Two Medicine (44 page)

As Greg and I milled around, at this point
with no particular plans or destinations, he explained to me the
program of the powwow, gleaned from what he knew of years past and
from what Dee had told him. There were to be traditional dances, he
explained, and singing to start things off, the chanting and drums
we heard were part of that. Then there was an equestrian show (a
rodeo), then music and food and just hanging around, and then
finally more traditional dancing.

“
There’s also a sweat
lodge ceremony for a chosen few,” Greg explained. “It’s a special
honor to be included – and they can only fit so many in the little
enclosures they use, anyway. It’s a big deal – very serious and
spiritual for them.”

“
Ah,” I said, nodding. “I
got invited to the sweat lodge thing by Thunderbird. He made it
seems like it was imperative that I go.”

Greg stopped walking and
stared at me. “Will, only like ten or so people go to a sweat at a
time, and they only do it twice during the entire two-day powwow –
and this kind of gathering is only once a year. I’ve never been…
Why did Thunderbird invite you?”

Greg’s concerned look
worried me; but as I thought about it, he just shook his head
grimly. “Never mind – I don’t want to know...” he said.
“Thunderbird just does whatever he wants, I think. Hopefully it was
just
his
idea.”

He began walking towards
the far end of the field. I followed him, feeling nervous about the
impending ceremony.
Didn’t people die
sometimes in those sweat lodges?

We walked over
to a large crowd near the bleachers who were
watching a group of men singing and drumming. The singers were all
men, in a circle, most of them short and very fat, wearing plain
clothes, jeans, sweatshirts and a few sports jerseys and hoodies.
One guy had on a Raiders cap, a couple of them wore cowboy hats
too. They were all beating a fast and steady rhythm in perfect
unison on a big animal-hide drum. They were drumming with thin,
small wooden sticks that were wrapped with string and colorful
weavings. A few stick had feathers or beads hung from them and they
made a “whooshing” and rattling sound between the drum
beats.

As the monotonous,
rhythmic pounding of the drum continued, a man began singing and
shouting in a high-pitched screech. He then was answered by the men
in the circle in unison with raspy and loud voices rising up to the
same wail. All of the men stared down at the drum the entire time
with expressionless, blank faces.

While they were singing, a
couple of women, who stood off to the side, both carrying toddlers
in their arms, shouted some Indian words intermixed into the song.
Their words sounded more like shouts, but it was clear even to me
that they were speaking words from the native Blackfoot
language.

Like other Native American
singing I had heard, this song had a tragic, desperate sound to it.
It was at once fierce and intimidating, and also sad and meek. It
was wild, but also had a compromised sense to it – especially when
you viewed the large, fat men who sang it. They did not seem
fierce, more like a conquered, reluctant foe now made
docile.

I walked away from the
group and left Greg at the circle, who said he wanted to stick
around and talk to a couple of people he knew, but that I should
“watch my back.” I walked on and came to a large clearing where
traditional dancers were just beginning an exhibition. There were
about fifteen men in full dress with very vivid and elaborate
costumes – so outlandish in fact that it reminded me of the New
Orleans Indian dresses of the Mardi Gras parades.

The dancers were forming a
circle which slowly revolved around a center pit with a fire just
beginning to burn in the middle. The day was still cloudy and cold
and I could feel the heat reaching me from beyond the ring of
dancers.

Around the dancers were a
crowd that was sitting, standing, some filming, and others eating
on picnic blankets. Lots of women with children were watching, also
lots of teens. The procession of full dress dancers started moving
in a line.

The drumming and singing
came from a stereo this time, not from a live group. Over the
broadcast chanting and signing, the dancers whirled around – each
doing a different style. Some were stomping in a slow circle as
they moved, some were spinning frantically. It was enchanting to
watch the circle slowly revolve, a circle made up of whirling vivid
shapes and colors.

As I watched I began to feel drawn in to the
spinning mass of energy. I watched mesmerized as the circle stopped
rotating and expanded outward, then with a loud shout from the
dancers, began circling even faster and closing in on itself.

Like staring at a display
case with carvings in a museum, I stood entranced, imaged the scene
playing out hundreds of years ago, before the intrusion of white
man, wild and utterly natural. The costumes would have been much
more sedated, I assumed, toned down to leather and feather, bone
and beads. And the crowd would have been a thin group of Blackfoot,
watching with casual, somber expressions. The meaning of the dance
would have been as significant and relevant to the people as
eating, sleeping, and dreaming; a specific purpose and message to
the dancing would have been known by all in the tribe. I wondered,
as I stood there hundreds of years in the future, what the
dancing
did
mean,
what it had been for. I looked around at the crowd and wondered if
these Blackfoot knew anymore, either.

I gazed at the dancers
moving in a rhythmic circle, and I pictured Alia standing next to
me, watching her ancestral dancing spinning in dreamlike circles
before her eyes. Again I wondered what my summer would have been
like not having met her. I looked at the leather strap on my wrist.
Two spirits indeed…
is
she here with me? I felt a shudder pass through me as the
dancers spiraled inward in a perfect circle.

Suddenly the circle broke
off and the dancers formed a line that led out of the clearing and
off into the crowd, where it eventually dissipated. No one clapped,
the music and singing just continued with the empty circle and the
fire burning. A couple of little children ran out into the clearing
gleefully, but their parents quickly waved them back and hushed
them. It was if the circle was sacred, and the clearing was to be
used only for solemn, special purposes. The crowd did not seem to
be leaving.

As I looked around at the
crowd I suddenly spotted Jake, sitting in a circle of men some
distance away from the clearing. He was leaning against a large
cooler and had a bottle of Jack Daniels in his hand – just a
bottle, no glass to drink from. He was wearing the mirror shades,
as always, and sitting perfectly motionless, as always, frozen
behind the glasses; you couldn’t tell if he was awake, or even
alive, as always…

I was watching
him when a big hand suddenly slapped me on the
back. It was Thunderbird. I felt a wave of relief slide over me to
see him. “Big Will!” he shouted, and then gave me a bear hug. I
hugged him back. “You came!” he said.

“
Of course I did,” I said,
smiling back at him. “But I was warned to stay away…”

Thunderbird looked
concerned, and reached out and put a hand on my shoulder. “I know,
I know, I know, there’s a bad spirit about this place today –
there’s something different in the air.” He looked around at the
crowd and up at the sky. “We have to clear all this up once and for
all. Come on.”

He led me off towards the far end of the
powwow, where some tents and teepees had been set up. I walked past
Jake’s area and he was still there, sitting stock still and
watching me. His head moved slowly as I walked past, I kept my eyes
on his mirror frames until we passed by him.

Thunderbird walked me
through some people picnicking on the lawn near the teepees and
further back towards the rear of the powwow. A large tent was set
up near the back, with two large tree-carvings on either side of
the tent entrance – an owl on one end and a bear on the
other.

Thunderbird waved me over
to a group sitting under a large picnic-style tent, which was
mainly just a roof structure made of nylon fabric and metal poles.
There were about eight men sitting around a table, with lots of
food and beer and other drinks spread out before them. The men were
older, very wrinkled and most of them fat. Large bellies, grey
hair, tan wrinkled skin, and button down shirts with bolo ties and
cowboy hats were the uniform of the group. I saw only a couple of
young guys sitting around the table, and one was
Clayton.

Clayton saw me and I
nodded over to him and he nodded back, his expression was
unreadable.

“
Guys, this is Will,”
Thunderbird said to the men in general, pushing me slightly in
front of him. “Will Benton.”

A couple of the men nodded
vaguely but most just glanced at me and then went back to their
lunch, which consisted mainly of fried chicken and potato
salad.

Thunderbird smiled
encouragingly and escorted me over to one man in particular, a
heavy-set middle aged man at the far end of the table.

“
This is Floyd Crow,
Will,” Thunderbird pointed a stubby finger down at the man. “He’s
on the Blackfoot council. I told him about you.”

I couldn’t imagine what
Thunderbird might have told him. I smiled very slightly and held
out my hand. The man reached up and shook it, and then back to
eating without saying a word. Floyd Crow was a short man, old,
probably about seventy, and had long, thin grey hair over very dark
tan skin. His back was hunched over and he had a broad, portly
frame. He was wearing a western, cowboy type shirt with an open
button-down shirt. Thunderbird turned around and led me over to a
spot nearby, where we sat down on the grass.

“
Just hang out for a bit
here,” he said, and sat down next to me, folding his arms like
Buddha.

I sat back in the chair
and watched the men finish their lunch, wondered if I was intruding
and if Thunderbird had just made a social error. The men’s
conversation was low and unintelligible from where I sat. Clayton’s
back was to me now, but I could see that he didn’t contribute to
any of the conversation, he just ate in silence.

I was worried about what
Greg might assume from my sudden absence, and I leaned over to
Thunderbird. “I came with Greg, the Ranger, and he’ll be wondering
where I am.”

Thunderbird nodded and
stood up. “I’ll go tell him where you are.” He sauntered off
without another word before I could stop him, leaving me sitting
alone on the edge of the council. I took a deep breath and let it
out slowly, looking around the group.

After a while Floyd Crow
stood up heavily from the small table and walked over to me. He
turned to Clayton and waived him over to me. Clayton nodded and got
up, and followed the man over to my spot.

“
Will, let’s walk a bit,”
Floyd said quietly. I got up and followed him as he walked away
from the edge of the powwow. He kept a slow pace, with Clayton and
I on either side of him. Clayton said nothing.

“
I’m an Elder of the
Blackfoot Nation in Montana,” Floyd said in a deep voice,
apparently not remembering that Thunderbird has just introduced us
earlier. “I have been told about you, and I wanted to meet
you.”

I didn’t know what to say so I just
nodded.

“
This is Clayton Red Claw,
who you already know, I believe.”

I acknowledged Clayton
with a nod, and then none of us spoke for a moment as we walked.
One thing I had noticed about the Blackfoot was their habitual
silence, their comfortableness with being quiet and not speaking.
It was their natural state it seemed. I rarely ever heard a loud
Indian.

“
Have you ever been to a
powwow before?” Floyd asked.

I told him that I had
not.

“
Among the many purposes
of our coming together at this event, Will, are that we gather
together to help each other, in hard times. We come together, each
of us, to offer our skills and whatever abilities we possess… put
them to work to help each other, so we may live together
peacefully, just as ‘iit-tsi-pah-tah-pii-op’ intended.”

I nodded and glanced at
Clayton, who now looked bored and irritable.

“
Thunderbird has told me
about you,” Floyd continued. “He has a certain skill and ability
and he uses it to help the tribe – as we all should – and his
ability is to see and hear the spirits, to hear what they say to
us.”

He looked at Clayton and
then at me and smiled. “Thunderbird may seem… different, but it is
not for us to judge why the spirits talk to one and not to
another.”

We got to a gravel path that led along the
main road and we walked down it in silence for a minute, crunching
the stones and dust underfoot.

“
Thunderbird knows,
however, that there are some serious problems in our tribe in
Browning, and that things are getting worse. He’s been our eyes and
ears in the park and elsewhere.”

At the “Candi
Factory?
I wondered to myself.

“
He has told the council a
great many things, things like this drug business.” He looked at
Clayton. “Your father kept this tribe in constant turmoil and
trouble during his tenure, Clayton, despite what people think. And
with you running for Council Chief you have a lot going against you
because of the trouble your father was in. But I admire what you’re
trying to do.”