips for the fires to cook with, Andy didn’t believe they would ever have enough wood—or that warm weather would get there.

  He pictured hot sun burning his face, feeling its energy while his fingers, toes, and ears hurt, but it didn’t help.

  At night, they sat close to the fires in the lodges, wrapped in robes, and told stories. Many times, others stopped by and they ate and related the tribe’s history.

  It surprised Andy when they asked how he’d gotten where he was. He told them about his father’s decision to go with the wagon train to the Montana Gold Fields to seek his fortune. They asked him if everyone on the train died. He started to say yes, but hesitated. A fleeting thought penetrated his thinking—something he’d forgotten with his parents’ death. He shook his head.

  “No, some survived. Two days after the wagon train left Fort Laramie, the adults argued over the route. Soldiers at the fort warned Mr. Martin about the route.”

  An icy blast swept through the lodge when the flap opened. Ina came in and sat in her place. Andy tightened the robe around his shoulders and continued. “The people at the fort told Mr. Martin about another, safer route away from the Sioux’s traditional hunting grounds. Two days after leaving the fort, we arrived at the fork that led to the other route. Mr. Martin and three other wagons took the safe, but longer route.”

  Andy’s face turned red when he told them about Abbey Martin, Mr. Martin’s young daughter. “The morning they left on the other route, she came up to me to say goodbye. She stood on her tiptoes and kissed me on the lips, turned and ran away.”

  As he talked, he hoped the others had made it to Montana safely. He wondered if he would ever see Abbey again. He remembered her blue eyes and hair that glistened like gold in the sunlight.

  After he told his story, they continued to talk as he listened. He’d heard them speak several times about the circle of life, but he didn’t understand what they talked about, until Crazy Horse spoke of the circle to Curly.

  Andy frowned and turned to Crazy Horse, the man he now considered his father, his Ate. He had listened to Curly and learned to pronounce the two t’s of ot-tee separately. “What’s the circle of life?”

  Both Crazy Horse and Curly glanced at the boy. Crazy Horse pursed his lips and nodded. Andy, now known as Wrong Hand by everyone, and shortened to Hand, hoped he hadn’t said something wrong.

  “Ayiee. Hand, perhaps it’s time I explain this to you. All matters of the earth revolve around the circle of life. Whankan Thanka created the circle so our people would have a direction and purpose. The circle of life covers the four directions: north, south, east, west, and all things revolve around the directions of life. When we pray with the pipe, we offer thanks to the Great Spirit in the four directions.”

  Crazy Horse leaned forward and adjusted the logs on the fire. Andy knew enough not to speak, but to let the elder finish. The people of the wagon train had said these people were savages because they didn’t worship God. Andy realized that they did worship God—they called him a different name.

  “We set up our camps,” Crazy Horse continued, “in a circle resembling the circle of life. The entrance always faces east so the Great Spirit can shine the life-giving energy in our faces when we wake. The head of the lodge always sits facing the east opening. When we hold councils in our village, we sit in the same way, in the circle of life with the one who called the council facing to the east. In early spring, we’ll travel to a great council and Sundance celebration of all the Lakota lodges. We all will set up our camps in this circle of life. The Hunkpapa, or Northern Band, sit at the head of the circle. Hunkpapa means at the head, and we’ll set up at the end of the circle—that’s why our name is Hunkpatilia. The San Arcs will sit to the s
ide of the circle.”

  A blast of cold air hit them when Little Hawk entered the lodge. He fastened the flap back and sat on his haunches, close to the fire with his hands extended. Red from the cold faded from both his face and hands.

  “Whankan Thanka created the buffalo for the people to live on,” Crazy Horse said, “which is why we always give thanks and prayers to the buffalo when we kill them. It’s also why we use the head of the buffalo on the Sundance pole to symbolize what the buffalo means to us and our sacrifice of giving back to Whankan Thanka for his gift of the buffalo.”

  With snow and wind pelting the lodge, Hand huddled in his robes as stories went around the fire.

  As winter passed, the routine of storytelling continued and Hand learned about the history of the Lakota and their great leaders and warriors.

  * * * *

  Warm weather replaced the turtle race of winter’s ending. Hand sat by the fires and listened as men talked about great hunts, brave deeds, and unforgettable chiefs and warriors. While the men talked, they worked to make arrows, ropes, and other things they needed—Hand painted.

  He had made several discoveries. He took small deerskin pieces, scraped and cleaned them, and tied them to green willow hoops. When the skin dried and hardened it made a perfect canvas to paint on.

  Willow brushes did OK, but he couldn’t get much detail with them. He cut a slit into the end of stripped willow, let it dry, and cut some of his hair and tied it in the slit. He put buffalo fat on the hair to help stiffen it. When he made this discovery with the brush, his painting sprang to life.

  At first, he did landscapes, but found he could paint faces with life-like quality. One afternoon as he sat in the sun, painting, Curly squatted near him. “Hand, this painting is good…for relaxing, but you aren’t producing the things…you need to.”

  Hand knew what he was talking about because this wasn’t the first time Curly mentioned it. An idea formed.

  Later, Lone Bull strolled by and asked him to paint his lodge for him.

  “Sorry, I can’t,” Hand said. “I have to get busy making arrows.”

  Lone Bull stood and left, returning a few minutes later with four arrows. He thrust them at Hand. “I’ll give you these arrows to paint my lodge.”

  Hand smiled to himself. He now had a way to do what he liked most and still get the warrior things he needed.

  With spring’s onset, everything was good in the Hunkpatilia camp until Curly disappeared. No one knew where he went. Crazy Horse found Hand the morning of the second day to ask him if Curly had said where he was going. Hand shrugged and told Ate that Curly hadn’t said anything to him.

  Deep furrows creased Crazy Horse’s forehead. Hand knew Curly would sometimes go off by himself, and his father had cautioned him about it often. But he’d never left for this long a time.

  On the morning of the third day, Crazy Horse asked Hand if he wanted to go with him and Little Hawk to search for Curly. One of the scouts had seen him a couple of days south of the camp.

  Something unexpected had happened to Hand that winter—he had grown. When he was little, the other white kids made fun of him because of his large hands and feet. Now, he started to grow into a body to match the appendages. Also, he could mount Charcoal without getting on anything. He took pride in this.

  They left the village in the direction the scouts had seen Curly, and Crazy Horse found his son’s horse tracks. Luckily, the horse’s off front hoof had a crack on the outside edge, making it easy to track. They followed for a long ways—sometimes the tracks would disappear, and they’d pick them up again.

  As the sun stood high overhead, Little Hawk told Crazy Horse he thought Curly had headed to Medicine Rock. They’d lost the trail again, but turned toward the big rock outcropping overlooking the plains.

  A few miles later, they picked up the horse’s tracks.

  They found Curly lying on the ground by a dry wash. Leaping from their horses, they ran to him. Crazy Horse knelt and shook him. When he didn’t respond, he shook harder.

  Curly rolled over and blinked. With his lips cracked, he spoke like he had a mouth full of dirt. Hand guessed Curly hadn’t had any water in a while.

  “Ate…what’re all of you doing out here?”

  “Searching for you,” Crazy Horse replied with anger in his voice.

  “Why are you…looking for me?”

  “You rode off by yourself again without telling anyone where you were going, or what you were doing.”

  Hand could tell he was angry at Curly, but also worried.

  “Tell me what you’ve been doing,” Crazy Horse demanded.

  In a croaking voice, he said, “Father…I went to Medicine Rock…to seek my vision.”

  “You did what!”

  Hand’s eyes widened when Crazy Horse raised his voice. He’d never heard him yell this way.

  “You’ll anger the spirits trying to have a vision without the proper preparations,” Ate said.

  Curly nodded. Little Hawk knelt beside him and offered him water. Curly put some in his mouth, swished it around and held it for a few moments, and swallowed. He did this several times, never taking too much.

  Little Hawk left and returned a few minutes later with Curly’s horse, but it was too late to ride back to the village. They set up camp in a small ravine with water nearby and trees to hide them.

  Little Hawk built a small fire under one of the manengah trees. These trees grew along the banks of dry washes, and had short, stout trunks and an abundance of low branches covered with large, thick leaves. They were perfect to camp under because the branches and leaves hid smoke from a fire. By the time the smoke filtered through all the leaves, someone would have to be right on top to see it.

  Curly, staring at the ground, tapping a stick on a rock, muttered, “Ate…I need to tell you something,”

  Crazy Horse stared at him for a long moment, and nodded for Curly to continue.

  “You told me once…” Curly started to say, but stopped. He took a deep breath. “You told me once that I should follow…when the spirit called.”

  “Did the spirit call you?” Crazy Horse asked.

  “Yes…he did. You said I should listen…with my heart, and I did this.”

  Little Hawk and Hand sat, not saying a word, engrossed with his words. Crazy Horse, with his index finger tapping the tip of his nose, said, “Tell me about it, Curly.”

  Curly began to speak in a low voice. “I sat on my horse…outside camp looking at the open prairie…when something seemed to call to me. I didn’t know what, but it seemed to come from within me. At first…I tried to ignore it, but the longer I ignored it…the stronger it grew. At last, I let my horse have its own head. The horse went straight…for Medicine Rock. Several times…I tried to turn him back, but again something kept me from doing it…almost like I watched everything happen to someone else.”

  Crazy Horse leaned forward and pulled a piece of meat off the spit over the fire. After taking a bite and chewing, he nodded for Curly to go on.

  “A hollow voice came out of nowhere…to speak inside my head,” Curly continued. “It’s time for your vision…Curly. I raised my hands to the sky and yelled…I can’t have my vision quest yet. I have to purify myself in a sweat lodge…I have to fast, and I don’t know what to do.”

  Little Hawk and Hand leaned forward. Both boys sat with their elbows on their legs, chins resting in their open palms, eager for Curly to continue.

  Crazy Horse nodded.

  Curly sat for several long minutes. He too, took a piece of meat and started eating. When Hand didn’t think he would say anything else, Curly spoke. “I thought my vision would happen fast…but it didn’t. After two days, I felt like I had angered the spirits.”

  Hand sat mesmerized listening to his brother. Fire crackled and popped, and the four of them scooted back from the heat. Sparks dodged the night air before disappearing.

  Crazy Horse told Curly to go on.

  Curly stared at the star
s for a couple of minutes, and continued, “The longer I stayed on the hill…the more unworthy I felt.”

  “They always occur when the seeker feels unworthy,” Crazy Horse said.

  Curly took a deep breath. Hand knew long speeches made his brother uncomfortable, and it amazed him that he’d talked this much.

  “I started down the hill to the lake where I’d hobbled my horse. I felt dizzy…and my mouth was as dry as a creek bed…in summer time. The earth appeared to shake around me…I stumbled and almost fell, but caught myself on a big rock beside the trail. After I sat down on the trail beside the rock, I looked around. Everything appeared different…everything…the sky, trees, rocks, and lake appeared in colors that I’d seen before, but never like this…almost as if I’d traveled to a new and brighter world. Wait, I thought…this is the spirit world. I’d never seen anything as clear and bright…as the vision which appeared to me.”

  Hand remembered his mother teaching him and talking about God and Jesus. They’d gone to church and he remembered some of the preacher’s words. He was confused, but his brother seemed so convincing and he knew Curly wouldn’t lie. Curly believed what he said.

  “I looked at the lake again,” Curly said, “and it amazed me when a horse advanced toward me…from the lake. The horse appeared to walk on the water and its legs moved with no effort. When I first saw the horse, it was a mouse gray color…as it came toward me, it changed to brown, and red, black…and kept changing. A rider appeared on the horse’s back, one with light skin…light brown hair hanging untied below his waist. The horse floated above the water…and the man hovered above the horse.

  The rider had an unpainted face…and a hawk’s feather in his hair…a small brown stone tied behind his left ear. The rider didn’t speak, this I’m sure of, but I could hear his words…in my head. The sound bounced in my head like a voice echoing in a deep canyon.”

  “The Great Spirit spoke to you,” Crazy Horse said.

  Curly shifted his seat on the ground. He’d sat with his knees up and feet flat on the ground, now he sat cross-legged and stared into the night for several long minutes. Hand and Little Hawk glanced at each other, both afraid he wouldn’t go on, wouldn’t finish his story.