[Fiction] The prophecy of Black Elk

[Wakinyan]

Prelude: December 12, 1931

A cold biting wind whipped across the Big Horn mountains of northern Wyoming. A group of weathered individuals some would call them Indians, in a later more politically correct age they would be called Native Americans. But what they were truly was Lakota. Four younger men and women followed an elderly man up a escarpment of granite until they stood upon the top of the mountain. The youths seemed winded by the ascent but the old man moved forward unhindered by the trek, cold wind or altitude.

Black Elk made his way across the arête he and his group now stood upon and took in the view for a moment. Thankfully this was one of the few places that the whites had yet to take from them. He looked in all directions and except for the dirt road far below in the valley (which they had used themselves to get here) there was no sign of encroachment. He nodded to himself with a small measure of satisfaction as his old eyes turned toward the goal of the pilgrimage. A large cairn of rocks stood a short distance away. From that twenty eight rock formed spokes extending to a ring of granite stones that circled the formation. It had been undisturbed and that was good. It had been here as long as he could remember which, was a long time. Black Elk could still recall the battle against Custer’s long knives that took place not far to the north. He could still feel the bullet that struck him down at Wounded Knee. But the wheel had remained despite all that had happened to the people.

Walking left along the rim of the great medicine wheel Black Elk gathered a handful of ground tobacco leaves. At each compass point he would stop and speak a prayer for the dead and the world some of the crushed leaves would flutter away into the wind Wakan Tanka receiving the offering that the old man offered. Quietly behind him two men and women who accompanied him followed saying their own prayers. Once the circle was completed Black Elk made his way into the center of the wheel. Carefully pulling up one of the stones of the central cairn he produced a wrapped red cloth that contained rolled hair sprouting from either end. As he began a slow chanting song he placed the sacred bundle in the cairn and placed the rock upon it. After this he raised his voice so his prayer floated into the wind to be carried to the ear of the great mystery of all things.

After the prayer Black Elk seemed to lose the vitality that carried him to the top of the narrow ridge and lead him through the prayer. His seventy year old body needed a rest and so he sat on one of the large stones that made the medicine wheel’s center. The four companions joined him once they were done with their own prayers. They gathered squatting or standing in front of him as the old man took a deep breath and spoke.

“When I was young I was angry. I fought the White man and took as many scalps as I could. I did not understand why our people suffered and died. I thought if we killed enough that they would leave us and go back across the great water.” Wearily the gray haired man shook his head. “Only much later when there was no warpath left to walk that I began to realize and accept this was Wakan Tanka’s will. Everything lives and dies and in the great wheel the Lakota and all the people who were here before the white had to accept their place upon that wheel. We are now upon the winter for the Indian. We live but do not live. Like the trees are now slumbering so to are the Lakota this we must accept.”

Mary Thunder-Hawk was the first to speak she was young and youth bred a boldness that did now always have the benefit of wisdom behind it however the young woman had a question that was on the mind of the four who had joined Black Elk. “When will be the spring then Wichasha Wakan? How long must our people suffer through this winter before the warmth of a spring touches the face of our people?”

As the young Lakota woman spoke Black Elk pulled a handful of sage from the satchel at his side. He lit one end of the twisted sage with a Zippo lighter he had fished from his pocket. Immediately a thick white cloud of smoke was produced and carefully he brought it to either side of his face. Putting away the Zippo he used his free hand to cup the smoke and brush it over his head with a quick prayer. Once he had done so he handed it to the person closest to him and they repeated the process as Black Elk answered Mary.

“I accept that I will go upon the spirit path before our people see that day. The four of you will likely join me upon the path before that day. But Wakan Tanka does not abandon us. Your children’s children will see that day come.”

Mary who had taken her turn with burning sage passed it on to the next of them. She looked annoyed her impatience came through her voice. “So generations from now our people will begin to live again, not be destitute or hungry. Our men’s hands not tied to a bottle of illegal booze. We must suffer though the winter and never see the blossoms of spring and you say Wakan Tanka loves us?!”

Black Elk laughed, it was a deep laugh that seemed to be in response to a joke that no one had heard. “Wakan Tanka loves all things but all things suffer in winter. Why are we to be different? We do not live outside the sacred hoop. The White man thinks he does but in time he to will have a winter. Even then he might not accept it but you do not have to believe in the great circle to be a part of it.”

Mary was annoyed but she relented finally. “If there is nothing to be done then we simply must endure.”

The old man shook his head. “No not just endure. We must prepare, we must keep our traditions alive. We must keep our language and ways known to our children. So that they are not lost when the spring comes once more, there is much to do Thunder-Hawk once I am gone it is up to you….” He gestured not just to Mary but the three others as well. “to keep the Lakota strong during this time of death.”

Mary nodded she suddenly felt overwhelmed. The weight of a people and their culture would rest upon her. She looked at a gathering of stones outside the great wheel but spoke to Black Elk. “At least they will have the spring.”

Back Elk laughed again once more at the joke of wisdom he had but the others had yet to learn. “And spring is so easy? Yes the Lakota will live once more. Tatanka will return to us but when has a spring ever been easy? With the spring comes Wakiya.” Mary blinked and looked back at the old man. “What did you expect Thunder-Hawk? The name you carry has more meaning than you know. The spring is rebirth but birth is never easy. Wakiya will return the messenger of Wakan Tanka.”

The old man nodded to himself. “The Lakota will live again upon the wings of the thunderbird but we must never forget that Wakiya is the storm and storms of spring can kill just as easily as the cold of winter can.”

[Wakinyan]

September 6th, 2016

The thunderbird flew in the starry starry night. Motes of glowing blue vapor swirling off his mighty wings. The indigo of his luminous eyes spread over his massive body creating patterns across the muscled frame and magnificent wings.

In the clear Wyoming sky over Inyan Kara Wakinyan shone as brightly as the crescent moon that hung overhead. Riding currents as easily as a person walked along a sidewalk Wakinyan was lost in thought, heedless of the cometary like tail of illumination he created behind him he soared.

It was a never ending cycle that could not be stopped. Violence seemed to permeate not only his existence but all of the race he now found himself a part of. Timeslip killing the Utopian, The recent attack in Chicago, Flicker, Meghan, Sylvan... Vixen.

A beat of his wings took him higher into the night sky. Those among his people that believed him to be the answer to the Ghost Dance bothered him. It wasn't that he did not want to take back the Black Hills. There was little he wanted more but the violence some required. The blood spilled in vengeance. It would only end in more sorrow for his people.

The thunderbird was free but he felt like he was back in the box that the Knights had put him in. A box there was no way out of but violence. If he didn't find it would assuredly find him again.

The glowing ether around him began to coalesce, indigo wings over his own until there was no griffin but a gigantic glowing raptor of blue with lightning for eyes. The warpath called to Wakinyan, it seemed like the right and wrong thing to do all at once. How could he lead anyone if not himself? Snarling in frustration he snapped his beak shut and looked down at the reservoir he flew over.

At first he did not know what he was looking at. It was a beautiful gigantic creature bright and clear against the sparkling night sky. With a startled click of the tongue he realized it was only himself he looked at enshrouded in a form of his own creation. The long tail drifted behind him in the night sky a blazing contrail across the sky.

In his mind he realized he was his own omen. Babies born on this night would be named after him. People would talk of it in revered awe. Interstate 90 was beneath him as he circled in the night sky. The few cars along it had actually stopped, drivers gawking at the sight of the giant radiant form that dominated the night sky.

Wakinyan turned back toward his mountain home on the horizon. His question had been answered but he had to understand it. The time for change was upon him and the fine line between disaster and salvation seemed almost to thin for him to walk.

Lucky for him he could fly.