The Warning
This is a short piece I'm working on. It's gotten one revision and I am thinking of expanding it. I'm looking for some opinions. Right now its only about a thousand words, so it's a quick read. I'm sticking it behind the cut as to not annoy the friends list.
The beating of the drums and the calling of our voices brought the chindi from the fire. Forms played in the smoke and light, their feet unable to disturb the swept dirt around our circle. Burning embers and ashes swept up toward the sky, a column of hidden fire. The drums beat on and we saw a darkness break away and descend from the smoke. It appeared as if some great thing had lifted smoke away from the embers and was setting down for all of us to attend. The spirit was not from our tribe, and though it was bad luck to hear the words of the dead we listened.
My mother was Hanwi, my father was Wi. I am called Wicaša. My home is to the north and many days travel. I have hunted alongside the eagle. I have run with the rabbit nation. I have seen the great white buffalo. I have washed my body in the frozen river. The hunting was always good and the streams always swift. One winter a great storm overtook our valley, and for twenty days and nights cutting winds tore at our clothes and ice fell from the sky. The storm was so ferocious that the sun fled and refused to return, in fear that it would freeze and fall to the earth.
We had no water to drink for it had turned to ice. The wood we had cut for our fires froze together. The food we had saved shattered and broke in our mouths. So we sent four of our strongest in search of the sun, each in the four directions. One to the North, one to the south, one to the east, and I was sent west; for my arm was solid and my eye sharp. I set off west for three days and nights. No bird crossed the sky, and the wind tore at my clothing and cut my skin. But I would not turn back.
On the third morning I saw a great mountain rising in front of me. By the fourth day I had reached its base and began to climb. The going was hard, but my fingers found their purchase as I made my way up its ice covered slope. For many hours I climbed until I came upon a great cave near the mountains peak. Scattered about the ground were the bones of countless beasts. I saw buffalo carcasses, the bones of the great whale from the western sea, and others I could not place. From the mouth of the cave I could hear thunder. I could see lightning. I drew myself up to my full height and made my way into the darkness.
Through the cave I walked until I came upon a large open cavern. In the center of this cavern was a large nest. Bones, piled higher than any man could reach, were strung out around it. Perched up on the nest was a bird filling most of the space of the cavern.
“Great Bird,” I called out. “Are you the one who has sent the winter storm and driven the sun from the sky?” The bird shifted and brought its head down towards me. Its feathers rustled together with the sound of the rain on the hard stone, its eyes snapped and cracked with the lightning.
“No.” replied the great bird.
“Then who has done this?” I asked. “My people are cold, and hungry. We have no food to eat for it is frozen. We have no water to drink for it is frozen. We will surely die.” The bird stretched its wings and stepped out of the nest over the bones, its wings flapping thunder as it descended the bones to stand before me.
“The Takers are the cause of the storm. Those whose are never satisfied and consume all before them come from the east. The winter runs from them, for fear it will be eaten. The sun has fled not from the cold, but from the Takers.”
“Then you must warn my people, warn the other tribes. Together we can fight them.”
“I cannot warn your people or warn the other tribes. I am fleeing west away from the storm; away from the Takers. It is to you this task falls.” And with those words I departed the cave. I climbed down the cold mountain and I made my way across the land.
From fire to fire and from tribe to tribe I have travelled. I carry a warning. The Taker’s are coming. They will consume the land and the people until there is nothing left. We must call the dance. We must fight. There is still hope.
The chindi faded away with the drums and the chants. It’s form curling back into the smoke. With a sigh I stood up from the cooler I was seated on and fished my Marlboros out of my pocket. I stood there for a moment and flicked the half smoked cigarette into the dying embers of the fire. The others had already begun to pack away their drums and other belongings. Cars grunted to life in the cold predawn. I hefted the cooler into the back of my pickup and shut the tail gate. Climbing into the cab I sighed and rubbed the smoke from my eyes. My throat was raw, and all I could think of was getting home for a beer and a little bit of TV.
We left the sacred grounds alone or in groups, our vehicles pulling off the dirt road and heading in separate directions. We would meet again next month, and like the months before he would come again. The same warning, always too late. As I drove and the sun began peaking over the horizon I looked to the west. A storm was building. I could hear thunder. I could see lightning.
The beating of the drums and the calling of our voices brought the chindi from the fire. Forms played in the smoke and light, their feet unable to disturb the swept dirt around our circle. Burning embers and ashes swept up toward the sky, a column of hidden fire. The drums beat on and we saw a darkness break away and descend from the smoke. It appeared as if some great thing had lifted smoke away from the embers and was setting down for all of us to attend. The spirit was not from our tribe, and though it was bad luck to hear the words of the dead we listened.
My mother was Hanwi, my father was Wi. I am called Wicaša. My home is to the north and many days travel. I have hunted alongside the eagle. I have run with the rabbit nation. I have seen the great white buffalo. I have washed my body in the frozen river. The hunting was always good and the streams always swift. One winter a great storm overtook our valley, and for twenty days and nights cutting winds tore at our clothes and ice fell from the sky. The storm was so ferocious that the sun fled and refused to return, in fear that it would freeze and fall to the earth.
We had no water to drink for it had turned to ice. The wood we had cut for our fires froze together. The food we had saved shattered and broke in our mouths. So we sent four of our strongest in search of the sun, each in the four directions. One to the North, one to the south, one to the east, and I was sent west; for my arm was solid and my eye sharp. I set off west for three days and nights. No bird crossed the sky, and the wind tore at my clothing and cut my skin. But I would not turn back.
On the third morning I saw a great mountain rising in front of me. By the fourth day I had reached its base and began to climb. The going was hard, but my fingers found their purchase as I made my way up its ice covered slope. For many hours I climbed until I came upon a great cave near the mountains peak. Scattered about the ground were the bones of countless beasts. I saw buffalo carcasses, the bones of the great whale from the western sea, and others I could not place. From the mouth of the cave I could hear thunder. I could see lightning. I drew myself up to my full height and made my way into the darkness.
Through the cave I walked until I came upon a large open cavern. In the center of this cavern was a large nest. Bones, piled higher than any man could reach, were strung out around it. Perched up on the nest was a bird filling most of the space of the cavern.
“Great Bird,” I called out. “Are you the one who has sent the winter storm and driven the sun from the sky?” The bird shifted and brought its head down towards me. Its feathers rustled together with the sound of the rain on the hard stone, its eyes snapped and cracked with the lightning.
“No.” replied the great bird.
“Then who has done this?” I asked. “My people are cold, and hungry. We have no food to eat for it is frozen. We have no water to drink for it is frozen. We will surely die.” The bird stretched its wings and stepped out of the nest over the bones, its wings flapping thunder as it descended the bones to stand before me.
“The Takers are the cause of the storm. Those whose are never satisfied and consume all before them come from the east. The winter runs from them, for fear it will be eaten. The sun has fled not from the cold, but from the Takers.”
“Then you must warn my people, warn the other tribes. Together we can fight them.”
“I cannot warn your people or warn the other tribes. I am fleeing west away from the storm; away from the Takers. It is to you this task falls.” And with those words I departed the cave. I climbed down the cold mountain and I made my way across the land.
From fire to fire and from tribe to tribe I have travelled. I carry a warning. The Taker’s are coming. They will consume the land and the people until there is nothing left. We must call the dance. We must fight. There is still hope.
The chindi faded away with the drums and the chants. It’s form curling back into the smoke. With a sigh I stood up from the cooler I was seated on and fished my Marlboros out of my pocket. I stood there for a moment and flicked the half smoked cigarette into the dying embers of the fire. The others had already begun to pack away their drums and other belongings. Cars grunted to life in the cold predawn. I hefted the cooler into the back of my pickup and shut the tail gate. Climbing into the cab I sighed and rubbed the smoke from my eyes. My throat was raw, and all I could think of was getting home for a beer and a little bit of TV.
We left the sacred grounds alone or in groups, our vehicles pulling off the dirt road and heading in separate directions. We would meet again next month, and like the months before he would come again. The same warning, always too late. As I drove and the sun began peaking over the horizon I looked to the west. A storm was building. I could hear thunder. I could see lightning.