Black Eagle Child
The Facepaint Narratives
For my beloved grandmother,
Ada K. Old Bear, whose
mystical cloak
protects me
from the icy rain.
It was her words
of encouragement
that led me
to Well-Off Man—
and back.
The Well-Off Man Church
November 1965
The Thanksgiving party at the Weeping Willow Elementary
School had just concluded with the same lethargic atmosphere
it started with. Poor planning and late hand-delivered
newsletters by the Limelighters contributed
to a disappointing evening for the few families
of the Black Eagle Child Settlement who had arrived
early with lawn chairs, blankets, and children
predressed in ornate dance costumes. The fresh,
striking smell of mimeo ink had once again lured
reclusive people out of their homes to join
the Why Cheer High School Indian girls’ club
for refreshments—and a pow-wow. Dolores Fox-King,
club president, encouraged community attendance
“for national holidays are celebrated by Indians, too!”
But tribal members were keenly aware affairs
such as Christmas, Halloween, and Easter
were meaningless. More so when wrapped gifts
and fine grotesque masks were unnecessary expenditures;
hard-boiled eggs, of course, were easy to decorate
and hide. As a child, colored eggs symbolized
the return of baskets filled with resilient
green grass, imitation chicks, and chocolate rabbits.
Although these items were donated by the Presbyterian
Mission, our guardians convinced us it was their doing.
Like the time my mother, Clotelde Principal Bear,
walked out from the frozen creek with a stocking
gift-monkey, I knew it came from the mission
by its old clothes, blankets-used-by-mice smell.
And with year’s end came satanic celebration
via carved pumpkins, witches on brooms,
and paper skeletons. There was also the birth
(death and resurrection?) of a sad-looking
bearded white man known as the son of God.
But even He was far away from our despair,
like the turkeys, stuffing, and cranberries
that were absent from most tables. This get-together,
I mused, was further indication
of our inability to chronologically set
social plans into motion, another attempt
to duplicate another man’s observance.
While we were a “tribe” in every respect,
it was unconscionable to help another
individual, family, or clan achieve
any degree of success in their public
endeavors. Behind the pretense
of cooperation were razor-sharp
anchors that raked and dug into
the visions of our grandfathers.
The girls’ club, for example, was aptly
represented by the influential Kingfisher,
Sturgeon, Bearcap, Hummingbird, Fox-King,
and Beaver clans, but what mattered the most
was leadership. Ideally, it had to mirror
politics. But everyone knew otherwise.
Community affairs were unjustly manipulated
by a group of progressive visionaries.
If there was an inkling of sympathy
for reinstating divine leadership,
the atmosphere was readjusted by these
illiterate dreamers. Everything was monitored,
including the girls’ club: the Fox-King sisters
were there, as usual, headstrong and obnoxious,
as were the Foxchild cousins and the plain Fox
twins, mixed-bloods. Also present were three
of the Water Runner sisters and their Red Boy
advisers. Standing to the side, where they
should be, were the Critical Ones. And
represented at every event was the clan
cursed to a hundred years of suicides,
the Excluded Ones.
It would never work—existence to the year
2000. Although our foreheads were not
misshapened with cedar slats from childhood
to denote tribal class, our Black Eagle Child
society was based on names. Our ancestors’
bones did not have glittering jewels inlaid
in their teeth to tell us of social structures;
instead, names were carried from one fortunate
or unfortunate generation to the next. The clash
between deities of the land, water, and sky
was imminent for human beings as well.
What our supernatural predecessors
experienced, it was said, we would
relive. It was part of our mythology—
and religion. But this was 1965,
and we were older and more stationary
in time.
The brass-studded octagon hide drum sat
upright at the center of the glossy Bureau
of Indian Affairs gymnasium floor, and the few
old men and women who entertained themselves
for a couple of hours with this instrument
through song and dance now sipped cool coffee
and chatted idly about recent community events.
The booming echo of the traditional percussion
instrument and the high nasal tones of the women-hummers
became forgotten sounds lodged
in the corners of the beamed ceiling.
In its place was gossip. There were, as always,
initial dismay and then gradual acceptance
of local atrocities: Rose Grassleggings
had again forgiven her husband for unusual
acts he allegedly committed on her daughters,
three of them. Judith, the oldest, was said
to drift in and out of dreams, night or day,
with her mouth slightly ajar; Christina,
the middle child who once had the loveliest
slanted eyes, was permanently cross-eyed;
and Brook, the youngest, was hidden from
the public. There was outrage, but no one
did anything. Castration was a mere fantasy
“under the influence” among the girls’ skinny
uncles. And then there was Claude Youthman,
who terrorized a carload of state dignitaries
in downtown Why Cheer for “laughing too long”
at his wife. When the wife was asked by
the farmer selling produce if she had
“a sack or anything to put it (the cantaloupe)
in,” the Indian woman panicked at what she
mistook as an obscene suggestion.
She could only stutter back, “Put it in?”
Before the limousine took direct cantaloupe hits,
the men who had brought promises of twenty
houses with indoor plumbing for the tribe
found this misinterpretation highly amusing.
The Farmers Market standoff might have been
funny, but everyone knew Claude’s brother,
a trained sniper, had the white men
in the cross hairs of his telescope
in case the confrontation escalated.
The limousine and its promises drove
away and never returned. And every week
Lorna Bearcap made the news. Yesterday
commodity surplus flour was poured over
her lover and stepchild. With white powdery
faces they could be seen running through
the valley before crying in horror.
This, the people speculated, was a result
of the turmoil in being unenrolled.
There had been knives and deliberate
bloodletting in the past. “What’s next?”
the people said. There was a firm belief
in tribalhood, equality, and fairness,
but in truth we were such a burden
to each other, an encumbrance, that
our chances of advancing into a reasonable
state of cultural acquiescence diminished
with each novel prejudice acquired.
There were instances of how we went
to extraordinary measures to impede
understanding, humanity, and the overwhelming
future.
All this internalized agony led us to hurt
or seriously injure one another for no reason
other than sheer disgust in being Indians.
Seasons determined the type of aggression people
would vent on one another. The full moons of summer
were notorious, and falls were utterly depressing.
Religious ceremonies were at their peak,
but the train of death ran parallel with ancient
beliefs, picking up passengers left and right.
“Do me a favor,” drunks would say in morbid jest
before passing out, “kill me.” But everyone
would wake up nauseated by the fact they
were still alive. This reality aggravated
the weak but dangerous ones who then took
it out on their innocent families. Many here
knowingly broke the law, and the rest became
accessories to crime. (The most famous was
the January 1936 drowning of three conservation
officers by twenty spearfishermen. No one
questioned the “stupid white man on weak ice”
story.) We kept awful secrets but dared not
to expose others for fear we would one day
have relatives in similar trouble. And if
the vicious vortex of a community of accessories
wasn’t enough, the law in the nearby twintowns
of Why Cheer and Gladwood didn’t care “one
stinkin’ skin” if guns were pointed and shot
as long as we were on the other end. Investigations
were quick and ineffective. Also taking
part in this condemnation were newspapers which
gave our people nicknames like Cucumber
Man, Muskrat Bob, and Indianapolis Isabel.
Sadly, this trio had the distinction of being
arrested for intoxication fifty times apiece
in three years, and through them was found
the justification to ridicule us in public.
Whenever the promises they made in court—
to pay fines or do community duty—were broken
because of a lull in cucumber harvests, fur trapping,
and amateur stock car races, anyone who could read
knew. We were kept abreast of their trials
through extensive quotes. Instead of the funnies
rural folk turned to the court news for “looking
down at the pits of society” time. It became
normal to hear police make jokes like, “I’ve seen
and fought with more redskins than Custer.”
For campaign publicity mayors would frequently
chase juvenile delinquents over our graveyards,
apprehend them with handcuffs, and pose
for photographs reminiscent of hunters
on an African safari. And it was over these
very graves that I silently wished my friends
and relatives farewell, knowing their harsh
journeys were over with while mine was just
beginning. The suicides, however, had no place
to go; they were stuck as shadows somewhere,
watching and wishing …
Near the hallway entrance to the gymnasium,
Ted Facepaint and I stood and watched the Limelighters
walk across the length of the basketball
court with their long brooms, picking up dust,
pebbles, crumpled paper cups, and cigarette
butts. Beside us, we could hear plans being
made for a collection to facilitate a party
at Lone Ranger or South Street. Since Ted
and I didn’t have money, we were ignored.
Like persistent fools, however, we stood
around nervously hoping for an invitation.
The ten-mile round-trip walk to the small
farming community of Why Cheer had become
a weekend highlight. With the cheapest beer
possible, Grain Belt, we would return over
the Milwaukee tracks, singing off pitch
and talking profanely to block the invisible
pain of midwestern Americana. The fact that alcohol-related
tragedies occurred on the cool rails
never bothered us as much as being penniless.
As the group turned to count their money, Ted
thought for a while before suggesting we
attend his grandfather’s annual Thanksgiving
ceremonial gathering. Among the six beliefs
of the tribe, this sect was the least I knew
anything of. Either they were discreet or people
made it a point not to talk about them.
I was aware people called them Those Who Partake.
But boldly stenciled in English on a mailbox
on Whiskey Corners Road was the name they preferred:
the Well-Off Man Church, a name which amused me.
Before I could respond with a “no,” Ted began
telling me about the gathering itself—
the church: “We pray and cleanse ourselves
with an imported medicine from distant desert
valleys owned by members of the Well-Off Man
congregation. Further, if this plant,
which is a form of mushroom, is ingested
and the mind is free of bad thoughts,
it produces a pleasant intoxicating effect.”
So anxious to do something and feeling
largely abandoned by people who I thought
were friends disappearing into the night
toward Why Cheer, I apprehensively agreed
with his proposal. We started our walk uphill,
the opposite direction. In a hopeless gesture,
I turned around to have a final look. The group
had transformed into shapeless objects
followed by the small red glow of their
cigarettes.
Afflicted with a speech impediment since infancy—
his brothers “baptized” him in a flooded
creek where a “strange germ” lurked—Ted laughed
wholesomely whenever my younger brother, Al,
called him Three-Speed after the Schwinn
English bike we all marveled in comic books.
Whenever Ted’s verbalization slowed down,
Al would remind Ted to “change gears like
a three-speed.” Ted would raise his eyebrows
and inhale deeply and accelerate, walking faster,
talking more rapidly. Since the bike was a luxury
we would never possess (no one ever sold enough
salve or garden seeds to own one), Facepaint
treasured the dream. It represented self-improvement
in school and society. I pondered about this as we
were walking, for our paces were different and more
apparent in motion. (But that was how our later lives
were to be: his impediments would one day cease while
mine would fester.) Before we reached the turnoff
on the community’s main gravel road, a squawking
pheasant broke into flight from a utility pole,
startling us. Sensing it was perhaps an omen,
we stopped to take deep, long breaths.
Above us in the central Iowa sky,
the stars shone immaculately, and the pine
valley road was well lit. As soon as Ted spotted
the dim porch light through the trees, he began
to brief me on what to expect, what to do
and not do, that except for a child or two
we would probably be the youngest people
in attendance. “If it was summer,”
Ted said excitedly, “we would descend
into the salamander effigy which overlooks
the lowlands and rivers. The medicine’s
effect is spectacular under the earth.
Tonight’s gathering, however, will be held
inside Circles-Back’s house. Just remember,
Edgar, should it come to you as an emetic,
there are empty coffee cans for that specific
purpose. Try not to think of throwing up,
no matter how terrible the taste.”
As we approached the house I thought it
was odd to see eight to ten cars parked near
a house at night. All being sober family types.
Once we stepped inside the warm kitchen
a familiar herbal odor filled my nose
and fogged my thick, black-framed glasses,
giving both of us a chance to relax and blend
into the solemn but tense activity. We unzipped
our coats and wiped our glasses on our shirttails.
Plump women wearing floral-print aprons
were exchanging news and busying themselves
with pots, pans, and firewood; men in western
shirts and ironed dress-slacks were puffing
cigarettes in the adjoining room. We were each
accorded a second of attention. Ted secretly
signaled his aunt Louise Stabs Back.
She politely excused herself from the table
where she directed the meticulous cutting,
cleaning, and sorting of both fresh and dry plants
Ted called A na qwa mi ke tti i o ni, Star-Medicine.
“Aunt Louise, this is Edgar Bearchild, Ka ka to.
Do you think Grandfather would give approval
for a visitor?” His short, cherubic aunt looked
up at us with warm eyes and calmly replied,
“Ted, I know who he is. His grandmother,
Ada Principal Bear, sometimes helps with
the cooking for the feast. Perhaps she may
even be here tomorrow.”
Without realizing it, I nodded in agreement.
Upon careful reflection I thought this must be
the place where my grandmother often walked,
even on the coldest winter day, to help out
with the feast—like she did with every
religious group on the Settlement.
From across the room I noticed Ted’s war-hero
uncle, Clayton Carlson Facepaint, coming toward
us in a low boxing stance. In the forties
Clayton became well known in the service
for his pugilistic ability. I had read
old newsclippings of his unheralded boxing
exploits. One headline read: “Champion
Joe Louis Spars with Indian Fighter
for War Bonds.” Later, Clayton was perhaps
the only Indian in the county—or state—
invited to join and fly bombing missions
with the RAF. He eventually became a prisoner
of war but escaped from Hider’s forces
by cartwheeling down a mountainside
and joined the French underground
where he waged successful strikes against
ammunition and fuel depots. Nowadays,
he was feared by all for his skills
in hand-to-hand combat; with one abrupt pinch
or swift chop to the delicate shoulders
or necks of abusive people, red or white,
he could literally put anyone’s lights out.
When he rotated his stocky body toward me,
I cautiously stepped back and nearly fell over
the woodpile. In blinding speed he hooked Ted hard
in the ribs several times, and Ted took it
without flinching. Clayton straightened up
to chuckle and congratulate Ted. He then stared
at me with squinty, knowing eyes.
“You remember?” he asked in a near whisper.
I knew what he was referring to right away;
I remembered the lewd, drunken comment
he made one night about his Caucasian
wife as he forced me to drive him home
from town. Doogie was what he called
her—an Indian reference for a person’s
frame spread apart. Out of nervousness
I must have been humored by this,
for he repeated it slowly again in my ear.
I quit breathing, not wanting to inhale
the pungent smell of chewing tobacco.
“The red-headed woman I love is so chubby
she’s got balls.” Detecting a hint of seriousness
this time, I pretended to be stricken with wonder.
“I have another one for you, Child Edgar Bear,”
he said while raking his butch with a metal comb.
“Listen to this: big rabbits, big white ones
with red ‘Thumper’ eyes.” I shrugged my shoulders,
indicating I didn’t know the joke, but images
from Bambi flashed in my mind in technicolor.
By Walt Disney. After Walter Cronkite.
Mutual of Omaha. And Walt Hill, Nebraska,
near Winnebago on the ridge where this portly
Mongolian warrior held up the caravan
of horses and wagons with a bullwhip.
Like a dazzling savior, Ted’s grandfather,
who was dressed in a dark blue suit and pants
with gray pinstripes, came out from the living room
and nodded his white-haired head. His attire
reminded me of someone from the notorious
Al Capone era; it was magnificent.
“Come on!” Ted said with a grin,
breaking my thoughts from “The Untouchables”
and the piercing, authoritative voice of its
narrator, Walter Winchell.
“Let’s go in before he changes his mind.”
We entered an unfurnished living room, which looked
and smelled newly constructed. The floorboards
creaked, and the pine lumber scent was overpowering.
Worn pillows and Pendleton blankets were lined up
neatly at the base of the drywalls.
To the south I closely examined
a framed painting of Jesus Christ,
who was descending from the billowy clouds
with a lamb cradled in his arms.
The yellow halo was the brightest object
in the glazed oil painting. “My brother,
Christian, did that,” remarked Ted proudly.
The artwork itself was the best I had ever
seen on the Settlement, but I failed to see
its significance. Christianity was the white
man’s belief. What the hell is it doing here?
I quietly asked myself.
Soon, people from the other rooms began
to filter in and choose their respective places.
The elder Facepaint sat on the north side,
and he was arranging what appeared to be altar-pieces.
But they were set on top of a crumpled
reed mat imprinted with English letters.
After a difficult time trying to read
the words upside down, I vocalized further
disbelief: “THE LORD LOVES AND WATCHES OVER
THIS HOUSE.” Ted tugged my arm and told me
to sit down; we sat below the painting
of Christ. From a small battered briefcase
the elder Facepaint took out a tin “salt-shaker”
rattle with a sparkling beaded
handle and topped with a stiff tassel of deer
hair. Next came four salamander figurines
in black, yellow, red, and light-blue earth
dyes. They protruded lifelike halfway out
of their own separate leather pouches,
positioned to the four cardinal points
around a cast-iron kettle. The elder
Facepaint began inhaling deeply, and I
could see this clearly for he had no teeth.
The loose, aged skin below his cheekbones
outlined this fact. Almost statuesque
in his white shirt and black bow tie
fastened by a German silver star,
the old man sat straight up in
preparation for a prayer. From
the sputter of air on skin, the words
gradually became audible. “For this very reason,
Holy Grandfather, we have gathered here tonight—
to essentially be together, to pray. A multitude
of reasons binds us. You know me as no stranger,
You, Holy Grandfather, the giver of eternal
medicine …”
Ted’s cousins, Norman and Asa Green Thunder,
knelt beside their praying grandfather.
At some given point in the sermon, they began
measuring and stretching the drum hide over
the small kettle’s brim. Speckled and striped
marbles were individually placed beneath
the hide. A white cord was then looped
around each marble over the hide. The kettle’s
stumpy tripod legs held the white cord
to the marble-posts in an intricate star
pattern. Before the last marble-post
was secured, steaming A na qwa o ni tea
was poured into the kettle, including fresh
pieces. Next a deer tine was used to tighten
the cord, stretching the drum hide even tighter.
Ted’s grandfather scrutinized each movement
in the course of his Thanksgiving prayer,
and if there was a slight error or time
lapse committed by his jittery grandsons,
he stopped the proceedings and apologized
to the small water drum which was being
handled and dressed like a small person.
When that was done, he gently shook
the drum and sprinkled the hide with water.
“Ki tti tta ki tti ta bi wa ki ko ye a ki?
Has everyone sat down?” he queried
into the kitchen. “Very well. I will begin
by commenting on our two grandchildren,
ko tti se me na na ki, who have chosen wisely
to sit with us on this occasion. It is indeed
a good thing, but they must be told this
congregation and its divine purposes aren’t
for fun. There are serious considerations
to make, and they will no doubt come into
contact with our very words, feelings—
and thoughts tonight. They must tell
themselves repeatedly not to feel unkindly
toward our sacrament, which is after all
our sole means of spiritual communion.
Other people within the community
have callously equated A na qwa o ni
to eye matter of a negative deity,
but for us, the Well-Off Man Church,
all the good we know in this world lies
within the medicinal qualities of our
Star-Medicine …”
Ted and I listened with our heads bowed down;
we were slightly embarrassed for causing concern
and attention. Both of our heads jumped when
the old man pounded out the four introductory
notes on the drum. The Green Thunder cousins
quickly repositioned themselves on each side
of their stout grandfather. In a low voice
Ted told me his grandfather and two cousins
represented the Three Stars-in-a-Row,
the Orion constellation. “Stars symbolize
our religious beginnings.” Norman Green Thunder
looked very attentive as he gripped a maple
sapling “struck by lightning” and wrapped
with stringy vine: the staff. The younger
brother, Asa, was securing a pin above
the salt-shaker rattle.
“Following my grandfather’s songs,
one will sing while the other drums.”
It was hard to envision these two brothers
as nocturnal musicians. For the old man,
their grandfather, it wasn’t.
Mesmerized by his eloquent words
and physical gestures—for the drum—
I was unaware all eyes were on me.
In particular, there was an Alexis Bearcap,
whose bulging gray eyes resembled the marbles
under the drum hide, mixed-blood eyes too huge
for their sockets. He was overly intrusive,
and I tried to stare back. He’s exactly
like Lorna, his crazy sister, I fumed.
I soon realized my hostility was unwarranted
for I was the outsider. Everyone—acquaintances
and visiting Indians—would ostensibly view
my presence as an intrusion. I became acutely
self-conscious and trembled. There were about
twenty-five people in the room, more men
than women. Some of the women who assisted
earlier in the kitchen now sat across
from me, bundled up in Pendleton blankets
and perspiring heavily. My anxiety
subsided somewhat when each person,
except Alexis, caught my eye
and acknowledged me with an almost
undetectable nod or wink.
Among them I recognized “Mr. Jim Matcheena”
(the way we were taught to address him in school),
a short, comical, and loquacious sort of fellow
who made a point of being at all gatherings,
ceremonial or social. Although he was retired
as a government maintenance man from Weeping
Willow Elementary, he had a habit of wearing
his dark green khaki work clothes every day.
He grinned perpetually at everyone and anything.
He ambled about in a tottering manner,
and his short height brought him down
to the level of children who would flock
around him, myself included, to wait
for clownish tricks and Juicy Fruit gum.
However, long before he first noticed
signs of my manhood during mandatory group
showers at school in fifth and sixth grade,
Mr. Matcheena stood out in my earliest memories:
on the morning of my grandfather’s funeral
feast in 1954, I woke up and found him
holding a bucket of dishes and cups above me.
But he wasn’t looking at me. He was instead
totally enthralled with a young teenaged girl,
Elizabeth Marie, who slept beside me. Her lace-trimmed
dress had rolled up past her navel,
exposing her soft, lithe body.
“Touch her,” he said as he saw me wide awake.
“Touch her right here.” Before he could say
anything else or act on his absurd suggestion,
one of the woman cooks, outside, perhaps
Elizabeth’s mother, yelled out,
“Jim! Bye to no be na a na ka na nai!
Bring the dishes (promptly)!”
The trance broken, he grunted
in disdain and walked out the door.
Afterward, whenever I saw him, he would joke
around: a mime reenacting that particular morning
years ago. He knew I remembered. Amid the loss
of my grandfather curiosity for the female
anatomy was firmly established. I never saw
the pretty Elizabeth Marie again. I later
learned she had asked social authorities
in town to send her away or she would
“die like her three sisters and mother.”
They obliged the precocious Indian girl
without question. Her father had jeopardized
her future at Black Eagle Child by selling
sacred items, information, and songs
to museums in Washington, D.C., and Germany.
All the daughters except Elizabeth perished
under mysterious circumstances.
Next to Mr. Jim Matcheena sat John Louis,
who frequently called himself “just another
demented soul.” I never knew its exact meaning,
but it always sounded impressive. With a redtail
hawk fan in front of half his face, John
peered at me capriciously. He would flick
the fan to the left and then right,
showing his scarred face. At twenty,
he was a lover of alcohol like his father.
While his face was slightly deformed from
automobile accidents, John had a pleasant,
outgoing demeanor. In fact, he had lots
of friends; most were attracted by the adult
characteristics he exuded. We called each other
Chicken Soup after a diagram he once drew
in school of the male reproductive system.
John Louis blocked his eyes with the hawk fan
and silently mouthed the words. I looked away
to keep what little composure I had.
The elder Facepaint’s opening prayer touched
all aspects of tribal life. He mentioned the need
for people of all faiths to cooperate, and he asked
God to care for the ill whether they were present
or elsewhere. He also asked for the safe return
of sons in the armed forces overseas. He concluded
Indians basically had little to be thankful for
on this national holiday, but what was crucial
was continuation of our culture. “We make use
of this special time because we are home
and together.” Following this, he requested
the First Fire Keeper, X. J. Louis, to bring in
ashes for the incense purification of the altar
and the four “watching salamanders.”
The First Fire Keeper came in with a metal toy
shovel and placed it in front of his father,
who then sprinkled cedar incense over
the red ashes. The smoking shovel was circulated
to each of the members, and when it came to me,
I copied their movements: I liberally fanned
myself with smoke and rubbed my arms with it.
Everyone had their own unique way
of purifying themselves. Some used fans
decorated with serrated feathers of pheasants
or exotic birds, while others, especially
the older ones, appeared to be washing themselves
with the liquid and fragrant blue smoke.
Several applied it on their throats
and over their hearts with fans made
from the wings of eagles.
Gift of the Star-Medicine
After this ritual cleansing was done by everyone,
I was quickly overcome by a sense of giddiness
at my lack of form. I was never a good imitator.
There was a moment when I almost broke into
a foolish grin. I most certainly would have,
but the elder Facepaint took everyone’s
attention by gently shaking and nudging
the “child” drum as if from its nap.
Norman Green Thunder, with his oily Elvis Presley
hairdo and Hawaiian floral-print shirt,
drew the drum between his knees and tilted it
at a forty-five-degree angle toward the white
female oak drumstick clutched firmly
in his right hand. Norman’s wide, light-complexioned
face was taut and extra-smooth:
a visage which reminded me of a strong
and defiant channel catfish,
right down to the Fu Manchu mustache.
Norman cleared his throat in nervousness.
As he began to drum he held and bent his left
arm and hand down to the drum’s brim and tuned
the wet resonating hide with his roving thumb.
When the tone faltered, like an engine starter
on a below-zero morning, Norman slowed the beat
and retilted the drum to slosh the water inside.
Once the tuner-thumb was in the right place
and the drum at a perfect angle, I noticed
the rich tonality of the humming water
trapped inside the cavity of the kettle.
Its intensity and rhythm reminded me
of my heart growing excited in midhunt
at the sight of deer blood marking a precious
fiery-orange path over the frozen snow.
From the drum a fine spray of water arced
outward and landed on the clear pine-board floor,
creating a circular shape like that of an eclipse.
Almost inaudible at first, the elder Facepaint
began a slow ailing song from deep inside
his chest:
Spirit of Fire, Spirit of Fire,
Spirit of This. This is the reason
your medicine will work for us,
our divine Firefather.
Ted meekly leaned over and in a breath
of apprehension whispered that after the opening
song, his grandfather would recite the brief
but important creation story of their religion.
Four verses later, as advised, the elder Facepaint
began to talk:
“There exists a past which is holy and more
close to us than ourselves. In gatherings
such as we have tonight, we would be remiss
in not remembering it, acknowledging it
as something new for the young minds here.
For us, the aged, we must never let it grow
old, for it is as much a religious history
as it is tribal. We believe it is in part
why our families reside here: Long before
the establishment of Black Eagle Child,
there was a hunter, ke me tto e na na,
our grandfather, Te te ba me qwe,
Dark Circling Cloud. He was chosen
one winter by the night sky to receive
the Star-Medicine, A na qwa mi ke tti i o ni.
The gift came to him when he was returning
from a long, unsuccessful hunt, going home
from west to east. That time we resided near
the Mississippi River valley. It was common
knowledge that somewhere in the prairie interiors
toward the west a river called the Swanroot
possessed a bottomless bend from which powers
emanated to anyone at any time. The only
trouble was, no one knew whether the tumultuous
upsurge of an underwater river healed or destroyed.
Many people became convinced it served as an abode
for evil entities when not traveling about.
For us, today, it is the exact opposite.
From somewhere below the depths of earth,
the underwater river flowed up and never froze
in winter. To this day, this is true. Many
of our early hunters took drastic precautions
when passing through this area. It was said
people who slept near here never woke.
Te te ba me qwe, because of his fasting
strength, was not in fear when he chose
to bed down over the warm sand of this
mysterious riverbend. The fact is, because
of his hunger, exhaustion, and coldness,
he had little choice. He lay down on the white,
comfortable sand and closed his eyes; he boldly
planned to drink the warm water and to bathe
in it upon waking. That night, he was awakened
by what sounded like a hundred arrows whizzing
overhead simultaneously. The evil spirits must
be setting out, was the thought in his heart.
As he dared to open his eyes to the sky,
he detected four small lights in movement.
Among all the stars these four wavered
slightly. The more he looked, the more
he realized the lights were growing in size.
He concluded they were in descent. Before long,
suspended above him were four luminescent bubbles.
At treetop level the open water began to boil
and mist. Te te ba me qwe said to himself,
‘Me me tti ki me ko me nwi ke no to ki
mani ne ta ma ni. Perhaps what I am now
seeing has to be good.’ Directly in front of him,
the four bubbles of light soon aligned themselves
west to east over the boiling river and began
emitting sparks. From the smoke created by
the sparks, a thundercloud lifted
and traveled upriver. It came to a stop
and sent silent bolts of lightning
to the ground below. In the lightning’s flash,
Te te ba me qwe saw the shape of a canoe
drifting listlessly downriver with four
motionless men aboard. When they were directly
in front, the men reached for their paddles.
As soon as the paddles plunged into the river,
fierce thunder shook the land. The four deer-masked
men rowed to where the four lights
had hovered. Then they guided the canoe
to the sand with the thundercloud following
closely above. Wearing tall deer antlers
they each stood in front of what was now four
smoldering black rocks. The four men struggled
to breathe in their tight masks, but they stood
erect. Their antlers became the mirror image
of the lightning bolts and reached back up
to the night sky. When the star-boulder closest
to Te te ba me qwe began to talk, the deer-masked
men vanished as did the thundercloud, and the water
stopped boiling. This was the boulder which foretold
our religion. Te te ba me qwe knew right away
what his role was; he had been selected
to be the principal intermediary.
The second boulder gave us the first
four opening songs. Te te ba me qwe
subsequently learned twenty more sets
of songs. These songs are rearranged
meticulously throughout the night ceremony.
The third boulder gave us rules by which to pray.
Te te ba me qwe memorized the intricate and complex
orations. The fourth boulder, the Fourth Star,
gave us A na qwa mi ke tti i o ni, Star-Medicine.
And it is this Fourth Star who stayed to remind
us perpetually of what is true. The Fourth
Star now resides underneath the ridge near here.
The effigy is therefore a reassuring place where
we can go whenever we falter from the weight
of worry. We hereby honor our grandfather,
Dark Circling Cloud, through the medicine
which was once a falling star …”
There were tears in the old man’s bloodshot
eyes. Even Al Capone must have cried once
or twice at the Lexington Hotel. A lump grew
in my throat, knowing all too well the sorrow
of seeing my own grandmother weep. Being young
I could never pinpoint what caused her despair.
But the suffering came in unpredictable surges
of human emotion. Without warning the waves
crashed on her endlessly. She would be at
the table, peeling potatoes for supper,
or doing ribbon appliqué on dress panels
by daylight near the window or kerosene lamp
when the reality of our poverty would hit her.
The distant oceans I only read about came over
the top of the wooded hill, and the waves raced
down, toppling what was otherwise a semblance
of a strong household. There was my grandmother,
my mother, and my younger brother, Al. When not
at work, school, or the military, my two uncles,
Winston and Severt, would be there. Even with
the family present there was no sight more
devastating than Grandmother crying.
It was as if someone had suddenly died.
I often wept along behind the door or outside
in the shadow of the house, never knowing why.
There was no evidence of physical pain except
the one in my immature heart. The excitement
of the evening came down in the form of rain
from the elder Facepaint’s weary eyes.
He lowered his white-haired head
and covered the German silver star
on his chest with his double chin.
Soon, a large brown grocery bag was passed
around the room. We each took four plants
and began eating them. The fresh outer part
of a single A na qwa o ni didn’t have any taste,
but the inside portion tasted like the chalky vomit-tasting
vitamins my mother used to give me.
Vitamins I could never swallow.
There were violent arguments for health,
One-A-Day brand events which so traumatized me
that I often slept with a pitcher of water
beside the bed, for my throat would clog
in sleep. I turned to Ted and grimaced.
“I really don’t think I can eat all of these.
If I take another bite I am bound to get sick.”
I could feel the thick, poisonous saliva
coating my tongue from the back to the front.
“Damn, Ted, I’m not kidding,” I said, hoping
for a way out. Sensing my timing and reach
for the empty coffee can would be insufficient,
I was drenched with perspiration. Ted raised
his arm at the appropriate moment and got
his grandfather’s attention.
“Grandfather, could you appoint
someone to chew Bearchild’s medicine?”
The elder Facepaint chuckled before addressing
me. “Ka tti ya bi ke te tti so? Ka ka to?
What is your name? Ka ka to?” I affirmed
with an overdone nod. “Yes, I thought so,” he said
while searching for additional commentary.
He reflected for a second and offered,
“Your Indian name is an archaic Bear clan
name; it is so old no one remembers its
precise meaning. But I do know this:
the one person you are named after used
to ride horses a lot. He was a superb horseman.
I will therefore call you Randolph Scott,
after the motion picture cowboy actor.
With a name like that, Randolph Scott,
you should have no problems eating the rest
of the medicine.” Everyone broke into
a much-needed laugh. Myself included.
The elder Facepaint appointed a short,
well-dressed gentleman by the name of Percy Jim
to chew the remaining pieces. A white folded
handkerchief was relayed to me. I carefully placed
the three pieces in the handkerchief and returned it
the same way to the appointed chewer. In no time
at all, the chewer went through the antics
of a voracious squirrel stuffing the three
large pieces into his mouth. While everyone
observed, he spat the masticated A na qwa o ni
into his stumpy hands and deftly rolled it into
a green ball. The green golf ball came back to me
in the white soaked handkerchief.
“Now, Randolph,” chided the elder Facepaint,
“swallow the medicine whole and you will be
all right.” I knew the task was impossible;
even with my mother I could never down two
small vitamin tablets. Things unimaginable
were done for newcomers here.
“Do I have to do as he says?” I sighed
to Ted. “Yeah, Edgar, you have to,”
he replied sternly. “He gave you permission
to sit with us, and the medicine was chewed
for you. What the hell you want? For someone
to hunt a spoon and feed you? Your task
was lessened by half. It is the least
you can do.” Just when the star-boulder
songs resumed, I secretly broke the green
golf ball in half and swallowed it reluctantly.
I hid the other half under my knee and closed
my eyes in repulsion. I thought immediately
of a photograph of the person whom I was named
after: wearing a crumpled straw hat and a ribbon
shirt, he sat slouched-backed on his mount
and Alfred Pretty-Boy-in-the-Woods sat
across from him atop another. The title
read: “Men on horses with summer sun shade
and reed-covered dwellings in the background,
ca. 1904.” The knowledge he was a true horseman
was little consolation for the rock hardening
in my stomach. It seemed to demand its own space
and kicked from side to side, making my being
hollow. I forced myself to conjure a mental image
of Randolph Scott. He was getting up from
an arroyo after a lengthy fistfight.
His hair was messed up and dust clung
to his chaps.
With part of a meteorite fermenting under
my navel, I sat back and listened to the eloquent
word-songs. The words in Black Eagle Child language
were ingeniously arranged. They almost sounded all
the same, but upon careful listening, one added
or excluded word or syllable made for an entirely
different song.
THE BLACK STONE SONGS
This black stone has brought us
songs that we must use when
we call down the stars.
This stone named Black Stone
has brought us songs to use
to bring down the star groupings.
Black Stone is the one responsible
for bringing us songs to call down
the bright stars.
Black Stone comes down from above
with songs for us to use to greet Him.
In between the songs, a bucket
of steaming A na qwa o ni was passed around.
Ted and I took two dippers apiece. I began
to take note that in spite of the commotion
I could hear the steady whirring of the clock
on the wall, next to Christ. I looked at my
pocketwatch. We had “gone in” at eight o’clock.
It was now ten o’clock. My stomach was warm
and mildly upset, yet my thoughts felt placated.
At Ted’s warning, for fear I would gag, I refused
the powdered substance. For some reason we both
looked up and saw John Louis smirk. With his scarred
but puckered lips and cheeks he was hoping
to annoy us. We pretended to be undaunted.
The dramatics with the redtail hawk fan became
more emphatic and womanlike. He now fluttered
his drowsy eyelids like a shy southern belle.
All was well and entertaining until he leaned
forward and mistakenly spit into the coffee can
containing the powdered A na qwa o ni.
A fine cloud of dust shot up from the container
and covered his stunned face. For once
the “demented soul” looked hilarious.
John Louis froze immediately, his eyes
blinking and the potent dust falling off
in clumps. Ted and I looked at each other
with raised eyebrows and open mouths and muffled
our laughs in our sleeves. All of a sudden,
in the midst of this, Mr. Matcheena,
the retired clown, crawled outward from
his space on the wall with his rump
protruding high in the air and stared
hypnotically at the damp eclipses on the floor
made by the water drum. He was still there
when Ted and I drank four more dippers
of medicine apiece. Finally, a lady
in a black ruffled dress was requested
by someone to tap the soles of Matcheena’s
moccasins. The government clown turned
around as expected, but he digressed
further in disconcertion. He began bowing
to the wall like someone from the Middle East.
In time Ted chanted, “Salami, salami,
baloney,” but I wasn’t amused.
“Geez, what’s wrong with him?” I asked
out of concern. Having no answers, Ted
asked the same of his war-hero uncle.
It was a mistake. Clayton hypothesized that
Matcheena was suffering a horrendous cramp
of the buttock. A sense of fear set in after
I feigned a weak smile at both Ted and Clayton.
Would I be doing the same foolish things
later on? My eyes and finger muscles began
to twitch involuntarily. All around the room
the facial expressions varied. There were far-off
looks, near-smiles at space, or explicit
sadness. I attributed my twitching to the corn