Chapter 2 #2
“Ah, I am glad you approve,” spoke the Creator.
“And so it shall be. This village, its entire people, shall remain within the shadows of mist, here upon the earth. They shall be real, yet unreal; ghosts, yet not ghosts; living but not living, for they shall come alive in the flesh once with each new generation. On that day—which should happen four times in every hundred years—the people will spend their lives much as they always have. For some, those who are innocent, it will seem as though they live day by day, as do other creatures, for there will be no memory of having lived in the mist. But alas, in truth, in the time between when they lay down to rest and when they awaken, twenty-five years will have passed, though none will have aged but a day. However, for those who counted coup over the Thunderer’s children, no innocence, no peace of mind, will be granted.
These people will remain aware that they live a ghostly existence, each and every day of their lives. And so it will be.”
“Nay!” cried White Claw.
“However,” added the Creator benevolently, “once in each new generation, there shall come into being an opportunity to end the spell. From each of the separate tribal bands a boy shall be chosen who will leave his ghostly existence to become flesh and blood. They shall go forth into the world. Now hear me well. Each boy shall be given until the age of thirty years to break the enchantment that bewitches his people. And if he succeeds, his people shall be freed to live the lives they were meant to live.”
“No!” cried the Thunderer. “It’s unfair to give them such a chance.”
“But,” continued the Creator, “if by his thirtieth birthday, this boy is not able to break the charm that besets his people, the opportunity shall pass, and the boy—now a young man—will be relegated to live the rest of his life in the flesh, knowing forever that he floundered not only in his quest, but that he failed his people.”
“Yes,” rasped the Thunderer. “Yes.”
“And to you human beings,” spoke the Creator, “I would say this: Know that, while it is good and often necessary that a man defend himself and his people against the wrongs of other things, peoples or races, it is a sign of magnificence to show kindness to the face of an enemy, to even come to the aid of an enemy and help him, if necessary. Such is a mark of real valor. Remember this: Had you shown such a wisdom this day, the Thunder God’s children would still be alive, as would you all. ”
And so it was done.
The general quiet that fell over the assembled guests, there within the old medicine’s man’s lodge, was sinister. No one moved. No one spoke a word.
At last, White Claw roused himself. “And so it is that you four boys have been chosen to represent each of your tribal bands. Aa, yes, you will become real in the flesh, never again to fade into the ethereal existence, which fate befalls the rest of your people. But as you go out into the tangible world, know that you are charged with the task of undoing the spell that hangs over your clan. Know that others are depending on you.”
No one stirred.
“It is our plan,” continued White Claw, “that each one of you shall seek out a different tribe. You, Long Bow, will go to the Blackfeet, a cousin to our own people. You, Spirit Coyote, will find the Assiniboine camp. Spotted Wolf, you will travel to the land occupied by the Crows, and, Swift Hawk, you shall seek out the Cheyenne. Observe well. Learn about this new tribe; learn who are its enemies. But above all, remember the Creator’s words, ‘It is a sign of magnificence to show kindness to the face of an enemy, to even aid an enemy, if necessary.’ Fight well, show kindness. Give help.”
Questions, one after the other, came quickly to mind.
Etiquette, however, kept Swift Hawk silent.
Yet, if this were to be the last time he conversed with these wise men, he would know the answer to the questions that were burning to be asked.
He bolstered his courage, and in a soft voice queried, “Grandfather, in the story, when this catastrophe happened, you were yet a young man?”
“Aa, yes. You are right.”
Swift Hawk swallowed hard. “And so although it seems to us that we fall asleep each night and awaken the next morning, is it true that a generation has passed?”
“Aa, yes, my son. Perhaps twenty-five snows have fallen.”
Swift Hawk jerked his head to the left. “Then tell me, Grandfather, in all this time, have there been no others sent out upon this quest?”
“Aa. There have been others.”
Pressing his lips together, Swift Hawk carefully cleared his throat. “Then, Grandfather, please tell me, have no others succeeded in breaking this spell?”
White Claw sighed. “One did once. Only one.”
Someone had? Someone had actually broken the enchantment? Swift Hawk puzzled over this piece of information. “Grandfather, if this is so, why are the people still living as shadows?”
“This is a good question.” White Claw paused to bring his glance to Swift Hawk.
Older eyes met those of youth, and then the elder continued.
“It is a question that has confused us for many centuries. But I believe the answer lies in the fact that each one of you may only break the spell for your own particular clan. That is why none of you are from the same tribal band. That is why more than one boy goes forth.”
Swift Hawk sat still, momentarily stunned. “Grandfather, tell me. The band that broke the enchantment—they are no longer with us?”
White Claw nodded, a brief smile lighting his face. “Is it not within your memory that the Yellow Crow Clan is gone?”
“But,” replied Swift Hawk, “I thought they had moved to a different hunting ground.”
“No, my son,” responded White Claw. “They were freed from the mist by a youth named One Raven, who, like his namesake, could not be killed by the Thunderer. His people, too, became real and went to live out their lives in peace.”
This seemed incredible news to Swift Hawk, since none of the tribal legends had ever told of this story. Yet Swift Hawk digested the facts without a single word or gesture.
White Claw, his eyes still on the young boy, nodded. “Are there any further questions?”
When no one answered, White Claw picked up the sacred pipe, but before he overturned the ashes onto the bowl set upon the floor, he paused and said, “You are now ten years of age. Remember that you are given twenty years to break this spell. If you do so before your thirtieth birthday, your clan will go free. Observe well, do well. Know that your people depend on you. Now go.”
The old man spilled the pipe’s ashes into the sacred bowl, thus ending the council. One by one, the boys, along with their fathers, arose and departed, that they might each prepare for what was to come.
And though each left in silence, there was perhaps a feeling of gloom in his heart.