White Wolves
for
Henry
~February 10,1929. Quarter of a mile west of the western boundary of the Cheyenne River Indian Reservation, South Dakota
Numb to everything except the air freezing the fire raging in his mouth and throat, Henry White Wolf lies on his side struggling through eyes slit against the wind to survey the horizon beyond the snow drifting against his cheek. A shadowy form moves into welcome recognition as it approaches even while a piece of significant information regarding it eludes his alcohol burned brain. Battered and broken as the young Lakota’s lips are, he manages to mouth into the swirling wind: Who is here? Tunkasila? Grandfather, there’s canli in my pocket. Take it. Take it all.
~
Heavy crisp flakes descend in slow swirls spreading blue white rumpled sheets over the easy rolling hills. Creek and river waters are freezing into frost encrusted currents. Passed spirit hunkakes travel snow paths among fewer and fewer trees as the human need for heat increases. Snow flows in tumbling waves up and down the furrows of unnamed dirt roads. Drifts arch, crest, then collapse sending multitudes of crystals spreading icy paths for traversing ghost spirit hearts. One elderly spirit ancestor pauses, then changes course. Keeping his black braided glance sideways, his curiosity quickly evolves into the human equivalent of alarm.
Wicatakoza! Grandson! Get up. What are you doing here with us? Too soon. Too soon. Wicatakoza! Rise. Henry, even your horse knows better than to rest in such cold. The grandfather spirit follows the movements of the white horse as it shoves its nose against his grandson’s hands making grasping motions amongst the heavy snowflakes.
Reach, reach for the bridle. Get out of the snow, wicatakoza. That’s it, get a grip. Hold on. Let horse take you home. Hold tight. Awareness of the presence of others invades Grandfather’s consciousness bringing a long familiar bitterness from his human history straight into the spirit realm. Human forms unwittingly create interference in his efforts to communicate with his still living grandson. Frustration grows into howling anger as the Tunkasila realizes the intentions of the human men moving in different directions away from his relation.
~“Easy, there. Easy horse. Quiet now. Everything’s okay. Good horse. Quiet horse.” Willie Hepard gathers the reigns in order to lead the white horse away from the man now lying still amidst the sparkling snow. Coaxing while asserting his strength and will on the horse via the leather strips, Hepard manages to get the horse moving in the direction he desires without a backward glance at the horse’s owner. “That’s it, come this way with ole Willie. Let’s get you out of the cold. Yeah, yeah, you want out of the cold. Let’s go. Willie has a warm barn waiting. Easy now. Steady.”
~Grandfather spirit glares hatred at the white man taking his grandson’s horse away. Wrong! Wrong! What is this? Wicatakoza! Grandson! Tunkasila spirit catches only the slightest scent of fresh canli, tobacco that has found its way into the formerly empty pockets of others, lingering in the fabric of his grandson’s clothes. This loss and Henry’s lack of awareness of it informs grandfather of the natures of the departing men. More disturbing is the surfacing knowledge of the severity of the physical damage that has been done to the young man left alone in the lung clutching cold.
~
Willie, Lexi, and Rob, who escorted the nearly insensible Henry to this place beside the road, a road now invisible to anyone unfamiliar with its route, and dumped the battered Lakota from his white horse, are now abandoning their charge to the vast sea of shining frozen water. Lexi Fast Fox, the youngest, in the throes of instinct generated terror evoked by the wildly unpredictable pheromones of the two older men flooding the air, escapes as soon as an opportune moment arrives.
Leading the reluctant white horse towards the black box shadow of a barn in the distance Willie Hepard watches Rob Sameson gingerly resettle himself atop his horse. “You gonna make it, Rob?”
“Damn right, I’m gonna make it, Willie! Why would you think otherwise? Huh?”
Willie turns slightly towards Rob for a moment as he rides past, “Piss on you!”
“Piss yerself!” seethes Rob anger rising as each sore spot on his rawboned frame announces its existence with the selfish intensity of an only child on a gratification mission in a sweets shop.
~
Bad-smell-man, let go. Let go! White horse steps faster in order to create enough slack in the lead rope to allow it a quarter turn, just enough to sight its man lying in the crunching snow. Moving hard and fast against the lead rope it manages nearly a complete about face to the spot it’s being forced away from by Willie. A hard rough yank on the lead rope combined with an unmistakable verbal threat from Bad-smell-man causes white horse to reconsider such defiance. Sulking, it assumes a façade of compliance while fighting panic as the scent of horse blood streaks the wind. Motivated by the density of the dead horse scents, it balks again thereby testing the bad smelling man’s strength. Unfamiliar human words launch an assault on the white horse’s sensibilities. Recognizing the dangerous tone of Bad-smell-man, it complies in hope of achieving survival long enough for an opportunity to launch a run for all that is most familiar.
~The old tunkasila spirit notes the routes of the departing three riders, perceives the white horse’s current predicament, then chances a fast glance at the young man laying motionless while snowflakes commence nesting in his horse strong black hair. Cautious, not for himself, but for his relation, he moves closer. Wicatakoza! Rise up, Henry! For the sake of your ina, your ate, your misunkala, do not rest here! A fast direct glance reveals his grandson’s still steady but slowing heartbeat, closing eyes, the uncharacteristically slack mouth. Grandfather spirit sits on his haunches, his gaze now focuses on the uneasy tail of the departing white horse. “Not right. Not right! Where is your father? Huh? Where is your ate? The elder spirit’s lack of motion attracts the attention of one his ephemeral companions. Sharp black eyes meet other questioning black eyes.
~February 9, 1929. White Wolf home on Cherry Creek, Cheyenne River Indian Reservation.
Unable to settle into even a light sleep, Johnson White Wolf rises from the pocket of warmth shared by Emma, his wife, who watches his motions through thick black lashes. Soles of his feet gauging the temperature of the dirt floor, he opens the wooden door just enough to sight the horse shelter. The lack of the white horse and its rider freeze him more than the breath cracking cold air sliding through the narrow opening. Then thoughts relax his hand long just long enough to close the door again. Must have taken shelter up creek. Spoiling that horse again. That’s it, spoiling the horse. Letting it share warmth with others. Ha. Cinksi the horse spoiler! Ha, spoiled horse spoils my son in return. Smart horse worth spoiling. Cinksi worth spoiling.
om mani padme hum jewel in the lotus wahupa qi prana universal life energy
Forrester McLeod said,
July 10, 2009 at 5:51 pm
Hey!
I’m running today, but I’ll be back to read. Read your “about” page. I wish you tons of luck with all of this!
Have a Great One!
47whitebuffalo said,
July 10, 2009 at 6:32 pm
Oh thank you for running in for the buffet! Drop in whenever you’re not painting or dating your road or running so fast. You’re most welcome.
Forrester McLeod said,
July 11, 2009 at 5:36 pm
You are such a beautiful writer. Crisp, transportive images. Could really feel the cold, the fear, the urgency. Is there more here anywhere? Are you having any luck with getting it published?
47whitebuffalo said,
July 11, 2009 at 11:05 pm
Ah, you make me blush. You’re very kind. Considering posting ‘more’. As for publishing, fingers crossed.
Forrester McLeod said,
July 12, 2009 at 1:41 am
Mine are crossed for you as well!