The Angel and the Warrior Read online

  Glancing down, White Claw spoke softly to his mother, as though she could hear him. “Why didn’t you come to the lodge when you could have?”

  It was useless. Even if his mother had heeded his advice, would it have made a difference? In the end, if the Thunderer had truly wanted Blue Shawl Woman, would their meager lodge have kept the god away?

  The tepee flap fell back, and White Claw’s uncle, Three Moons, entered. Briefly the man stared from White Claw to the woman, then back to White Claw.

  “She is gone,” White Claw said simply. “My mother, your sister, has been taken by the Thunderer.”

  At first this statement was met by confusion, but soon Three Moons bent over Blue Shawl Woman’s still body. Taking her hand in his, he held it to his face, eyes closed. After a moment, the elder man said, “This is, indeed, an evil day.”

  White Claw nodded.

  “My son, bear up, for I have worse news. She is not the only one to be stolen. Three other women are gone also. Their spirits have been taken by the Thunderer.”

  Silence, long and eerie, met this revelation.

  “But come,” voiced Three Moons at last, “let us go and avenge your mother’s death, and that of the other women of our tribe. Warriors are gathering in the center of our village that we might repel this god who comes to steal our own. Grab up your shield, my son; take up your spear, your bow and arrows, while I seek out your grandmother that she might attend to her daughter. Hurry, for our men are assembling.”

  White Claw nodded.

  Still, though his uncle had departed forthwith, White Claw paused. Laying his hand upon his mother’s breast, he vowed, “I will avenge you, Mother. Fear not.” A tear coursed down his cheek. “Fear not.”

  Chapter Two

  There is but one [Thunderer] cannot kill. It is I, it is the Raven.

  George Bird Grinnell

  Blackfoot Lodge Tales

  The Indian Village along the Missouri River, July 1816

  “You have done battle with the Thunderer?” one of the more daring of the boys spoke up.

  The old medicine man paused mid-story, his wizened glance coming to alight upon the youngster. “Aa, yes, that I have, son. That I have.” He nodded toward each of the elder men present. “As has each of your fathers.”

  A general feeling of awe swept through the assemblage. And though many surreptitious glances were cast toward each of the boys’ fathers, no lad uttered a single sound.

  Swift Hawk simply sat up straighter, his senses more alert than ever.

  “Forgive me,” said the old medicine man, “for again I go ahead of myself. Let us return to that past time, for the worst is yet to come, and it is what happened next that determines your future and that of our tribe…”

  Brandishing his weapons, the young White Claw rushed to the center of the village, hatred flourishing within his soul. Aa, yes, he would rid the world of the Thunderer, and he would find his mother in that up-above world. He would bring her home.

  As he reached the village’s center he observed that every elder of the tribe, as well as every young man, stood together. Some raised their arms to the sky, some shouted upward toward the heavens. But, though the clouds grumbled and spit rain, the Thunderer did not appear.

  “Show yourself,” came the warriors’ shouts, and White Claw added his own voice to the uproar.

  Outside of the people’s chants, no sound could be heard. The heavens were quiet. Too quiet.

  And then it came. Lightning rent the sky like a javelin, striking the ground with a pounding strength that sliced the earth beneath them in two. The blast killed three.

  Now it might be one’s idea that the people, even the warriors, should have cowered before such a show of vehemence. Perhaps it should be said here that there is no wrath to be borne that compares to the temper of the people, once incensed.

  White Claw led the charge. Arrows flew into the sky, one after the other, until the heaven looked as though it were spitting arrows. In gigantic arcs, spears soared upward, several of the weapons reaching the blackened clouds.

  Again, lightning struck.

  The warriors were more prepared for it this time, expecting such a response, and though the ground received the jolt, no living person was harmed. In truth, such a blast did the opposite for the people: It did much to give the warriors courage.

  “Come forth, Thunderer,” shouted White Claw, repeating the same words that were sounding all around him. “Come to us man to man. And we will see who is the better, man or spirit.”

  In answer, another lightning bolt hit the village, followed by a thunderous peal. Then came another electrical flash, another and another one after the other without pause, until the day roared with the clamor of bursting dirt and the explosion of splitting rocks.

  No one escaped unscathed. Dirt, rocks, debris flew in all directions.

  It was a terrible thing to hear, a terrible thing to behold, and one might be of a mind to think that no human being could live through such a horror. And yet the people did. Few were seriously harmed.

  Then, amidst such chaos, came another sound, a sweet sound. It was as though there were voices in the sky, raised in song. Looking up, White Claw stood in awe as three great birds drifted slowly to earth. They were white birds, though their feathers glistened like all the colors of a rainbow.

  Such a sight should have alerted the people, for it is known amongst the Indians that a rainbow is a symbol of peace. But so deep was the rancor of the people, so involved were the warriors in their hatred, that none beheld the sight for what it was.

  Instead, from the mouth of every person came the cry of war. “It is the Thunderer’s children. Kill them. Kill them. Now, while we have the chance.”

  Perhaps, speaking in defense of the people, it should be stated here that there is no thinking amongst such an assembly; no thinking, no honor, no ethical inspiration. Such a mob, indeed, shares only the most base and ugly emotions of a race.

  And so the people’s deed came to pass. With great valor the beautiful songbirds were killed, and to the shame of the people, each warrior counted coup over the dead.

  When it was over, all the people dispersed except White Claw, who fell to the ground with his knife still clutched in his hand. For he, and perhaps he alone, realized the great wrong that had been done this day.

  “But, Grandfather,” piped up one of the young boys excitedly, “did you not count coup?”

  Sadly, the old medicine man nodded. “I do not believe there was a man amongst us who did not.”

  “What a heroic battle,” said another boy. “Weren’t you afraid?”

  “Aa, that I was. But I was not as afraid as I was caught up in an ugly emotion, one that took over my sense of what is the right thing to do, for this was not a deed of heroism.” White Claw sighed. “But I was young. Too young, I fear. For neither I, nor anyone else amongst our people, knew what terrible fate awaited us. And now I will tell you what happened. For the Thunderer is a fearful opponent, as we learned too late…”

  “My children,” cried out the Thunderer’s angry voice. “These were my children. You have killed them all.”

  The warriors stirred uneasily amongst themselves.

  “You human beings are not fit to live,” bellowed out the voice, each word spoken with more and more gusto. The wind commenced to blow, and the clouds began to spit hail, and the Thunderer said, “As you have killed, so too will I kill you. Do not be deceived. I shall destroy you all.”

  And so it began. What started with one thunderbolt became ten, then ten more, until perhaps a hundred of the deadly bolts had struck the village. Surely, this was it, this was the end of all, and the people scattered beneath such fury, scurrying here and there, searching for some cover that did not exist. Screams became commonplace, their howling pervading the village, and as each one sounded, it lodged deeply into the hearts of the warriors. For despite it all, the warriors knew now they had done wrong, and they realized too that it was each one o
f them who was to blame.

  Just as the people’s fate began to look the bleakest, there came a silence. A deadening silence it was too. Beneath it, the people stopped, shivering. Women, even some of the warriors, quivered, waiting.

  A voice came from overhead, a booming voice, yet one filled with compassion. “It is true that these people have acted shamefully.”

  Could it be? Was it the Creator come to life?

  The voice echoed with clarity, saying, “It is true that these people have killed something of great beauty. It is also certain that they must pay a price for their destructive ways.”

  “Yes,” said the Thunderer.

  “But perhaps,” bellowed the Creator, “these people should be punished in a different manner than that which you have intended.”

  “Nay!” roared the Thunderer. “A life for a life.”

  “Yes,” said the Creator. “A life for a life. But were there not but four of your children, my friend? Have you not already killed as many of these people?”

  There was a growl from overhead as the Thunderer retorted, “No amount of killing is great enough to repair my grief.”

  “Perhaps not,” spoke the Creator. “And I understand, my friend. Yet, to take two thousand lives…and some of them innocent? Is this a deed that makes a god heroic?”

  “I have no need to be a hero.”

  “Have you not? Yet, you have now four of their women in your possession. Is this not a deed speaking of some heroism?”

  “Nay, it is not. And you must not interfere.”

  “Think you so? And yet I am. I must.”

  In answer, the Thunderer boomed red sparks that spit through the darkened clouds like a fire gone wild. “But,” stormed the Thunderer, “these human beings took more than they needed in their kill, and they destroyed my first child when she came to earth to defend the buffalo. And now look what they have done. They have killed three more of my children, all that I have, and for no reason other than the people’s corrupt nature. Were my children not singing peace songs? Were they not wearing the color of the rainbow?”

  “Yes, yes,” said the Creator, “it is true. But to take two thousand lives in exchange for this is not something a spirit—or a man—should do without tremendous consideration.”

  Silence, deadly and ominous, was all that met this enlightenment.

  “No, my friend,” announced the Creator. “I have another plan. A better plan. One that gives these people a chance to redeem themselves.”

  “It will never happen; it should never happen.”

  “And yet, they must be given a chance.”

  “No!”

  “Yes. Here is what I will do,” spoke the Creator. “The people are to be banned into Oblivion…at least for a time.”

  “Nay!” cried the people.

  “Yes,” said the Creator. “They are to be banished to an ethereal existence, living not in the flesh, yet neither are they to be quite dead. Rather, the people will be cursed to live, yet not live, until—”

  “Yea,” interrupted the Thunderer. “This is a good plan.”

  “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 twice 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, fifty 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 fifty 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 conti
nued. “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.

  Chapter Three

  It is said that in all the world there is nothing so strong, so dutiful, or so binding as a daughter’s love for her father except, perhaps, that for her erring brother.