Home of the Brave - 1969
The Seer’s Office. NSC Building, Washington DC, 1969
”How in the HELL did this happen?!” The Seer stared around the room, cold fury written all over his face as his mind ran through the hideous implications of what had come so close to happening. Around the room people flinched as if they were caught in the eye of a hurricane and were watching the wall of wind marching inexorably down upon them. The Seer’s office was spacious, and held a small conference table for meetings, but the room was crowded. Lillith was in the corner, apparently quietly taking the meeting notes for her principle but in reality her finger was poised over one of the "special buttons" on the intercom system. There were strangers present and that meant she had to be alert for possible danger. After all, possible danger and the abject failure to anticipate it was why The Seer was having one of his very rare outburst or anger.
The targets of her apprehension, in the middle of the room, were ten wholly unassuming people. They were all bronze-skinned and had dark hair, and were dressed in clothes you might find at a Sears Roebuck or JC Penny. Four men and six women, they appeared as if they were astonished to be where they were. Behind them stood Henry McCarty, his hand resting firmly on his pistol. It wasn’t necessary, a push on any number of buttons in the room would have several highly competent and armed men in the room in less than ten seconds, but it gave him comfort. He needed comfort, he hadn't been in this much trouble since he'd shot Sheriff Brady.
”This was a routine meeting, one that was supposed to go off without a hitch, Henry! You and Achillea are responsible for our security, just what went wrong?” The Seer picked up a sheaf of papers. “How do you think it makes us look if six of the ten oldest demons on earth, including Eldest, and eight others come within a lucky gunshot of being killed?! You need to find some pretty good explanations, right now.”
Henry carefully considered his words. He knew it had been a near thing, and had never seen the Seer so angry. He wouldn’t put it past him to have somebody killed in this state. “Well, I wouldn’t say it was exactly as you-“
The Seer flipped through the pages “Eldest! Nefertiti! Branwen! Loki would have been there too if he hadn’t been called back for urgent business. We're supposed to be responsible for Eldest's security because we've got the skills, the position and the influence. All of that, all the power and influence it brings, a split second from being thrown out of the window. It would have ruined us!”
A grimace tugged at the corners of Henry’s mouth. “We fouled up. Locals right up to us, we ALL fouled up. He looked Parmenio in the eye. As near as I can figure...”
Flathead Indian Reservation, Southwestern Montana, Ten days earlier
”This is crazy, Dave! We can’t just go up and talk to them like this!” Two young men argued sitting in the front of a lemon-yellow currybus. Dave, sitting behind the wheel, knuckled the corners of his drooping mustache, still thin from youth. “Are you kidding, Bobby? They’re perfect! Indians are like... people of the land. They live in harmony with nature and stuff, they totally want the same things we do!”
Bobby sighed. “Alright, but you do the talking.” They got out and walked toward the reservations general store, meeting place, and bar, all under one shabby roof. Their sandals squished in the mud, still damp from a spring rain.
The bell over the door tinkled, but nobody inside looked up. It was late morning, and at a few tables old men played dominos and chess in the lodge area of the building, and some of the youths watched them. A woman poked some coals on the hearth with a stick, then went back to her sweeping. The store was empty, except for a man restocking shelves. Dave walked up to him. “Uh, how...s it going?” The man looked at him and seemed to sigh just a little, but said nothing. Dave tried again “Do. You. Have. Cigarettes?”
The shopkeeper finished stocking the shelf and stood, stretching to his full six feet nine inches. “Sure do, son. In the back.” He gave Dave another look. We check IDs here, though. “He turned and walked back to the counter.” The two men looked at each other, and then shuffled over to the cigarette case. Bobby elbowed Dave “Why do we need smokes? We’ve got all that grass in the car!”
”Shh!” Dave made a slashing motion. “I’m just trying to relate to them, get a give and take. Carl Oglesby said they’re respectful of trade, you know?” He grabbed a pack and turned to the counter. The cashier rang them up perfunctorily “Anything else you kids need?”
”Uh... Yeah...” Dave took a breath. “Do you guys have a... Chief I could talk to or something? Or a medicine man? We’ve got a proposal for him.”
With an expression somewhere between humor and pity, the shopkeeper considered them for a span of heartbeats. “Sure.” He yelled to the back. “Christopher! These men wish to see our Chief!”
One of the boys came running over from the games tables in the back. “These two?” He nodded. “Come on.” The boy led them to the back, to a weathered old man who was sitting at a table, his eyes half-open. “This is Red Bird, please sit.” The boy said something to the man in a language Dave and Bobby didn’t know, and he nodded. “I will translate for Red Bird. You may speak to him.”
Dave rubbed a hand over his mouth and cleared his throat. “Well, thank you, Mr. Bird, for talking to us. My friend, Bobby, and I, we represent a group of people who think what’s been done to you guys is terrible.” He paused while the boy translated, and Red Bird nodded. “See, we think that the imperialist, capitalist ways of America have destroyed the environment and you guys as a vital culture. We’re all about restoring the land and living in balance with nature, like you do.”
Red Bird spoke in the flathead tounge [Hurry them up, they're getting on my nerves with this nature stuff]. The boy turned “What do you want?”
”Well, what we are gonna do is to try and restore the land. Just over the border in Idaho is a big dam which is wrecking everything. The river is way worse off and people are just spreading all over the valley, wiping out nature and everything.” Dave leaned in and spoke in a low tone. We’re gonna blow up the Grand Teton Dam.” He smiled, proud of his grand reveal.
Red Bird and the boy spoke back and forth. [Did he say what I think he said?]
[Yes]
[Why the hell would they want to blow up the dam? It gives power to three states. Ask them what they want.]
Christopher turned to Dave, and repeated the question. “What do you want?”
Dave shrugged “We need some help. It’s an earthwork dam, but were gonna try and set some dynamite all along the rim. If it doesn’t work out right, were gonna need help stopping the dam crew from trying to make repairs.”
The man spoke to the boy. [Tell them I need to talk to the winds or something, and ask them when they need to know? We need details.]
”Red Bird must seek the spirits of the land and ask them your request. He will dance the medicine and listen to the winds. When do you need your answer?”
”We’re doing this a week from tomorrow, when the moon is new.”
Red Bird shook his head. [Ok, tell them I can't do it that fast, and tell them they're on their own. Get these fools out of here.]
He cannot make the medicine until the full moon. You must restore the land without the help Flathead.
The boys were obviously crestfallen, but something told Dave he wouldn’t be able to argue with the man. He stood up and stuck out his hand, but Red Bird didn’t take it. The two boys quietly shuffled out of the store. Red Bird rubbed his eyes and said, in english, “God, I hate tourists.”
The other men looked up from their games, and one spoke “Yes, James, but its funny to mess with them. Dance the Medicine? Flatheads don’t even DO that.”
”Yeah, I know, but they don’t know that. Red Bird, now James, looked at the men. “You heard them? They nodded. Were going to need to call the sheriff.”
*Two hours later*
”I’m sorry, sir, but all requests for aid on the reservations must be submitted through the Bureaus regional office.”
One of the men who had been playing dominoes ran his hand through his hair and pleaded with the woman on the other end of the phone. “I know that! They’re the ones who told me to call you guys! I don’t need aid on the reservation, I need to report a crime being planned outside the reservation!”
”All conventional legal and criminal matters must be relayed through local law enforcement, sir.” The woman sounded amused, giving him the runaround.
”We don’t have any local law! We submitted paperwork for a reservation deputy months ago, and nothing ever came back.” In his mind he saw himself trying to move a river with a blanket.
”Director McNamara is currently evaluating efficiency in law enforcement on Indian Reservations and has put a hold on new appointments.”
”So what can I do? Set my house on fire and send up a smoke signal?!”
”Sir, arson on an Indian Reservation is a serious offense. Would you care to lodge a formal request for aid?”
His eyes squeezed shut. “YES!”
”There’s no need to shout, sir. If you’ll just answer a few questions I can have your request processed in three to five weeks.” At that point he slammed the receiver down, knocking the payphone loose from its screws and sending it to the floor. He looked at the men who were with him, who had seen him run up against the same barriers they always ran into. One of them spoke “Its no use, the white men don’t want to hear from us, Jason Tall Horse.”
Jason shook his head. “Then well have to do things ourselves. I think I know who can help us.”
”Who?”
”Menewa.”
1969 - Home of the Brave
Re: 1969 - Home of the Brave
Chapter 2
Southern Minnesota
A fish flitted between the rocks on the bottom of a creek. Under the lazy afternoon sun it looked for roots to nibble on, gaining strength. If it had been capable of rational thought, it might have admired the beauty of the cloud-dotted sky over its head, or reveled in the fact that there were no predators about. Sadly, it was not, and also failed to consider a spear might pierce its brain in a sudden and violent fashion.
"Gotcha!" the fish came out of the water in a graceful arc on the spearhead, an expert flick of the wrist dislodged it and sent it flopping into a basket on the shore. With a satisfied smile, the man nodded once at the fish and then returned to his work. He stood motionless again, his normally loose hair
gathered in a knot to avoid startling the fish. He was not tall by any measure, but his body had the solid strength of a tree branch, bent back and poised for release. His face was not exactly old, but rather weathered by more summers and rainstorms than he could remember. He could have been forty or eighty, and was in fact far older. Menewa felt the currents, and the rhythm of the creek on a level that only those who lived in harmony with nature could understand.
A shift in the wind brought a smell to his nostrils. "What is wrong, Katherine?"
The woman started, she had thought she had reached him unnoticed. "Truly you are wise, Menewa."
"Not wise," he stuck his spear into the bank as he climbed out "just observant. I have been here for four years, and nobody has ever sought me out during my morning walks. You are here, so something must have happened, and it must be important." He turned down his pant legs and grabbed his shirt. He patted her on the shoulder "Tell me about it on the way back." He stooped to pick up the basket of fish, and set a brisk pace through the woods.
Katherine related the message she had received from Jason Tall Horse. His father had been a part of the Path, and a good man. He had told Jason the stories of Menewa and the others, about the Ghost-touched and the massacre at Wounded Knee. Jason had remembered those stories and had sought out the Path, and learned their ways. Now, he needed the man who had ridden with Sitting Bull and who had driven Abercrombie from Fort Ticonderoga. When they reached the main house, Menewa had made his decision. "Call Raven and the others and get cars."
In a surprisingly short time all the members of the Path who had been in the camp were assembled. Almost forty were here, though very few were Ghost-touched. He addressed them "Our brothers among the Flathead have asked for our help. They are trying to save many lives, and the law won't hear them. The Path, the Path will hear them. Friendship brings strength!"
The men and women echoed back "Wisdom brings life!" It was the motto of the path, one that men and women dedicated their lives to the pursuit of.
*Interstate 90, South Dakota, the next day*
"Are you sure you don't want to stop at Mount Rushmore?" Raven teased Menewa as he drove. They were a part of a caravan of three cars and a truck, with a combined mileage well over a million. "It might make this trip worthwhile."
"No, I want to remember it the way it used to be. I hunted there once, it was nice." He flicked through the stations on the radio. "Besides, this trip is only going to be worthwhile if we get there in time."
The woman laughed, brushing the hair out of her eyes. She squirmed in her seat and fished a hair clip out of her jeans pocket. "I doubt it. We're going to go stop a bunch of stupid whites from killing a bunch of greedy whites. How does that help us?"
Menewa sighed, they had had this same argument more than once since the trip started, and he was considering changing cars at their next stop. "If the dam breaks, it isn't just whites that get hurt. That dam sends power and water all over the area. If resources get tight, who do you think gets squeezed first? The reservations."
"Sure," she smirked. "After all, we're supposed to be self-sufficient, living off the land. If only they'd given all of us usable land."
"And hey, maybe if we take a few scalps those SDS kooks will stop saying they love the land and want to embrace our ways. They make us look bad."
"I thought you didn't do that anymore?" Raven raised an eyebrow.
"I have been known to make exceptions." The radio found a station. "Ah, here we go."
"And coming up for all you rockers now a real treat, it's the hot new duet that's sweeping the country by Don McLean and Mister Ritchie Valens, 'American Sky'.
The music started up, and Menewa started to hum along with the ballad about that fateful rotodyne crash in 1958 which claimed the lives of Buddy Holly and J.P. Richardson. Valens would have been on that crash but for a coin toss, and only the quick actions of a nerby SEAL team had gotten the rest of the passengers to safety in time to save them.
When the music got to the airy, somber bridge "That Valens sure can sing. He's a native, you know."
Menewa nodded, as they drove into the sunset.
*Flathead Reservation, two days later*
A council had been called, for all the people on the reservation. Everyone knew what it was about, but nobody knew why the meeting had been called. Most figured that if the dam were destroyed, that would be the white man's problem and none of their affair. "Better to stay away" fought against "Not our problem" across the tables and fires of the lodge. The room was crowded, mostly with men but a fair number of women as well.
Jason Tall Horse walked into the middle of the room and put up his hands. "Please, it is time to talk. We must do something about the Grand Teton Dam."
"Why?" A voice called from the back. "About time someone besides us got run off their land!" A rumble of approval echoed from the crowd.
"Because it is right." Jason held firm. "Thousands will die if we do nothing."
"Thousands have already died, Tall Horse!" Jacob Flamewind stood up. "How many died last year because of the sickness, because we didn't have any medicine? My wife, your father." He looked around. "How many of you lost a family member to sickness, sickness the white man avoids?" A number of hands went up. "I say let them try and stop a river with their hands." He turned to leave and more than half the room seemed ready to follow him.
"I say any man who tries to stop a river is foolish." A voice echoed from the doorway. Menewa stood for a moment, then stepped inside, leading his people with him and Raven at his side. "A river goes where it will, even the beaver knows he has only a few years before he must make a new home." He reached the center of the circle.
"Who are you?" Jacob sized up the man. "You are not of our people, and this is not your place."
"I am Menewa of the Muskoghee, and my people are all people and my place is all places." There was an audible gasp from some of the people in the room, and many moved to take a step back while others looked closer. Many shouted.
"That is a lie!" "Menewa is from a grandfather's story!" "He isn't tall enough!"
Jacob was visibly shaken to have a living legend standing in front of him. "If... if you are Menewa, prove it."
Menewa reached for his belt and pulled out a wicked-looking knife. "This is mine. It was the bayonet on an Englishman's rifle." He placed the flat of the blade against his arm and turned, showing it to the room. "I took it from him after I killed him, after he shot me, here." He rolled up a sleeve and showed a rough gash on his left shoulder. "I have carried it for three hundred years, and I gave it to Sitting Bull to honor his friendship. At Wounded Knee I took it from his brother, who had taken it after he died. It is stained with both of their blood, and with mine, and has not taken life since that day. I need no knife to kill."
He put the knife away and looked around the room. "We have all lost much, we have lost almost everything. But the one thing I have not lost is who I am, who WE are. We are the people of this land, its keepers and its children. Who here would suffer a neighbor's home to burn while he held a wet mat?" He looked at Jacob, who would not meet his gaze. "Can you not see that it is true generosity to show kindness to one who steals from you? In such a way we show generosity to the white man, and in time they will show it to us. And until that day, I can be proud of who I am."
Jason nodded. "Thank you for coming, Menewa. We are glad for your help." He looked at the crowd. "Any who will fight with Menewa can stay, the rest will not be needed." They gathered tables around, and talked long into the night.
Southern Minnesota
A fish flitted between the rocks on the bottom of a creek. Under the lazy afternoon sun it looked for roots to nibble on, gaining strength. If it had been capable of rational thought, it might have admired the beauty of the cloud-dotted sky over its head, or reveled in the fact that there were no predators about. Sadly, it was not, and also failed to consider a spear might pierce its brain in a sudden and violent fashion.
"Gotcha!" the fish came out of the water in a graceful arc on the spearhead, an expert flick of the wrist dislodged it and sent it flopping into a basket on the shore. With a satisfied smile, the man nodded once at the fish and then returned to his work. He stood motionless again, his normally loose hair
gathered in a knot to avoid startling the fish. He was not tall by any measure, but his body had the solid strength of a tree branch, bent back and poised for release. His face was not exactly old, but rather weathered by more summers and rainstorms than he could remember. He could have been forty or eighty, and was in fact far older. Menewa felt the currents, and the rhythm of the creek on a level that only those who lived in harmony with nature could understand.
A shift in the wind brought a smell to his nostrils. "What is wrong, Katherine?"
The woman started, she had thought she had reached him unnoticed. "Truly you are wise, Menewa."
"Not wise," he stuck his spear into the bank as he climbed out "just observant. I have been here for four years, and nobody has ever sought me out during my morning walks. You are here, so something must have happened, and it must be important." He turned down his pant legs and grabbed his shirt. He patted her on the shoulder "Tell me about it on the way back." He stooped to pick up the basket of fish, and set a brisk pace through the woods.
Katherine related the message she had received from Jason Tall Horse. His father had been a part of the Path, and a good man. He had told Jason the stories of Menewa and the others, about the Ghost-touched and the massacre at Wounded Knee. Jason had remembered those stories and had sought out the Path, and learned their ways. Now, he needed the man who had ridden with Sitting Bull and who had driven Abercrombie from Fort Ticonderoga. When they reached the main house, Menewa had made his decision. "Call Raven and the others and get cars."
In a surprisingly short time all the members of the Path who had been in the camp were assembled. Almost forty were here, though very few were Ghost-touched. He addressed them "Our brothers among the Flathead have asked for our help. They are trying to save many lives, and the law won't hear them. The Path, the Path will hear them. Friendship brings strength!"
The men and women echoed back "Wisdom brings life!" It was the motto of the path, one that men and women dedicated their lives to the pursuit of.
*Interstate 90, South Dakota, the next day*
"Are you sure you don't want to stop at Mount Rushmore?" Raven teased Menewa as he drove. They were a part of a caravan of three cars and a truck, with a combined mileage well over a million. "It might make this trip worthwhile."
"No, I want to remember it the way it used to be. I hunted there once, it was nice." He flicked through the stations on the radio. "Besides, this trip is only going to be worthwhile if we get there in time."
The woman laughed, brushing the hair out of her eyes. She squirmed in her seat and fished a hair clip out of her jeans pocket. "I doubt it. We're going to go stop a bunch of stupid whites from killing a bunch of greedy whites. How does that help us?"
Menewa sighed, they had had this same argument more than once since the trip started, and he was considering changing cars at their next stop. "If the dam breaks, it isn't just whites that get hurt. That dam sends power and water all over the area. If resources get tight, who do you think gets squeezed first? The reservations."
"Sure," she smirked. "After all, we're supposed to be self-sufficient, living off the land. If only they'd given all of us usable land."
"And hey, maybe if we take a few scalps those SDS kooks will stop saying they love the land and want to embrace our ways. They make us look bad."
"I thought you didn't do that anymore?" Raven raised an eyebrow.
"I have been known to make exceptions." The radio found a station. "Ah, here we go."
"And coming up for all you rockers now a real treat, it's the hot new duet that's sweeping the country by Don McLean and Mister Ritchie Valens, 'American Sky'.
The music started up, and Menewa started to hum along with the ballad about that fateful rotodyne crash in 1958 which claimed the lives of Buddy Holly and J.P. Richardson. Valens would have been on that crash but for a coin toss, and only the quick actions of a nerby SEAL team had gotten the rest of the passengers to safety in time to save them.
When the music got to the airy, somber bridge "That Valens sure can sing. He's a native, you know."
Menewa nodded, as they drove into the sunset.
*Flathead Reservation, two days later*
A council had been called, for all the people on the reservation. Everyone knew what it was about, but nobody knew why the meeting had been called. Most figured that if the dam were destroyed, that would be the white man's problem and none of their affair. "Better to stay away" fought against "Not our problem" across the tables and fires of the lodge. The room was crowded, mostly with men but a fair number of women as well.
Jason Tall Horse walked into the middle of the room and put up his hands. "Please, it is time to talk. We must do something about the Grand Teton Dam."
"Why?" A voice called from the back. "About time someone besides us got run off their land!" A rumble of approval echoed from the crowd.
"Because it is right." Jason held firm. "Thousands will die if we do nothing."
"Thousands have already died, Tall Horse!" Jacob Flamewind stood up. "How many died last year because of the sickness, because we didn't have any medicine? My wife, your father." He looked around. "How many of you lost a family member to sickness, sickness the white man avoids?" A number of hands went up. "I say let them try and stop a river with their hands." He turned to leave and more than half the room seemed ready to follow him.
"I say any man who tries to stop a river is foolish." A voice echoed from the doorway. Menewa stood for a moment, then stepped inside, leading his people with him and Raven at his side. "A river goes where it will, even the beaver knows he has only a few years before he must make a new home." He reached the center of the circle.
"Who are you?" Jacob sized up the man. "You are not of our people, and this is not your place."
"I am Menewa of the Muskoghee, and my people are all people and my place is all places." There was an audible gasp from some of the people in the room, and many moved to take a step back while others looked closer. Many shouted.
"That is a lie!" "Menewa is from a grandfather's story!" "He isn't tall enough!"
Jacob was visibly shaken to have a living legend standing in front of him. "If... if you are Menewa, prove it."
Menewa reached for his belt and pulled out a wicked-looking knife. "This is mine. It was the bayonet on an Englishman's rifle." He placed the flat of the blade against his arm and turned, showing it to the room. "I took it from him after I killed him, after he shot me, here." He rolled up a sleeve and showed a rough gash on his left shoulder. "I have carried it for three hundred years, and I gave it to Sitting Bull to honor his friendship. At Wounded Knee I took it from his brother, who had taken it after he died. It is stained with both of their blood, and with mine, and has not taken life since that day. I need no knife to kill."
He put the knife away and looked around the room. "We have all lost much, we have lost almost everything. But the one thing I have not lost is who I am, who WE are. We are the people of this land, its keepers and its children. Who here would suffer a neighbor's home to burn while he held a wet mat?" He looked at Jacob, who would not meet his gaze. "Can you not see that it is true generosity to show kindness to one who steals from you? In such a way we show generosity to the white man, and in time they will show it to us. And until that day, I can be proud of who I am."
Jason nodded. "Thank you for coming, Menewa. We are glad for your help." He looked at the crowd. "Any who will fight with Menewa can stay, the rest will not be needed." They gathered tables around, and talked long into the night.
Re: 1969 - Home of the Brave
Chapter Three
Grand Teton Dam, 44 miles northeast of Idaho Falls
In a moonless sky a million stars shone intently, watching silently over Menewa and his war party. He’d told the men, ordered them not to call it that lest any of them get ideas, but even in his own mind thats what it was. The whole previous day he had drilled the men and women, made sure they were disciplined enough to do this properly. He had brought ten members of the Path with him tonight, and another fifteen from the reservation. He would have liked more, but the eight he had sent away were too eager, not ready. He remembered the training.
”Pick up your knife, James!” One youth had dropped his knife, and he rushed to pick it up so quickly he grabbed the blade, sending a trickle of blood down his hand as he curse. Jason took the boys hand, pressing a cloth into it. Menewa shook his head and spoke to the group. “You must respect your weapon and act with thinking at all times. You will fight something focused singly on its goal, and so you must focus on everything and use what it cannot see to your advantage.” They practiced stealth and silence, tricks which Menewa had learned in childhood while these children had learned baseball and white games. There was one youth, Jessica Woods, who was an absolute shadow in the grass, she had surprised Raven one time in four. They all learned pathwalking and animal stealth from Raven, while she cursed them for being worse than Clark.
Some had been wholly unprepared, though. One had joked to his friend that he would take a white mans scalp and braid it. Menewa had heard him, and knocked him to the ground with a kick to the ribs. “You would joke about such things? You cannot even keep your feet, and you talk about killing men like they were rabbits?” The boy wheezed, trying to regain his breath. One of his friends put up a hand “But you are Menewa! You have killed many men! I bet you’ve taken scalps.”
The older man pushed back a shirtsleeve and showed a bracelet. It was braided of some kind of frayed leather, with black, brown, red, and white strands. “Do you see this?” The men present drew closer to look and a few gasped. They were not leather, but skin and hair. “I have killed many men, more than half the summers I have lived. I killed men for land, for food, for war, and for money. I kept one scalp from each race that I killed, the last I took from a soldier at Wounded Knee. I took them to remember.”
”To remember what, Menewa?”
He brushed his sleeve down. “To remember that killing is far easier than living with killing. I have killed no man since the day I made this bracelet. He had sent away the boy and his friends, they would not have understood in time to be useful.”
The call of a coyote on the wind echoed, it was Raven at the high ground watching for the students. Menewa answered back, and then signaled the people near him with hand talk. He would go out with Jessica and see how many, and then the party would split up and follow the groups of students. To destroy the dam, they would have to plant dynamite in many places, and when they did that they would be alone or in twos and threes.
They crept forward, noiselessly. Menewa remembered a thousand similar nights when he had scouted for different armies. For the first time, he was here for his own battle, to save lives and not end them. He smiled slightly, enjoying the notion. They came to a short bluff overlooking a traffic turnaround and peered over the bushes. Below them several vans were parked in a circle, their headlights turning night to day. There were many crates and shovels being unpacked, and Menewa counted almost forty young men and women. They were a colorful bunch, he noted, more dressed for a fair than silence in the dark. He even spotted two youths who had to have been the ones that Jason Tall Horse had seen, alike in their unwashed ponchos and scraggly facial hair.
Menewa and Jessica sat watching them for perhaps ten minutes until they stared splitting off into the hills, crashing through the brush. He had his count; forty-four people, all with flashlights, and ten guns. The Flathead had objected when Menewa told them they would not bring their own guns, but the elders saw the wisdom; if only the whites have guns, it is less likely for an Indian to be arrested for shooting someone. Knives, ropes, and hatchets were their weapons. They had all been disappointed that Menewa had no bow, but his sling was sure and at any rate, a bow in the dark served less purpose than a basket without pitch.”
Back with the Flathead, Menewa spoke to the team leaders quickly and they went to work. Across the ridge flashlights bobbed and ducked as the students hastily dug holes and strung dynamite wires. Jason Tall Horse stalked quietly through the bushes, his bare feet moulding themselves to the earth soundlessly.
He could hear the students talk as they dug “Man, its really great what were doing, you know? I can feel the earth’s vibrations, like it knows were trying to help it.”
“Totally!” his friend replied. Their hole dug, the man reached for the dynamite bomb. Jason pulled his blade and threw it in a single motion, severing the wires like spidersilk and thudding into the ground. “Wha-“ The young man started to turn but was hit in the head from a different direction by a river stone and slumped to the ground. His friend stood up, looking around and playing his flashlight across the bushes. “Who’s there?” He was nervous and fumbled for a handgun in his belt.
Jason stood up, not less than three feet from him. “I am the spirit of the land, fool.” He caught him with the flat of his hatchet on the side of his head, and he went down like a log. Another Indian bent down and picked up the gun. “Dumbass white.”
The rest went similarly. Thankfully none had brought walkie-talkies, and nobody noticed the flashlights winking off one by one. The Indians gathered the students in a clearing and tied them, they would release them in the morning. Menewa had them bring all the dynamite with them, he had plans for it.
At the cars, Carl Oglesby was worried. The Students for a Democratic Society had to make a statement here, to show the corporate military establishment that nature would not be abused to line the pockets of the upper class. His plan was on the verge of working, but something was wrong. None of his people had returned, he hadn’t heard so much as a peep in over an hour. He lit a cigarette and took a long pull. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
Oglesby wheeled around and saw an old Indian sitting on the hood of one of the cars. He hadn’t heard him, he was just suddenly there. “Who- what the hell are you doing here?!” He looked around for a gun, but couldn’t find one. Someone had probably taken his when they were going up.
”Easy, friend,” the Indian laughed. “I was just worried that your smoking might be dangerous.” He inclined his head slightly, and bundles of dynamite started raining down around Oglesby from above, like a biblical plague. He cursed, and stomped out his cigarette. The Indian stood and walked towards him. “You will not destroy anything here tonight, young man.” He pointed towards the ridge “This dam is power, water, and life for many thousands of people, some of them are my people and some of them are yours.”
The young leader stammered, incredulous at what was happening. “But... nature...”
”Nature will survive us, child. Nothing you or I or even the SAC could do could turn winter into spring, or bring rain to a thirsty plain. Now, you will go home before-“ As he was getting into his lecture for this upstart, a shout went up.
On the bluff, some of the students had awakened and had slipped their bonds. Menewa had left only one to watch them, a fatal mistake. Now the Indians were caught between angry men charging downhill and a sudden drop. He heard the noise of fighting, but there was no way for Menewa to climb to them quickly. He looked around for a rope, and then simply sprinted toward the earthen wall and dug his hands and feet in, climbing like a spider. As he climbed up several figures tumbled down, still grappling and kicking. Gunshots began to go off as people wrestled over firearms, and as Menewa reached the edge of the summit, a stray bullet nicked one of the bundles of dynamite and the explosion threw him well over onto the higher ground as one by one the cars and dynamite exploded. Flat on his back, Menewa’s mind spun into darkness as the stars swirled overhead. He thought of the sky over his father’s hut, through the smoke-hole, before he lost consciousness.
Eldest’s Residence, Ten miles northeast of Idaho Falls
”What in Gods flaming damnation was THAT?!” Henry ran outside and looked around. Inside Eldest was holding an audience with some of the worlds most prominent demons, and Henry was in charge of security. The residence was secure out to five miles, and there was an armed security post at the main gate off the county road. Most of the people of Idaho Falls thought a prominent Mormon family held residence here, or perhaps a retired cattle baron. Four of the staff members were actually Latter-Day-Saints, hired to represent the facility as just a private retreat. Of course, none of that mattered much when an explosion loud enough to rattle Henry’s teeth out of his head echoed down the valley.”
He scanned the horizon with binoculars, and saw a dim glow through smoke. “There’s something burning at the dam!” He snapped at an aide nearby. “Get Hunter and the show into the ‘dyne, and get it ready to liftoff.” He ran to the communications center and started waking people up. “Signal a high alert, and get the standby teams into the jeeps, were going to find out who thought it would be funny to re-enact the Big One on my watch.”
What followed was a flurry of activity as what should have been a dignified, reverent evening turned into running men and clipped orders. Six minutes later Henry was in the lead jeep and they were zooming up the road to the top of the dam. The Residence, called the Mountain by the circle for its heavy stone construction and remote location, had been here for years, long before the Grand Teton Dam had been built. The chance of collapse had been assessed, and for a few years they had been planning on moving Eldest to a new location. Henry grimmaced, it would probably be a lot sooner now.
From the top of the dam they could see flames through the smoke. Swerving and sliding down the slope they drew closer until they started seeing bodies. “Get these people help and then get cuffs on them!” Henry shouted as he leapt out of the car. He stumbled towards the edge of a bluff marked with burning shrubs, and below he could see only a smoking hole and twisted bits of metal. It looked like a rocket had hit it, he doubted there was anyone alive down there.
Suddenly, Henry felt a familiar tingle in the back of his mind, and turned to see a dirty man flat on his back. His hair was singed, but the age on his face was apparent to Henry. “Medic!” A pair of men ran up and started looking over him. “Keep him alive.” Henry stood up and wiped his hands on his duster “He’s got a lot of explaining to do.”
Grand Teton Dam, 44 miles northeast of Idaho Falls
In a moonless sky a million stars shone intently, watching silently over Menewa and his war party. He’d told the men, ordered them not to call it that lest any of them get ideas, but even in his own mind thats what it was. The whole previous day he had drilled the men and women, made sure they were disciplined enough to do this properly. He had brought ten members of the Path with him tonight, and another fifteen from the reservation. He would have liked more, but the eight he had sent away were too eager, not ready. He remembered the training.
”Pick up your knife, James!” One youth had dropped his knife, and he rushed to pick it up so quickly he grabbed the blade, sending a trickle of blood down his hand as he curse. Jason took the boys hand, pressing a cloth into it. Menewa shook his head and spoke to the group. “You must respect your weapon and act with thinking at all times. You will fight something focused singly on its goal, and so you must focus on everything and use what it cannot see to your advantage.” They practiced stealth and silence, tricks which Menewa had learned in childhood while these children had learned baseball and white games. There was one youth, Jessica Woods, who was an absolute shadow in the grass, she had surprised Raven one time in four. They all learned pathwalking and animal stealth from Raven, while she cursed them for being worse than Clark.
Some had been wholly unprepared, though. One had joked to his friend that he would take a white mans scalp and braid it. Menewa had heard him, and knocked him to the ground with a kick to the ribs. “You would joke about such things? You cannot even keep your feet, and you talk about killing men like they were rabbits?” The boy wheezed, trying to regain his breath. One of his friends put up a hand “But you are Menewa! You have killed many men! I bet you’ve taken scalps.”
The older man pushed back a shirtsleeve and showed a bracelet. It was braided of some kind of frayed leather, with black, brown, red, and white strands. “Do you see this?” The men present drew closer to look and a few gasped. They were not leather, but skin and hair. “I have killed many men, more than half the summers I have lived. I killed men for land, for food, for war, and for money. I kept one scalp from each race that I killed, the last I took from a soldier at Wounded Knee. I took them to remember.”
”To remember what, Menewa?”
He brushed his sleeve down. “To remember that killing is far easier than living with killing. I have killed no man since the day I made this bracelet. He had sent away the boy and his friends, they would not have understood in time to be useful.”
The call of a coyote on the wind echoed, it was Raven at the high ground watching for the students. Menewa answered back, and then signaled the people near him with hand talk. He would go out with Jessica and see how many, and then the party would split up and follow the groups of students. To destroy the dam, they would have to plant dynamite in many places, and when they did that they would be alone or in twos and threes.
They crept forward, noiselessly. Menewa remembered a thousand similar nights when he had scouted for different armies. For the first time, he was here for his own battle, to save lives and not end them. He smiled slightly, enjoying the notion. They came to a short bluff overlooking a traffic turnaround and peered over the bushes. Below them several vans were parked in a circle, their headlights turning night to day. There were many crates and shovels being unpacked, and Menewa counted almost forty young men and women. They were a colorful bunch, he noted, more dressed for a fair than silence in the dark. He even spotted two youths who had to have been the ones that Jason Tall Horse had seen, alike in their unwashed ponchos and scraggly facial hair.
Menewa and Jessica sat watching them for perhaps ten minutes until they stared splitting off into the hills, crashing through the brush. He had his count; forty-four people, all with flashlights, and ten guns. The Flathead had objected when Menewa told them they would not bring their own guns, but the elders saw the wisdom; if only the whites have guns, it is less likely for an Indian to be arrested for shooting someone. Knives, ropes, and hatchets were their weapons. They had all been disappointed that Menewa had no bow, but his sling was sure and at any rate, a bow in the dark served less purpose than a basket without pitch.”
Back with the Flathead, Menewa spoke to the team leaders quickly and they went to work. Across the ridge flashlights bobbed and ducked as the students hastily dug holes and strung dynamite wires. Jason Tall Horse stalked quietly through the bushes, his bare feet moulding themselves to the earth soundlessly.
He could hear the students talk as they dug “Man, its really great what were doing, you know? I can feel the earth’s vibrations, like it knows were trying to help it.”
“Totally!” his friend replied. Their hole dug, the man reached for the dynamite bomb. Jason pulled his blade and threw it in a single motion, severing the wires like spidersilk and thudding into the ground. “Wha-“ The young man started to turn but was hit in the head from a different direction by a river stone and slumped to the ground. His friend stood up, looking around and playing his flashlight across the bushes. “Who’s there?” He was nervous and fumbled for a handgun in his belt.
Jason stood up, not less than three feet from him. “I am the spirit of the land, fool.” He caught him with the flat of his hatchet on the side of his head, and he went down like a log. Another Indian bent down and picked up the gun. “Dumbass white.”
The rest went similarly. Thankfully none had brought walkie-talkies, and nobody noticed the flashlights winking off one by one. The Indians gathered the students in a clearing and tied them, they would release them in the morning. Menewa had them bring all the dynamite with them, he had plans for it.
At the cars, Carl Oglesby was worried. The Students for a Democratic Society had to make a statement here, to show the corporate military establishment that nature would not be abused to line the pockets of the upper class. His plan was on the verge of working, but something was wrong. None of his people had returned, he hadn’t heard so much as a peep in over an hour. He lit a cigarette and took a long pull. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
Oglesby wheeled around and saw an old Indian sitting on the hood of one of the cars. He hadn’t heard him, he was just suddenly there. “Who- what the hell are you doing here?!” He looked around for a gun, but couldn’t find one. Someone had probably taken his when they were going up.
”Easy, friend,” the Indian laughed. “I was just worried that your smoking might be dangerous.” He inclined his head slightly, and bundles of dynamite started raining down around Oglesby from above, like a biblical plague. He cursed, and stomped out his cigarette. The Indian stood and walked towards him. “You will not destroy anything here tonight, young man.” He pointed towards the ridge “This dam is power, water, and life for many thousands of people, some of them are my people and some of them are yours.”
The young leader stammered, incredulous at what was happening. “But... nature...”
”Nature will survive us, child. Nothing you or I or even the SAC could do could turn winter into spring, or bring rain to a thirsty plain. Now, you will go home before-“ As he was getting into his lecture for this upstart, a shout went up.
On the bluff, some of the students had awakened and had slipped their bonds. Menewa had left only one to watch them, a fatal mistake. Now the Indians were caught between angry men charging downhill and a sudden drop. He heard the noise of fighting, but there was no way for Menewa to climb to them quickly. He looked around for a rope, and then simply sprinted toward the earthen wall and dug his hands and feet in, climbing like a spider. As he climbed up several figures tumbled down, still grappling and kicking. Gunshots began to go off as people wrestled over firearms, and as Menewa reached the edge of the summit, a stray bullet nicked one of the bundles of dynamite and the explosion threw him well over onto the higher ground as one by one the cars and dynamite exploded. Flat on his back, Menewa’s mind spun into darkness as the stars swirled overhead. He thought of the sky over his father’s hut, through the smoke-hole, before he lost consciousness.
Eldest’s Residence, Ten miles northeast of Idaho Falls
”What in Gods flaming damnation was THAT?!” Henry ran outside and looked around. Inside Eldest was holding an audience with some of the worlds most prominent demons, and Henry was in charge of security. The residence was secure out to five miles, and there was an armed security post at the main gate off the county road. Most of the people of Idaho Falls thought a prominent Mormon family held residence here, or perhaps a retired cattle baron. Four of the staff members were actually Latter-Day-Saints, hired to represent the facility as just a private retreat. Of course, none of that mattered much when an explosion loud enough to rattle Henry’s teeth out of his head echoed down the valley.”
He scanned the horizon with binoculars, and saw a dim glow through smoke. “There’s something burning at the dam!” He snapped at an aide nearby. “Get Hunter and the show into the ‘dyne, and get it ready to liftoff.” He ran to the communications center and started waking people up. “Signal a high alert, and get the standby teams into the jeeps, were going to find out who thought it would be funny to re-enact the Big One on my watch.”
What followed was a flurry of activity as what should have been a dignified, reverent evening turned into running men and clipped orders. Six minutes later Henry was in the lead jeep and they were zooming up the road to the top of the dam. The Residence, called the Mountain by the circle for its heavy stone construction and remote location, had been here for years, long before the Grand Teton Dam had been built. The chance of collapse had been assessed, and for a few years they had been planning on moving Eldest to a new location. Henry grimmaced, it would probably be a lot sooner now.
From the top of the dam they could see flames through the smoke. Swerving and sliding down the slope they drew closer until they started seeing bodies. “Get these people help and then get cuffs on them!” Henry shouted as he leapt out of the car. He stumbled towards the edge of a bluff marked with burning shrubs, and below he could see only a smoking hole and twisted bits of metal. It looked like a rocket had hit it, he doubted there was anyone alive down there.
Suddenly, Henry felt a familiar tingle in the back of his mind, and turned to see a dirty man flat on his back. His hair was singed, but the age on his face was apparent to Henry. “Medic!” A pair of men ran up and started looking over him. “Keep him alive.” Henry stood up and wiped his hands on his duster “He’s got a lot of explaining to do.”
Re: 1969 - Home of the Brave
Chapter 4
Horseshoe Bend, Alabama, 1812
Menewa looked around, trying to find some glimmer of hope in the middle of a hopeless situation. The air was thick with smoke and sulfur, reducing his sight to perhaps thirty paces and the noise was deafening. The Cherokee had caught them by surprise in their rear, and now Jackson's infantry were up among the earthworks, laying down a terrible enfilading fire. The Lower Creek had agreed to help the Americans in return for help ending the civil war, and this battle was crushing his hopes of a unified Creek nation.
"Get the men to the center, we have to break out!" Menewa tried to rally his lieutenants, but half his army was dead. His brother in arms, Licangwin, grabbed his arm "The battle is lost, Menewa! We must get away before they kill us all!"
He was right; the battle had turned from a melee into a rout in less than five hours. Menewa looked around one last time, and then nodded. They ran for the earthworks in the rear, hoping to slip through the fray and into the river. Charging headlong, they led a mass of braves through the gap, putting down a heedless flurry of shot in their path and tearing a momentary gap in the onrushing Americans. As they ran men were throwing their guns away, trying to gain speed. Suddenly a blinding pain tore through his left side, spinning him around. Lincangwin grabbed his right arm before he went underwater, and dragged him across the river. As they reached the far bank, and before Menewa blacked out, he cursed the name of Andrew Jackson and the day that birthed him.
Mountain View Hospital, Idaho Falls
Sunbeams filtered in through the curtains, prying their way into Menewa's eyes. He hurt all over, in his back and legs. He shifted in his bed and reached for his left shoulder, the old wound still throbbed. His wrist caught up, and he jerked fully awake and found himself handcuffed to a hospital bed. The events at the dam came rushing back to him.
"Sorry about that, police procedure." In the corner stood an older white man stretched, rising up out of a chair. He was dressed in an older fashion, with dark pants, a collared shirt, and a brown vest. He walked toward the bed and fished a key out of his pocket. He unlocked the cuffs and handed him a cup of coffee. "I should tell you you're on the third floor and there's security in the hallway." He walked back and dragged the chair closer to the bed. "Also, your right leg is cuffed, too."
Menewa shifted his leg and felt the pinch of cold steel. He sipped on the coffee, it had a full flavor of chicory in it. "Who are you?"
"Name's Henry McCarty," Henry pulled out a badge "I work for the NSC. And you, my friend, are one interesting fellow."
"Am I?"
"Oh yes. No identification, no name listed, no BIA listings, and I daresay you're older than me, and that's not something a man of one hundred and twenty gets to say very often." His eyes narrowed, watching the Indian's reaction.
"You are Ghost-Touched, then?" Menewa looked into the man's eyes, and saw a glint in them he had seen a few times before. Something tugged at his mind, a sense of knowing and familiarity he hadn't expected from any White.
"Ghost... yes, we call it something different, though." He rubbed his nose. "You didn't think you were the only one, did you?"
There was an honesty to the white man, Henry, an openness Menewa had not felt from a stranger for a long, long time. "I knew I was not the only, but Wovoka believed that we had been set on the Path by the spirits, to fight the White man and then to preserve our people."
"You're a soldier, then."
Menewa laughed. "A soldier. Yes, that is what I am, that is who I have become, so much so that I cannot remember who I was."
"Who were, who are you?" Henry leaned in.
"I was born in the wintertime around the year 1600. I don't know when, exactly, or how old I am. My parents named me "Steady Leaf", because when my father took me out of the hut and into the air, there was one remaining leaf on the tree. I grew up like any other Muskogee; I hunted, I swam, I followed my father on trade trips to the white-fort at the river fork." He looked off, remembering. "One day a minister came to the camp, and said he would teach us the white words if we would read his book to others. The chief of our village said since I learned quickly, I should go. The year I learned to count and read, in french, it was 1617. After that I became a speaker for the Creek, and I traded for a book of law, as I understood it, so that the whites could not use their papers to take our lands. It did not always matter, and so I began to fight."
"By this time the Creek men my age had had several children and were teaching them to hunt, but I had been too busy trying to save my people from words to look to a woman. My father arranged for a wife for me, some to his embarrassment, and I married in 1626. My wife, whose name I keep for me, bore me three sons, but they all died in a sickness before the oldest had reached five. Half of my village died, and I was the only one who did not at least take ill. The elders said I was set apart, and that I should go and use my strength to help the people. So I left, and fought."
"I took the name 'Menewa', which means Warrior among the Creek. I fought for the French, the Spanish, the Creek, and the Americans. I killed, I scouted, I hunted, and I ambushed. The strange thing was, I did not die. I continued to fight for the Creek, even after we had been driven from our lands."
"Why didn't you try the law, to keep your people on the land that was yours?" William silently chided himself for being drawn in so completely by the story.
Menewa shrugged. "The Cherokee tried that. They had built houses and cities and a newspaper, they had even printed the Bible in their language. When the government told them they had to leave, they took their case all the way to the Supreme Court, and won."
"Then what happened?"
"Andrew Jackson made them walk to Oklahoma." His teeth clenched and the tendons on his neck flexed for a moment. "After that, I never had much faith in the white man's law. But, I found a few others, Ghost-Touched like me. We have tried to make our people safe and keep our ways, but the Path is only a handful of stones in a river, and the lake never even feels our ripples."
"So if you are protecting your people, why'd you come out to Idaho? We know half the folks with you are from Minnesota."
"Because we had to. Those kids, they would have wiped out a whole city for their foolish ideas, and the Flathead could not get anyone to listen."
Henry flipped through a notepad. "That would be... Jason Tall Horse you're talking about?"
Menewa nodded. "He called us because he had nobody else."
"But he's not... like you."
"No, only a handful of the Path are Ghost-Touched, but all wish to learn." He shrugged. "Friendship brings strength. Idaho Falls is just a city of people, people who deserve as much protection as my people do. How could we not help?"
A mule-kick landed squarely in Henry's gut And his people deserve as much protection as Idaho Falls. "You're a good man, Menewa."
"Thank you, Henry." He gulped down the rest of his coffee. "So, will you be taking me to jail, now?"
"Jail? Hardly." Henry took out a key and pulled back the blanket, uncuffing his leg. "After last night, half of Idaho Falls wants to give you a parade."
"But..." Menewa shook his head in confusion "you said there was security outside."
"There is." Henry put his coat on. "Some dark-haired beauty tried to storm in here, said she'd split you sideways for almost getting yourself killed. I thought I'd have to clip her to get her to slow down."
Menewa smiled "You'd only make her angry."
"I think you're right. At any rate, you need to rest up another day or so, and then there are some people that you and your Path are going to want to meet. Oh, and there'll be a press conference."
"A press conference?"
Henry grinned "Sure, how often do you think people get to see a cowboy and an Indian shaking hands?"
Horseshoe Bend, Alabama, 1812
Menewa looked around, trying to find some glimmer of hope in the middle of a hopeless situation. The air was thick with smoke and sulfur, reducing his sight to perhaps thirty paces and the noise was deafening. The Cherokee had caught them by surprise in their rear, and now Jackson's infantry were up among the earthworks, laying down a terrible enfilading fire. The Lower Creek had agreed to help the Americans in return for help ending the civil war, and this battle was crushing his hopes of a unified Creek nation.
"Get the men to the center, we have to break out!" Menewa tried to rally his lieutenants, but half his army was dead. His brother in arms, Licangwin, grabbed his arm "The battle is lost, Menewa! We must get away before they kill us all!"
He was right; the battle had turned from a melee into a rout in less than five hours. Menewa looked around one last time, and then nodded. They ran for the earthworks in the rear, hoping to slip through the fray and into the river. Charging headlong, they led a mass of braves through the gap, putting down a heedless flurry of shot in their path and tearing a momentary gap in the onrushing Americans. As they ran men were throwing their guns away, trying to gain speed. Suddenly a blinding pain tore through his left side, spinning him around. Lincangwin grabbed his right arm before he went underwater, and dragged him across the river. As they reached the far bank, and before Menewa blacked out, he cursed the name of Andrew Jackson and the day that birthed him.
Mountain View Hospital, Idaho Falls
Sunbeams filtered in through the curtains, prying their way into Menewa's eyes. He hurt all over, in his back and legs. He shifted in his bed and reached for his left shoulder, the old wound still throbbed. His wrist caught up, and he jerked fully awake and found himself handcuffed to a hospital bed. The events at the dam came rushing back to him.
"Sorry about that, police procedure." In the corner stood an older white man stretched, rising up out of a chair. He was dressed in an older fashion, with dark pants, a collared shirt, and a brown vest. He walked toward the bed and fished a key out of his pocket. He unlocked the cuffs and handed him a cup of coffee. "I should tell you you're on the third floor and there's security in the hallway." He walked back and dragged the chair closer to the bed. "Also, your right leg is cuffed, too."
Menewa shifted his leg and felt the pinch of cold steel. He sipped on the coffee, it had a full flavor of chicory in it. "Who are you?"
"Name's Henry McCarty," Henry pulled out a badge "I work for the NSC. And you, my friend, are one interesting fellow."
"Am I?"
"Oh yes. No identification, no name listed, no BIA listings, and I daresay you're older than me, and that's not something a man of one hundred and twenty gets to say very often." His eyes narrowed, watching the Indian's reaction.
"You are Ghost-Touched, then?" Menewa looked into the man's eyes, and saw a glint in them he had seen a few times before. Something tugged at his mind, a sense of knowing and familiarity he hadn't expected from any White.
"Ghost... yes, we call it something different, though." He rubbed his nose. "You didn't think you were the only one, did you?"
There was an honesty to the white man, Henry, an openness Menewa had not felt from a stranger for a long, long time. "I knew I was not the only, but Wovoka believed that we had been set on the Path by the spirits, to fight the White man and then to preserve our people."
"You're a soldier, then."
Menewa laughed. "A soldier. Yes, that is what I am, that is who I have become, so much so that I cannot remember who I was."
"Who were, who are you?" Henry leaned in.
"I was born in the wintertime around the year 1600. I don't know when, exactly, or how old I am. My parents named me "Steady Leaf", because when my father took me out of the hut and into the air, there was one remaining leaf on the tree. I grew up like any other Muskogee; I hunted, I swam, I followed my father on trade trips to the white-fort at the river fork." He looked off, remembering. "One day a minister came to the camp, and said he would teach us the white words if we would read his book to others. The chief of our village said since I learned quickly, I should go. The year I learned to count and read, in french, it was 1617. After that I became a speaker for the Creek, and I traded for a book of law, as I understood it, so that the whites could not use their papers to take our lands. It did not always matter, and so I began to fight."
"By this time the Creek men my age had had several children and were teaching them to hunt, but I had been too busy trying to save my people from words to look to a woman. My father arranged for a wife for me, some to his embarrassment, and I married in 1626. My wife, whose name I keep for me, bore me three sons, but they all died in a sickness before the oldest had reached five. Half of my village died, and I was the only one who did not at least take ill. The elders said I was set apart, and that I should go and use my strength to help the people. So I left, and fought."
"I took the name 'Menewa', which means Warrior among the Creek. I fought for the French, the Spanish, the Creek, and the Americans. I killed, I scouted, I hunted, and I ambushed. The strange thing was, I did not die. I continued to fight for the Creek, even after we had been driven from our lands."
"Why didn't you try the law, to keep your people on the land that was yours?" William silently chided himself for being drawn in so completely by the story.
Menewa shrugged. "The Cherokee tried that. They had built houses and cities and a newspaper, they had even printed the Bible in their language. When the government told them they had to leave, they took their case all the way to the Supreme Court, and won."
"Then what happened?"
"Andrew Jackson made them walk to Oklahoma." His teeth clenched and the tendons on his neck flexed for a moment. "After that, I never had much faith in the white man's law. But, I found a few others, Ghost-Touched like me. We have tried to make our people safe and keep our ways, but the Path is only a handful of stones in a river, and the lake never even feels our ripples."
"So if you are protecting your people, why'd you come out to Idaho? We know half the folks with you are from Minnesota."
"Because we had to. Those kids, they would have wiped out a whole city for their foolish ideas, and the Flathead could not get anyone to listen."
Henry flipped through a notepad. "That would be... Jason Tall Horse you're talking about?"
Menewa nodded. "He called us because he had nobody else."
"But he's not... like you."
"No, only a handful of the Path are Ghost-Touched, but all wish to learn." He shrugged. "Friendship brings strength. Idaho Falls is just a city of people, people who deserve as much protection as my people do. How could we not help?"
A mule-kick landed squarely in Henry's gut And his people deserve as much protection as Idaho Falls. "You're a good man, Menewa."
"Thank you, Henry." He gulped down the rest of his coffee. "So, will you be taking me to jail, now?"
"Jail? Hardly." Henry took out a key and pulled back the blanket, uncuffing his leg. "After last night, half of Idaho Falls wants to give you a parade."
"But..." Menewa shook his head in confusion "you said there was security outside."
"There is." Henry put his coat on. "Some dark-haired beauty tried to storm in here, said she'd split you sideways for almost getting yourself killed. I thought I'd have to clip her to get her to slow down."
Menewa smiled "You'd only make her angry."
"I think you're right. At any rate, you need to rest up another day or so, and then there are some people that you and your Path are going to want to meet. Oh, and there'll be a press conference."
"A press conference?"
Henry grinned "Sure, how often do you think people get to see a cowboy and an Indian shaking hands?"
Re: 1969 - Home of the Brave
Chapter 5
The Seer’s Office. NSC Building, Washington DC.
Henry finished his report, trailing off as he looked at Parmenio. The "rules" of their shadowy society prohibited disclosure of their "peculiar condition" to outsiders except in emergency or after detailed examination and investigation of the people in question. On the other hand, the circles existed to find newly-emerging demons and bring them under the protection of the group until they had fully adjusted to their knew status. In theory, he should have reported his discovery to the rest before doing anything, but the way the Menewa and his people had risked their lives had resonated with him. Maybe it was because Henry had been stuck on the wrong side of the lawful authorities more than once, or maybe it was just his own conscience. Whatever the case, his gaze didn’t waver and he stood confident that at least he believed he had made the right decision. After that talk in the hospital room and a press conference outside he had whisked Menewa, Raven, and the members of the Path that Menewa could contact to DC, to meet with the Seer.
”Well now,” Parmenio was sitting in his chair, the sunlight and shadow playing to hide his face in darkness. The window had been designed that way. “That’s some story. If what you say is true-“
”I do not lie.” Menewas voice was sharp, but low, like a stone knife.
”Of course.” He nodded. “As I was saying, if what you say is true, my people owe you quite a bit. One of the lives you saved was the life of the oldest of our kind in this world; the oldest by two dozen millennia.”
[Impossible] One of the Path whispered to an demon next to her in Iroquois. [None can live that long! Mountain Whisper was not a tenth that when he died.]
Her companion whispered back, waving his hand. [Mountain Whisper is a story. Not even Five Elks is sure he ever lived.]
The Seer cleared his throat. [Regardless, I am telling the truth.] He switched to English. “In this room, at this time, I will not lie to you. You may be sure of that.”
”What guarantee is there?” Another demon of the Path asked.
”It is quite simple.” The Seer shrugged. “You are part of something much larger than you realize, something so large that we cannot allow a small group like yours to endanger the whole. We cannot simply ignore a dozen demons and a small army of their followers operating inside our country. The reason why this circle exists is to provide help and cover to those of our kind but to do so we need to know all about you. I don’t think you want me to explain the alternative although I guess you can imagine what that is.”
The demon considered this, and while some around him looked alarmed, he did not. “That is a sufficient guarantee for the Path. We also speak truthfully with one another, and with you.”
”Good, because I have some more questions that need to be answered. Would you like anything to drink?” He motioned, and pitchers of water were brought in. Parmenio leaned forward. “Now, Just who the hell are you people?”
”Now we come to my story.” The demon nodded. “The story of the Path.” Raven made as if she was going to speak, but he held up his hand. “They must be told, child. His eyelids lowered, as if he were gazing into a fire that wasn’t there.”
”I am Five Elks, the oldest of the Path, and the only who remembers the coming of the white men. I was born on the banks of what you call the Saint Lawrence Seaway, in New York, to the Oneida people of the Iroquois. I do not know how old I am, but my father had an iron knife that he had traded for from a man with white skin and red hair growing from his head and face. They must have been Vikings with Erik the Red, so my father got the knife over nine hundred years ago.”
The Iroquois people were scattered, bitter enemies who were constantly at war. They would eat their victims, at times, and would not spare the sick. I was no exception, but as I grew older I knew I had been set apart, and so I walked the lands. I sat with the Seneca, the Cayuga, even the Mohawk. I went south to the great rivers and waters, and east to the Algonquin. In the north I saw the sea creatures for which I had no name. I saw that peace must be the way, the way of brothers and friends.
”At this time I was old beyond my people’s measure, perhaps one hundred fifty years. My children had grown and died, as had their children. Two of the Path claim they are of my blood, but I do not know as when I returned I did not know them.” He looked at one the members of the Path. Most did not have living descendents, the mortality rate among Indians was too high.
”I brought a message of peace to all who would listen, and I slowly brought tribe after tribe and nation into my message. My pupil, Hiawatha, led what became the Iroquois Confederacy. They called me Deganawida, which means The Great Peacemaker, but I did not lead them.” He looked at Parmenio. “Have you ever tried to lead a nation, while walking the Path? They thought I was a Jogah, some even called me Hahgwehdiyu, the Creator. I could not bear it, so I left. But the Iroquois stayed strong on the principles I had taught them.”
”When the whites came, it was like a wave upon the shore. The wave swirls and changes the sand, but the shore remains the same and yet different. The Iroquois made treaties with the English, and fought the French. They even took in the Tuscarora, when they fled. The Iroquois were strong, until the Revolution.” He shook his head. “During the war, the Iroquois split, and after that they could never be whole again. I left them, and continued to wander. On the frontier I found Menewa, and together we continued to find a few others like us, who were Ghost-Touched and walked the unending Path. We sought to teach those who we found our way of living.” Henry cocked his head, puzzled, but said nothing.
”We sought to teach good people, our people, the way of the Ghost Touch, in order to preserve our culture. We thought that perhaps the Spirits had charged those who embodied great talents and traits to walk the Path, so that we might teach it to others. We believed if we took people in and taught them properly, they too would become Ghost-Touched. A few of our people are now doctors, and think that what makes us different may be a thing of birth, but still we seek to instill the ways of our people and the concepts of brotherhood, wisdom, and strength of self. For a time we lived this way, but then one of the Path had a vision of the Spirits.
Wovoka was a Paiute, a healer and a shaman. He had not been walking the Path years, but he was of a great faith. He taught his followers to dance the dances of love and peace to restore the happiness of the people, and to dance the Dance of the Spirits.”
”The Ghost Dance.” Henry remembered reading the newspapers.
Five Elks nodded. “Wovoka’s words were powerful, and many followed him. We allowed it, as we thought his message would spread the teachings of the Path to every Indian. The Dance was all they had, but some turned it into a call to drive out Europeans, by force if necessary. They believed we were invincible, immortal and the Dance would make them like us so they feared nothing. The whites were scared of this, and so they went to the Lakota and killed Sitting Bull for not stopping the Dance. Many Lakota fled, and half the Path were with them. We had hoped we could create a new nation with the Dance, a nation of unity.”
”The Army eventually caught them, and marched them to Wounded Knee Creek. Menewa was with the Lakota there, and he will tell you that the whites were afraid. They took all the guns, and did not believe that such fearsome savages had so few. They searched the camp, and the tents, and then even the men and women themselves, such was their fear. We had made them afraid of us, using a dance for peace.” He laughed, once.
”What happened then was a great tragedy, but it had to happen because of what we had done. Someone fired a gun, even Menewa does not know for certain who shot first, but in three minutes most of the Indians were dead, including a full third of the ghost-touched. That day changed the Path forever. From that day on we would only guide from the shadows, never in the open. We had forgotten the Great Law of Peace, that what is done must be considered for seven generations. That is our greatest law now, but I fear we broke it again to stop those students. Five Elks looked up, into the Seers eyes. The Path exists to remind our people the old ways, so we will not forget them. To keep our history and our stories alive, and to make sure that what is done will not harm the seventh generation.”
For a full two minutes the silence was palpable. Parmenio had hardly moved, and gave no sign that he even knew the story was over. He sat perfectly still, his face impassive, his eyes defocused as the story and its implications ran through his mind. Along with them, his mind projected ahead, measuring consequences, envisaging paths of action and the chains of further consequences that might or might not emerge. “I thank you for your story, Five Elks.” He straightened in his chair. It is good to meet a true leader, and to hear the stories of other Demons. “I cannot, and will not, apologize for the plight of the Indians in this country, but your people have done a service to me that is beyond compare. If you ask me anything else, I will do what I can to make it happen.”
”Give us strength!” Raven had been silent, but now her gaze was intent.
Parmenio raised an eyebrow. “I don’t believe we have been introduced.”
”I am Raven.”
Five Elks cleared his throat, “There is a pact of truth in this room, child.”
She sighed “I am Sacagawea, daughter of Steady Arm, of the Agaidika Shoshone, and one of the elders of the Path.”
He looked at her, considering her carefully. She was quite striking, and appeared to be no more than twenty-five or thirty years old. Her tan skin and jet-black hair shimmered with vitality, and her bearing far belied her station over the simple clothes she wore. “So, you're Sacagawea.”
She rolled her eyes “That is why I call myself Raven. My name means Bird woman, and so I honor my parents without answering stupid questions every day.”
He nodded. “And you want strength?”
”Yes!” She looked around at the other members of the Path “We know you will not give us land, or money, or bring back the buffalo, or go back to Europe. We must learn to be equals to you. Right now alcoholism and broken spirits are an everyday thing for my people. You locked us away on reservations and told us to learn the white ways and farm crops. Who will buy corn from a Chippewa, or a Shoshone, when the white farmers do it faster, better, and cheaper? We are quaint and interesting, but when was the last time anyone listened to an Indian lobbyist? We have fought in every war since this country was founded, but how many Indian generals are there? Indians believe they are not equal, not cut out for living in the real world, so they sit in their reservations and collect their government checks. Our schools and our hospitals are jokes, and nobody even cares enough to listen to us when lives are on the line.” She caught herself and realized that not only was she standing, but she was almost nose-to-nose with the Seer. She turned, slightly embarrassed, and sat down. The Path were all nodding.
”This is what you all want?”
”Yes.” Menewa put a hand on Raven’s shoulder.
”People, I need time to think this whole matter over and consider how to best approach your request. Naamah, would you give the Path a tour of the museum in the basement? I don’t think security will be necessary anymore. He turned his chair, staring out the window.” As Naamah motioned for the Path to follow her she looked back at him. She was sure that if she could see his eyes she would see that strange defocused look again. The strategic insight which had led conquest after conquest across the known world was attacking the most complex problem it had had in a long time.
The Seer’s Office. NSC Building, Washington DC.
Henry finished his report, trailing off as he looked at Parmenio. The "rules" of their shadowy society prohibited disclosure of their "peculiar condition" to outsiders except in emergency or after detailed examination and investigation of the people in question. On the other hand, the circles existed to find newly-emerging demons and bring them under the protection of the group until they had fully adjusted to their knew status. In theory, he should have reported his discovery to the rest before doing anything, but the way the Menewa and his people had risked their lives had resonated with him. Maybe it was because Henry had been stuck on the wrong side of the lawful authorities more than once, or maybe it was just his own conscience. Whatever the case, his gaze didn’t waver and he stood confident that at least he believed he had made the right decision. After that talk in the hospital room and a press conference outside he had whisked Menewa, Raven, and the members of the Path that Menewa could contact to DC, to meet with the Seer.
”Well now,” Parmenio was sitting in his chair, the sunlight and shadow playing to hide his face in darkness. The window had been designed that way. “That’s some story. If what you say is true-“
”I do not lie.” Menewas voice was sharp, but low, like a stone knife.
”Of course.” He nodded. “As I was saying, if what you say is true, my people owe you quite a bit. One of the lives you saved was the life of the oldest of our kind in this world; the oldest by two dozen millennia.”
[Impossible] One of the Path whispered to an demon next to her in Iroquois. [None can live that long! Mountain Whisper was not a tenth that when he died.]
Her companion whispered back, waving his hand. [Mountain Whisper is a story. Not even Five Elks is sure he ever lived.]
The Seer cleared his throat. [Regardless, I am telling the truth.] He switched to English. “In this room, at this time, I will not lie to you. You may be sure of that.”
”What guarantee is there?” Another demon of the Path asked.
”It is quite simple.” The Seer shrugged. “You are part of something much larger than you realize, something so large that we cannot allow a small group like yours to endanger the whole. We cannot simply ignore a dozen demons and a small army of their followers operating inside our country. The reason why this circle exists is to provide help and cover to those of our kind but to do so we need to know all about you. I don’t think you want me to explain the alternative although I guess you can imagine what that is.”
The demon considered this, and while some around him looked alarmed, he did not. “That is a sufficient guarantee for the Path. We also speak truthfully with one another, and with you.”
”Good, because I have some more questions that need to be answered. Would you like anything to drink?” He motioned, and pitchers of water were brought in. Parmenio leaned forward. “Now, Just who the hell are you people?”
”Now we come to my story.” The demon nodded. “The story of the Path.” Raven made as if she was going to speak, but he held up his hand. “They must be told, child. His eyelids lowered, as if he were gazing into a fire that wasn’t there.”
”I am Five Elks, the oldest of the Path, and the only who remembers the coming of the white men. I was born on the banks of what you call the Saint Lawrence Seaway, in New York, to the Oneida people of the Iroquois. I do not know how old I am, but my father had an iron knife that he had traded for from a man with white skin and red hair growing from his head and face. They must have been Vikings with Erik the Red, so my father got the knife over nine hundred years ago.”
The Iroquois people were scattered, bitter enemies who were constantly at war. They would eat their victims, at times, and would not spare the sick. I was no exception, but as I grew older I knew I had been set apart, and so I walked the lands. I sat with the Seneca, the Cayuga, even the Mohawk. I went south to the great rivers and waters, and east to the Algonquin. In the north I saw the sea creatures for which I had no name. I saw that peace must be the way, the way of brothers and friends.
”At this time I was old beyond my people’s measure, perhaps one hundred fifty years. My children had grown and died, as had their children. Two of the Path claim they are of my blood, but I do not know as when I returned I did not know them.” He looked at one the members of the Path. Most did not have living descendents, the mortality rate among Indians was too high.
”I brought a message of peace to all who would listen, and I slowly brought tribe after tribe and nation into my message. My pupil, Hiawatha, led what became the Iroquois Confederacy. They called me Deganawida, which means The Great Peacemaker, but I did not lead them.” He looked at Parmenio. “Have you ever tried to lead a nation, while walking the Path? They thought I was a Jogah, some even called me Hahgwehdiyu, the Creator. I could not bear it, so I left. But the Iroquois stayed strong on the principles I had taught them.”
”When the whites came, it was like a wave upon the shore. The wave swirls and changes the sand, but the shore remains the same and yet different. The Iroquois made treaties with the English, and fought the French. They even took in the Tuscarora, when they fled. The Iroquois were strong, until the Revolution.” He shook his head. “During the war, the Iroquois split, and after that they could never be whole again. I left them, and continued to wander. On the frontier I found Menewa, and together we continued to find a few others like us, who were Ghost-Touched and walked the unending Path. We sought to teach those who we found our way of living.” Henry cocked his head, puzzled, but said nothing.
”We sought to teach good people, our people, the way of the Ghost Touch, in order to preserve our culture. We thought that perhaps the Spirits had charged those who embodied great talents and traits to walk the Path, so that we might teach it to others. We believed if we took people in and taught them properly, they too would become Ghost-Touched. A few of our people are now doctors, and think that what makes us different may be a thing of birth, but still we seek to instill the ways of our people and the concepts of brotherhood, wisdom, and strength of self. For a time we lived this way, but then one of the Path had a vision of the Spirits.
Wovoka was a Paiute, a healer and a shaman. He had not been walking the Path years, but he was of a great faith. He taught his followers to dance the dances of love and peace to restore the happiness of the people, and to dance the Dance of the Spirits.”
”The Ghost Dance.” Henry remembered reading the newspapers.
Five Elks nodded. “Wovoka’s words were powerful, and many followed him. We allowed it, as we thought his message would spread the teachings of the Path to every Indian. The Dance was all they had, but some turned it into a call to drive out Europeans, by force if necessary. They believed we were invincible, immortal and the Dance would make them like us so they feared nothing. The whites were scared of this, and so they went to the Lakota and killed Sitting Bull for not stopping the Dance. Many Lakota fled, and half the Path were with them. We had hoped we could create a new nation with the Dance, a nation of unity.”
”The Army eventually caught them, and marched them to Wounded Knee Creek. Menewa was with the Lakota there, and he will tell you that the whites were afraid. They took all the guns, and did not believe that such fearsome savages had so few. They searched the camp, and the tents, and then even the men and women themselves, such was their fear. We had made them afraid of us, using a dance for peace.” He laughed, once.
”What happened then was a great tragedy, but it had to happen because of what we had done. Someone fired a gun, even Menewa does not know for certain who shot first, but in three minutes most of the Indians were dead, including a full third of the ghost-touched. That day changed the Path forever. From that day on we would only guide from the shadows, never in the open. We had forgotten the Great Law of Peace, that what is done must be considered for seven generations. That is our greatest law now, but I fear we broke it again to stop those students. Five Elks looked up, into the Seers eyes. The Path exists to remind our people the old ways, so we will not forget them. To keep our history and our stories alive, and to make sure that what is done will not harm the seventh generation.”
For a full two minutes the silence was palpable. Parmenio had hardly moved, and gave no sign that he even knew the story was over. He sat perfectly still, his face impassive, his eyes defocused as the story and its implications ran through his mind. Along with them, his mind projected ahead, measuring consequences, envisaging paths of action and the chains of further consequences that might or might not emerge. “I thank you for your story, Five Elks.” He straightened in his chair. It is good to meet a true leader, and to hear the stories of other Demons. “I cannot, and will not, apologize for the plight of the Indians in this country, but your people have done a service to me that is beyond compare. If you ask me anything else, I will do what I can to make it happen.”
”Give us strength!” Raven had been silent, but now her gaze was intent.
Parmenio raised an eyebrow. “I don’t believe we have been introduced.”
”I am Raven.”
Five Elks cleared his throat, “There is a pact of truth in this room, child.”
She sighed “I am Sacagawea, daughter of Steady Arm, of the Agaidika Shoshone, and one of the elders of the Path.”
He looked at her, considering her carefully. She was quite striking, and appeared to be no more than twenty-five or thirty years old. Her tan skin and jet-black hair shimmered with vitality, and her bearing far belied her station over the simple clothes she wore. “So, you're Sacagawea.”
She rolled her eyes “That is why I call myself Raven. My name means Bird woman, and so I honor my parents without answering stupid questions every day.”
He nodded. “And you want strength?”
”Yes!” She looked around at the other members of the Path “We know you will not give us land, or money, or bring back the buffalo, or go back to Europe. We must learn to be equals to you. Right now alcoholism and broken spirits are an everyday thing for my people. You locked us away on reservations and told us to learn the white ways and farm crops. Who will buy corn from a Chippewa, or a Shoshone, when the white farmers do it faster, better, and cheaper? We are quaint and interesting, but when was the last time anyone listened to an Indian lobbyist? We have fought in every war since this country was founded, but how many Indian generals are there? Indians believe they are not equal, not cut out for living in the real world, so they sit in their reservations and collect their government checks. Our schools and our hospitals are jokes, and nobody even cares enough to listen to us when lives are on the line.” She caught herself and realized that not only was she standing, but she was almost nose-to-nose with the Seer. She turned, slightly embarrassed, and sat down. The Path were all nodding.
”This is what you all want?”
”Yes.” Menewa put a hand on Raven’s shoulder.
”People, I need time to think this whole matter over and consider how to best approach your request. Naamah, would you give the Path a tour of the museum in the basement? I don’t think security will be necessary anymore. He turned his chair, staring out the window.” As Naamah motioned for the Path to follow her she looked back at him. She was sure that if she could see his eyes she would see that strange defocused look again. The strategic insight which had led conquest after conquest across the known world was attacking the most complex problem it had had in a long time.
Re: 1969 - Home of the Brave
Chapter 6
NSC Building, Washington DC.
The members of the Path were starting to relax somewhat. Lillith was an excellent tour-guide, and was showing them all the state-of-the-art facilities the NSC had. Even though the much-reduced night shift was on duty, the communications systems and the situation rooms with their maps and force status displays weren’t something they were familiar with, and the message was clear; We trust you, make yourselves at home. Henry was also tagging along for the tour, partly as security and partly because he and Menewa were becoming fast friends. Walking down the brightly-lit halls, every so often one of them would crack a joke or make a low quip and set the other laughing, as if they had known each other for years.
They were coming back around to the Seers office, the tour apparently complete, when Raven spoke “Thank you for the tour, your... Circle is certainly amazing.”
”Oh, you folks aren’t leaving yet, are you?” Henry gave Lillith a wink.
”Of course they aren’t, She smiled, looking around at them You wouldn’t want to miss the best part.”
”The best... part? Raven raised an eyebrow.”
Lillith walked over to a door marked ‘Main Floor Breaker Access’ and gripped the doorknob. She pulled it out slightly, twisted it left and right in precise measure, and then pushed it flush with the door. A soft chime echoed and the door slid open. She motioned for them to enter “The very best part.”
Inside there were no circuit breakers or wires, but instead they found themselves in a large elevator. Decorated in the finest tastes of a gilded age robber-baron, the elegant woodwork and cushioned benches danced on the edge of garishness; clearly someone had had too much gold leaf on hand when they started to make the elevator car. The Path marveled, open-mouthed, as they looked around, feeling the fabric and studying the carved paneling.
Naamah joined them inside just before the door closed. “Shall we then?” There was no button to press, the system only served two floors, the 13th and the basement. If anyone unauthorized had entered the elevator it simply would not work. Smoothly, without so much as a bump, the car began to descend.
”Where are we going, Miss Lillith?” Five Elks rested on one of the benches.
”Please, just call me Lillith. And we are going to the parlor.” She smiled, knowingly. “They continued on for perhaps a minute in silence, until just as seamlessly the car came to a stop and the doors opened. They looked out into a dark space, the light from the elevator only illuminating a small expanse of floor. “Right this way.” Lillith stepped into the room and her movement activated the motion sensors sweeping the room. There were no alarms here; the room was more secure than some parts of Red Sun. As the Path filed in behind her, lights began to turn on, electric lamps crafted to look like torches lining the walls. The room appeared immense and was filled with strange and beautiful objects.
”Welcome to my parlor, Lillith’s” eyes narrowed slightly, and she laughed “Our parlor, excuse me. Here the Circle has placed some things great value, sentimental and otherwise, which we have gathered from our lives. Please, look around, and perhaps you will understand us better.” A large chandelier overhead lit up, casting a warm glow over the whole room. The Path spread out in twos and threes, marveling at the artifacts.
One of the women, a Navajo named Kai, marveled at a wooden box covered in pure gold with a rimmed top. It had golden rings on each side where poles would fit for carrying, and was covered with a strange script. She reached to open it. “If you dont mind, we try not to open that one.” Her hand darted back and she turned to see Naamah. “What is it?”
”Its something Lillith and I found in Judea a long time ago after a Habiru army got chewed up. Completely harmless, but we try not to tempt fate.” She motioned her over “Let me show you Tom's chair, it is really quite comfortable.”
Many of the exhibits were captivating in their uniqueness; Some of the Path read from the original teachings of Confucious set in glass alongside those of Socrates and Siddhartha.
Five Elks was studying a rack of weapons, everything from stone knives to odd percussion-cap pistols with revolving barrels. One of the weapons, a long spear bound with silver and gold bands, caught his eye. He hefted it, feeling the weight. The blade was well-cared for, but bore a Latin inscription that he could barely make out. He sounded out the words “Lance and... “
”Lance and Nail of our Lord.” Lillith finished the line. “It was placed there by Charles the Fourth of Bohemia in 1350.”
He nodded. “It must have been a great battle in which this spear made itself known.”
”Not really,” She took it from him and put it back on the wall “It only killed one man, and I’m not sure if he stayed dead.” She picked up a strange dagger, adorned with cobra fangs “Now this one...”
One of the Path, a younger-looking man, was reading parchments on the wall. The writing was an older English script, barely legible, but he had studied law and there was something familiar about it as he read the words aloud "Wherefore we will and firmly order that the English Church be free..." Resting his fingers on the glass, he traced down to the bottom, where the seal of King John was prominently seen. He shook his head in wonderment.
Henry and Menewa were strolling through the exhibits with the air of two men walking through the park. Menewa’s alert eyes noted everything, and the wealth of everything around him was staggering. His whole life he had never even owned a new pair of shoes, and now he was three feet away from a man juggling Celtic jewelry.
They walked up to an old tintype photo “Oh, now this you’ll get a kick out of! Henry picked up a nearby rifle and stood it on its stock. He sucked in his stomach stood next to the picture “See the resemblance?” Menewa looked back and forth. “You’re holding the gun in the wrong hand.”
”Funny you should mention that,” Henry laughed, as he stepped away from the wall. Look at the plaque under the picture.
Menewa bent close, looking at the bronze plate. It bore only two words; TURN AROUND.
He spun and saw Henry in the exact same pose, rifle standing and stomach in, standing in front of a mirror. The tintype picture was in the reflection next to him, now in an identical pose. “They’ve all got it backwards, my friend. This is my justice for all those bad biographies.” He was barely able to stop laughing.
The various groups wandered through the room to the back, where a suit of armor hung in a display case. It was an older Greek style of armor, painted red and blue, and with gold trim. The armor practically radiated authority, more than two and a half millennia after it had been worn. At the base of the case was the inscription ‘I leave it to the strongest’. They all regarded it silently for a moment. “Who was he?” Raven asked.
”He was the ruler of the world.” Lillith stared at the armor contemptuously “He never lost a battle, and conquered more than any single man had before or since. His generals were so fearful of him after his death that his armor and regalia presided over their meetings. Such was his power, and their fear even after death.”
”Did your Seer fear him?” Raven raised an eyebrow.
”Feared, never. Hated, yes, with a passion that still lingers.” She motioned to a low case beside the armor. Inside was a very large, oblong lump of some sort of amber material, pitted with age. Encased within the material the form of a human body was visible. “But he does keep him locked up most of the time.” A few of the Path shivered at that moment. “Come, the Seer is ready for us.” As the Indians made their way back to the elevator, Lillith walked over to a case and unlocked it. “She took out a wooden box marked U.S.G. 1865", opened it, and took out two cigars. Naamah noticed “So he’s got a plan, then?”
”Doesn’t he always?” Lillith smirked. “I can’t wait to hear it. What did you find out about the Path?”
”They’re pretty much what they say they are,” Naamah replaced the cigar case and started back to the elevator. “They own some land in Minnesota, and a few other places, but they aren’t very well-connected. The way they operate is all very chickenwire and crossed fingers, they’re actually staying at a motorist lodge outside the city. The Red Roof Inn for heaven's sake, its all they could afford.”
”It makes sense, Naamah. We were born to wealth, and even if we didn’t always have it, we’ve been pretty comfortable for quite a while. I can hardly remember the last time I had to hide out in the woods, or couldn’t buy my way out of most legal trouble.” They stepped into the elevator and were on their way back to the thirteenth floor.
When they returned to the office, they found the Seer standing, staring out of a window over the Washington skyline. “I trust you enjoyed your tour? Our museum, the Parlor, is a favorite place of mine for reflection.”
”We are truly honored that you have treated us so, Seer.” Five Elks bowed his head.
”I thank you for your honor, Five Elks.” The Seer straightened. “Now, it seems to me that the American Indians have three major problems; First, the majority of Americans either don’t respect you or don’t even realize you exist. Second, while your people are proud, you have been beaten and caged into a culture of self-defeat and low expectations which keeps you from reaching past the reservations. Thirdly, as a people you have very little economic or political power.” He looked at the men and women who were slowly nodding their heads. The summation might have been humorous if it weren’t so tragic.
”Now, as to the first two points, there are a few things we can do. I happen to know an excellent writer in Hollywood, and I’m going to call him and have him put together some television programming. It won’t be about poor defenseless Indians being oppressed, or fighting back, but it will be about Indians living their lives in the Old West, and the sort of lives they led the same as everyone else. Next, we can maybe make a show or some movies about the fighting spirit of the Indians, and their honor. A fair part of our special forces are Indians, and every tribe served with distinction in Russia during the war. We can get that more into the public consciousness.”
”You are going to help us with television? What good will that do?” Raven almost snorted as she said the word ‘television’.
”Television, my dear, is not just entertainment, it is a tool. Hitler pioneered it first, but we have since found out that what a person sees and how they see it, can make a dramatic difference to their opinions and values. Make a point strongly enough and often enough, it will be accepted as true. There's even a name for it now, Argumentum ad Nauseum.” He slowly wagged a finger. “The same shows will also help your people, because they need to realize that they aren’t different or estranged from whites, but that you have just as much right to all parts of this country. Don't over estimate our power here, we can't pass laws or make major policy changes but we can, and do, plant seeds and help the ones that germinate turn into fine, healthy plants. That'll do you no good, though, because unless your people want to take advantage of the opportunities, they will keep sitting in their shacks and drinking their firewater. It’s an old rule; we must change opinions and before we change beliefs and we must change beliefs before we can get anywhere.
As to the power, were going to focus on the economic side of things. If you get economic strength, you have political strength, but it doesn’t always work the other way.” He pressed a button and a large section of the wall slid away, revealing a television monitor with a map of the United States. “What do you see here?”
A member of the Path, Amanda Thunderhead, peered at the screen “That’s a map of Indian Reservations.”
”Wrong. This,” The Seer walked over and tapped on the screen “is a map of over a hundred sovereign nations within easy commuter distance of every major metropolitan area in the country. Coincidentally, in all but three of those areas, gambling is illegal.”
”You want us to build casinos?” A smile slowly spread over Amanda’s face. “That’s... that’s...”
”Insane? Not quite.” The Seer walked back to his desk. “I’m sure someone would have figured it out eventually, but it’s a hell of a loophole. Take Cuba for example, a whole country that's built on gambling and leisure resorts. Run by the Mafia no less, and if you think you have problems, try working with the image of organized crime. Yet, for all that, Cuba takes in more tourist and gambling revenue each year than some countries have as their entire gross national product. Imagine what people would spend if there was a casino they could get to once a month to blow off steam? One of my associates, Robin, can help you with the finer points of setting up some corporate boards, but I understand Miss Thunderhead holds a degree in business planning from Northwestern University?” Amanda nodded. “Excellent. But Casinos will only get you part of the way there.”
He tapped a button and the screen changed, highlighting certain reservations. “These reservations are on some of the richest resource deposits in the nation. The Navajo Nation and the Pueblo have extensive reserves of uranium and coal, each of which could yield several million tons of uranium and vanadium ore.” He cycled through various areas. “Silver, oil, copper, tungsten, even borax are right under your feet. The total mineral wealth under your respective lands is on the order of five hundred billion dollars.” He paused to let that sink in; a few of the Path looked like they would faint. Five Elks knuckles were white as he gripped his chair.
”Of course, you wouldn’t be able to extract all of that easily or efficiently, but given a few years to develop the infrastructure your people should be able to do very nicely for yourselves. Mount Taylor alone-“
Kai stood suddenly “Tsodzil is a sacred mountain! You would have us cut it to pieces?”
The Seer shrugged “It is entirely up to you. I know your people hold your land as sacred, but you are going to have to understand that the future well-being of your society is just as sacred, if not more, and while you can tell your people the stories and teach them your ways, your stories will not break them out of the prison they are in.”
”It will be difficult,” Five Elks shifted “But even the strongest bow must bend with the pull of time, or it will snap. Please, continue.”
”Thank you.” The Seer nodded. “As I was saying, while mining and resource extraction will be able to employ a significant percentage of your people on and around the reservations, many of you will have to leave. Instead of being apart from the rest of the population, you will have to move into neighborhoods, two or three families on a street. Over time, your children and your neighbors children will play, and you will become a part of their community as they become a part of yours.
As the years go by, your people will leave the reservations. Selling off the majority of the land you will be able to create a few powerful corporations and some lobbying groups. Politicians come to money like dogs to fresh meat, and you will be able to affect change through your local and national politicians as members of those communities. Someday, when someone says they are Sioux or Pawnee, it will be no different than saying you are Italian or Irish.” He sat down and folded his hands, studying the Indians closely.
”Can it be done, Five Elks?” Menewa looked at his friend and mentor. “We would be giving up so much, changing so much. Who would we be?”
”We would be who we have always been, Menewa.” Raven was studying the map on the wall “But we would be stronger. The Seer is right, we have let ourselves be penned like wild horses, and we have forgotten how to run and kick and breathe the free air.”
Five Elks sat, thinking. He was the Great Peacemaker, builder of nations, and now he was being asked to do it again. “It was said, when I was young, that a bear would rear a fawn before the Oneida and the Seneca would come together in peace. One day, I sat with both of them, and the other nations besides, in friendship.” He looked at the Seer. We will do as you say, and speak to the nations. I am confident that it will happen, as the river cuts the mountain.”
A slight smile came to the Seers face, and his eyes gleamed “You know, I think it just might.” He motioned to Lillith, who brought over two cigars. He took one, cut it, and lit it with a match. “I believe that enjoying a fine cigar is a custom both of our peoples can enjoy.” Lillith offered the other cigar to Five Elks. “These particular cigars were a gift to me from a certain general, after I helped him win a particularly impossible war.” The Seer puffed on his. “It seems to me that I might as well enjoy one now, with new friends, at the beginning of a new victory.” He shook Five Elks hand, and the gathering devolved into small talk.
”Oh, Naamah?” The Seer took the cigar out of his mouth. “We do have one problem with all this. McNamara is still head of the Bureau of Indian Affairs and we're trampling all over his territory. He's a bureaucrat and he'll fight to the death to defend his turf. That makes him a fourth problem we're going to have to deal with. Normally I'd leave it to the next election and try to have him eased out in the shuffle but that's not possible this time. Anyway, I'd rather have him inside the tent pissing out than outside pissing in. Ladies, Gentlemen,” he nodded at his guests “we can expect a turf war coming up and not a nice one."
NSC Building, Washington DC.
The members of the Path were starting to relax somewhat. Lillith was an excellent tour-guide, and was showing them all the state-of-the-art facilities the NSC had. Even though the much-reduced night shift was on duty, the communications systems and the situation rooms with their maps and force status displays weren’t something they were familiar with, and the message was clear; We trust you, make yourselves at home. Henry was also tagging along for the tour, partly as security and partly because he and Menewa were becoming fast friends. Walking down the brightly-lit halls, every so often one of them would crack a joke or make a low quip and set the other laughing, as if they had known each other for years.
They were coming back around to the Seers office, the tour apparently complete, when Raven spoke “Thank you for the tour, your... Circle is certainly amazing.”
”Oh, you folks aren’t leaving yet, are you?” Henry gave Lillith a wink.
”Of course they aren’t, She smiled, looking around at them You wouldn’t want to miss the best part.”
”The best... part? Raven raised an eyebrow.”
Lillith walked over to a door marked ‘Main Floor Breaker Access’ and gripped the doorknob. She pulled it out slightly, twisted it left and right in precise measure, and then pushed it flush with the door. A soft chime echoed and the door slid open. She motioned for them to enter “The very best part.”
Inside there were no circuit breakers or wires, but instead they found themselves in a large elevator. Decorated in the finest tastes of a gilded age robber-baron, the elegant woodwork and cushioned benches danced on the edge of garishness; clearly someone had had too much gold leaf on hand when they started to make the elevator car. The Path marveled, open-mouthed, as they looked around, feeling the fabric and studying the carved paneling.
Naamah joined them inside just before the door closed. “Shall we then?” There was no button to press, the system only served two floors, the 13th and the basement. If anyone unauthorized had entered the elevator it simply would not work. Smoothly, without so much as a bump, the car began to descend.
”Where are we going, Miss Lillith?” Five Elks rested on one of the benches.
”Please, just call me Lillith. And we are going to the parlor.” She smiled, knowingly. “They continued on for perhaps a minute in silence, until just as seamlessly the car came to a stop and the doors opened. They looked out into a dark space, the light from the elevator only illuminating a small expanse of floor. “Right this way.” Lillith stepped into the room and her movement activated the motion sensors sweeping the room. There were no alarms here; the room was more secure than some parts of Red Sun. As the Path filed in behind her, lights began to turn on, electric lamps crafted to look like torches lining the walls. The room appeared immense and was filled with strange and beautiful objects.
”Welcome to my parlor, Lillith’s” eyes narrowed slightly, and she laughed “Our parlor, excuse me. Here the Circle has placed some things great value, sentimental and otherwise, which we have gathered from our lives. Please, look around, and perhaps you will understand us better.” A large chandelier overhead lit up, casting a warm glow over the whole room. The Path spread out in twos and threes, marveling at the artifacts.
One of the women, a Navajo named Kai, marveled at a wooden box covered in pure gold with a rimmed top. It had golden rings on each side where poles would fit for carrying, and was covered with a strange script. She reached to open it. “If you dont mind, we try not to open that one.” Her hand darted back and she turned to see Naamah. “What is it?”
”Its something Lillith and I found in Judea a long time ago after a Habiru army got chewed up. Completely harmless, but we try not to tempt fate.” She motioned her over “Let me show you Tom's chair, it is really quite comfortable.”
Many of the exhibits were captivating in their uniqueness; Some of the Path read from the original teachings of Confucious set in glass alongside those of Socrates and Siddhartha.
Five Elks was studying a rack of weapons, everything from stone knives to odd percussion-cap pistols with revolving barrels. One of the weapons, a long spear bound with silver and gold bands, caught his eye. He hefted it, feeling the weight. The blade was well-cared for, but bore a Latin inscription that he could barely make out. He sounded out the words “Lance and... “
”Lance and Nail of our Lord.” Lillith finished the line. “It was placed there by Charles the Fourth of Bohemia in 1350.”
He nodded. “It must have been a great battle in which this spear made itself known.”
”Not really,” She took it from him and put it back on the wall “It only killed one man, and I’m not sure if he stayed dead.” She picked up a strange dagger, adorned with cobra fangs “Now this one...”
One of the Path, a younger-looking man, was reading parchments on the wall. The writing was an older English script, barely legible, but he had studied law and there was something familiar about it as he read the words aloud "Wherefore we will and firmly order that the English Church be free..." Resting his fingers on the glass, he traced down to the bottom, where the seal of King John was prominently seen. He shook his head in wonderment.
Henry and Menewa were strolling through the exhibits with the air of two men walking through the park. Menewa’s alert eyes noted everything, and the wealth of everything around him was staggering. His whole life he had never even owned a new pair of shoes, and now he was three feet away from a man juggling Celtic jewelry.
They walked up to an old tintype photo “Oh, now this you’ll get a kick out of! Henry picked up a nearby rifle and stood it on its stock. He sucked in his stomach stood next to the picture “See the resemblance?” Menewa looked back and forth. “You’re holding the gun in the wrong hand.”
”Funny you should mention that,” Henry laughed, as he stepped away from the wall. Look at the plaque under the picture.
Menewa bent close, looking at the bronze plate. It bore only two words; TURN AROUND.
He spun and saw Henry in the exact same pose, rifle standing and stomach in, standing in front of a mirror. The tintype picture was in the reflection next to him, now in an identical pose. “They’ve all got it backwards, my friend. This is my justice for all those bad biographies.” He was barely able to stop laughing.
The various groups wandered through the room to the back, where a suit of armor hung in a display case. It was an older Greek style of armor, painted red and blue, and with gold trim. The armor practically radiated authority, more than two and a half millennia after it had been worn. At the base of the case was the inscription ‘I leave it to the strongest’. They all regarded it silently for a moment. “Who was he?” Raven asked.
”He was the ruler of the world.” Lillith stared at the armor contemptuously “He never lost a battle, and conquered more than any single man had before or since. His generals were so fearful of him after his death that his armor and regalia presided over their meetings. Such was his power, and their fear even after death.”
”Did your Seer fear him?” Raven raised an eyebrow.
”Feared, never. Hated, yes, with a passion that still lingers.” She motioned to a low case beside the armor. Inside was a very large, oblong lump of some sort of amber material, pitted with age. Encased within the material the form of a human body was visible. “But he does keep him locked up most of the time.” A few of the Path shivered at that moment. “Come, the Seer is ready for us.” As the Indians made their way back to the elevator, Lillith walked over to a case and unlocked it. “She took out a wooden box marked U.S.G. 1865", opened it, and took out two cigars. Naamah noticed “So he’s got a plan, then?”
”Doesn’t he always?” Lillith smirked. “I can’t wait to hear it. What did you find out about the Path?”
”They’re pretty much what they say they are,” Naamah replaced the cigar case and started back to the elevator. “They own some land in Minnesota, and a few other places, but they aren’t very well-connected. The way they operate is all very chickenwire and crossed fingers, they’re actually staying at a motorist lodge outside the city. The Red Roof Inn for heaven's sake, its all they could afford.”
”It makes sense, Naamah. We were born to wealth, and even if we didn’t always have it, we’ve been pretty comfortable for quite a while. I can hardly remember the last time I had to hide out in the woods, or couldn’t buy my way out of most legal trouble.” They stepped into the elevator and were on their way back to the thirteenth floor.
When they returned to the office, they found the Seer standing, staring out of a window over the Washington skyline. “I trust you enjoyed your tour? Our museum, the Parlor, is a favorite place of mine for reflection.”
”We are truly honored that you have treated us so, Seer.” Five Elks bowed his head.
”I thank you for your honor, Five Elks.” The Seer straightened. “Now, it seems to me that the American Indians have three major problems; First, the majority of Americans either don’t respect you or don’t even realize you exist. Second, while your people are proud, you have been beaten and caged into a culture of self-defeat and low expectations which keeps you from reaching past the reservations. Thirdly, as a people you have very little economic or political power.” He looked at the men and women who were slowly nodding their heads. The summation might have been humorous if it weren’t so tragic.
”Now, as to the first two points, there are a few things we can do. I happen to know an excellent writer in Hollywood, and I’m going to call him and have him put together some television programming. It won’t be about poor defenseless Indians being oppressed, or fighting back, but it will be about Indians living their lives in the Old West, and the sort of lives they led the same as everyone else. Next, we can maybe make a show or some movies about the fighting spirit of the Indians, and their honor. A fair part of our special forces are Indians, and every tribe served with distinction in Russia during the war. We can get that more into the public consciousness.”
”You are going to help us with television? What good will that do?” Raven almost snorted as she said the word ‘television’.
”Television, my dear, is not just entertainment, it is a tool. Hitler pioneered it first, but we have since found out that what a person sees and how they see it, can make a dramatic difference to their opinions and values. Make a point strongly enough and often enough, it will be accepted as true. There's even a name for it now, Argumentum ad Nauseum.” He slowly wagged a finger. “The same shows will also help your people, because they need to realize that they aren’t different or estranged from whites, but that you have just as much right to all parts of this country. Don't over estimate our power here, we can't pass laws or make major policy changes but we can, and do, plant seeds and help the ones that germinate turn into fine, healthy plants. That'll do you no good, though, because unless your people want to take advantage of the opportunities, they will keep sitting in their shacks and drinking their firewater. It’s an old rule; we must change opinions and before we change beliefs and we must change beliefs before we can get anywhere.
As to the power, were going to focus on the economic side of things. If you get economic strength, you have political strength, but it doesn’t always work the other way.” He pressed a button and a large section of the wall slid away, revealing a television monitor with a map of the United States. “What do you see here?”
A member of the Path, Amanda Thunderhead, peered at the screen “That’s a map of Indian Reservations.”
”Wrong. This,” The Seer walked over and tapped on the screen “is a map of over a hundred sovereign nations within easy commuter distance of every major metropolitan area in the country. Coincidentally, in all but three of those areas, gambling is illegal.”
”You want us to build casinos?” A smile slowly spread over Amanda’s face. “That’s... that’s...”
”Insane? Not quite.” The Seer walked back to his desk. “I’m sure someone would have figured it out eventually, but it’s a hell of a loophole. Take Cuba for example, a whole country that's built on gambling and leisure resorts. Run by the Mafia no less, and if you think you have problems, try working with the image of organized crime. Yet, for all that, Cuba takes in more tourist and gambling revenue each year than some countries have as their entire gross national product. Imagine what people would spend if there was a casino they could get to once a month to blow off steam? One of my associates, Robin, can help you with the finer points of setting up some corporate boards, but I understand Miss Thunderhead holds a degree in business planning from Northwestern University?” Amanda nodded. “Excellent. But Casinos will only get you part of the way there.”
He tapped a button and the screen changed, highlighting certain reservations. “These reservations are on some of the richest resource deposits in the nation. The Navajo Nation and the Pueblo have extensive reserves of uranium and coal, each of which could yield several million tons of uranium and vanadium ore.” He cycled through various areas. “Silver, oil, copper, tungsten, even borax are right under your feet. The total mineral wealth under your respective lands is on the order of five hundred billion dollars.” He paused to let that sink in; a few of the Path looked like they would faint. Five Elks knuckles were white as he gripped his chair.
”Of course, you wouldn’t be able to extract all of that easily or efficiently, but given a few years to develop the infrastructure your people should be able to do very nicely for yourselves. Mount Taylor alone-“
Kai stood suddenly “Tsodzil is a sacred mountain! You would have us cut it to pieces?”
The Seer shrugged “It is entirely up to you. I know your people hold your land as sacred, but you are going to have to understand that the future well-being of your society is just as sacred, if not more, and while you can tell your people the stories and teach them your ways, your stories will not break them out of the prison they are in.”
”It will be difficult,” Five Elks shifted “But even the strongest bow must bend with the pull of time, or it will snap. Please, continue.”
”Thank you.” The Seer nodded. “As I was saying, while mining and resource extraction will be able to employ a significant percentage of your people on and around the reservations, many of you will have to leave. Instead of being apart from the rest of the population, you will have to move into neighborhoods, two or three families on a street. Over time, your children and your neighbors children will play, and you will become a part of their community as they become a part of yours.
As the years go by, your people will leave the reservations. Selling off the majority of the land you will be able to create a few powerful corporations and some lobbying groups. Politicians come to money like dogs to fresh meat, and you will be able to affect change through your local and national politicians as members of those communities. Someday, when someone says they are Sioux or Pawnee, it will be no different than saying you are Italian or Irish.” He sat down and folded his hands, studying the Indians closely.
”Can it be done, Five Elks?” Menewa looked at his friend and mentor. “We would be giving up so much, changing so much. Who would we be?”
”We would be who we have always been, Menewa.” Raven was studying the map on the wall “But we would be stronger. The Seer is right, we have let ourselves be penned like wild horses, and we have forgotten how to run and kick and breathe the free air.”
Five Elks sat, thinking. He was the Great Peacemaker, builder of nations, and now he was being asked to do it again. “It was said, when I was young, that a bear would rear a fawn before the Oneida and the Seneca would come together in peace. One day, I sat with both of them, and the other nations besides, in friendship.” He looked at the Seer. We will do as you say, and speak to the nations. I am confident that it will happen, as the river cuts the mountain.”
A slight smile came to the Seers face, and his eyes gleamed “You know, I think it just might.” He motioned to Lillith, who brought over two cigars. He took one, cut it, and lit it with a match. “I believe that enjoying a fine cigar is a custom both of our peoples can enjoy.” Lillith offered the other cigar to Five Elks. “These particular cigars were a gift to me from a certain general, after I helped him win a particularly impossible war.” The Seer puffed on his. “It seems to me that I might as well enjoy one now, with new friends, at the beginning of a new victory.” He shook Five Elks hand, and the gathering devolved into small talk.
”Oh, Naamah?” The Seer took the cigar out of his mouth. “We do have one problem with all this. McNamara is still head of the Bureau of Indian Affairs and we're trampling all over his territory. He's a bureaucrat and he'll fight to the death to defend his turf. That makes him a fourth problem we're going to have to deal with. Normally I'd leave it to the next election and try to have him eased out in the shuffle but that's not possible this time. Anyway, I'd rather have him inside the tent pissing out than outside pissing in. Ladies, Gentlemen,” he nodded at his guests “we can expect a turf war coming up and not a nice one."
Re: 1969 - Home of the Brave
Chapter 7
Oval Office, Washington DC
President Johnson was looking over some paperwork, making sure he knew the particulars front and back. He was a stickler for spelling, punctuation, and grammar; oftentimes his secretaries had no revisions to make in his notes, something for which they were extremely grateful. The door opened and Naamah stepped in “Mister President, Secretary McNamara is here to see you.” She was dressed, as always, in an outfit which was both professional and flawless, with the barest hint of sensuality. On the other hand,, Naamah almost seemed to give everything a barest hint of sensuality and in Lyndon Johnson’s mind he was betting that included nearby potted plants if she stayed in one place long enough.
”Thank you, Naamah, give me just a few more minutes.” He went back to his papers, and smiled. He didn’t actually NEED a few more minutes, but he preferred proofreading for grammar to talking to one of, if not the most disruptive and argumentative presidential cabinet members in American history. Naamah was a good assistant, and knew that ‘a few minutes’ meant she was supposed to let the visitor in four minutes after they started to visibly fidget, and it was her discretion as to when they were flustered enough.
The door opened, and in walked McNamara. A perpetually dour man, his demeanor made him look like a bulldog with a bone in his teeth. He started talking as he crossed the room “Mister President, I wanted to thank you for bringing me here today. I reviewed the report the NSC provided me on the Grand Teton incident and-“
”Stay standing.” President Johnson straightened the stack of papers and set them aside, looking up.
McNamara’s hand froze on the back of a chair he had been approaching. “I, beg your pardon sir?”
Johnson smiled slightly. “Pardon denied, Bob. Stay standing, you won’t be staying long.”
”Mister President, I assure you that I came here today to-“ the President held up a hand.
”Bob, I’m not sure why you think you came here today, but I know why I asked you here today, and since I’m the one who’s name is on the door, why don’t we go with my plans?” He pressed the intercom. “Naamah, will you bring those audits in?” He looked back up at the now-sweating assistant secretary. “I read that security report too, Bob. It was very interesting, with twists and surprises.” He picked up a manila folder off his desk. “One thing I found especially interesting is how you have put a hold on Indian law enforcement postings for the past eight months.” He flipped through some pages. “No sheriffs, no deputies, no law of any kind for them to turn to. And after eight months when an Indian man calls your bureau he runs into a wall of red tape tougher than any razor wire I ever saw. According to him, and your call bank, he tried for thirty-five minutes to tell your people what was going on, but he didn’t’ have the right form and got shut-out. If it weren’t for these very same people you ignored while doing your precious investigations, there would be a hell of a lot fewer people in Idaho today.”
”Mister President, I don’t think you’ve fully studied the nature of my-“ Before he could finish, the door opened and two clerks wheeled in a large cart full of papers. Stacks, sheaves, and reams of files. The President nodded to them as they parked it by his desk and then left.
”Do you know what this is, Bob? It’s a complete audit of the Bureau of Indian Affairs, done by outside contractors. After your foul-up almost put a small hole in the eastern Rocky Mountains, I wanted to see if anything else had happened that I should know about. Are you curious?” He reached for a file on the top and flipped it open. “Interesting. It seems that due to revising methods of pay to Indian veterans for the interests of efficiency, over six hundred Navajo haven’t received their pension checks in five months.” He grabbed another file “Mandatory recertification for reservation medical personnel, to be performed at regional offices, as resulted in a LOSS of over two hundred medical workers in the northeast because they were unable to make the trip. As a result, infant mortality is up.” He looked at McNamara “I tell you what, if you pick a file and its good news, you can keep your job.”
For a span of heartbeats, McNamara was frozen. He knew, he KNEW he had been having trouble with the Bureau, but these things took time. He stepped over to the cart and reached out a hand. It drifted over the folders and files, and then he drew back “Mister President, I must protest this-“
”You must not have been too confident in your chances, Bob. Lucky for you, politics is half about appearances and half about covering your own hide. I could fire you, but I am going to give you the chance to save yourself. Now, I don’t believe in kicking a man while he’s down, so here’s what you’re going to do: Tomorrow your office will release a statement that you have accepted a position as the Chairman of the Alaskan King Crab Fisheries Commission, and that you will be resigning from civil service at the end of the week. After that, you are going to spend the rest of the week familiarizing your replacement with the... finer points of your job.”
McNamara sputtered and stammered “You... you can’t... you can’t just... Alaska? You can’t...”
Actually, I can Bob. “I’m the President of the United States, and I wake up every morning and make sure I don’t have to wipe a country off the face of the earth before breakfast, and if you contradict me again, you are going to be the newest postmaster of Reykjavic, and you will do it in short pants.” He pressed the intercom “Send them in.”
A side door opened, and in walked an older Indian man and woman, in the traditional garb of the Washington bureaucrat. McNamara studied both of them; The man was in his mid-fifties, with his hair gathered back in a single braid. He wore a plain, completely unremarkable wool suit of black cloth, and his demeanor was that of a hungry animal. The woman was beautiful, but with a beauty that came from character, not the chance arrangement of features. She had strong face, one that exuded competence and determination but molded and lightened with humor. She was obviously the man’s assistant, carrying a memo-pad and a thick folio and she wore the plain clothes of a mid-level secretary, but her bearing and dignity made even those set her apart.
President Johnson got up and shook the mans hand, then turned to McNamara. “Bob, this is Adam Menewa, of the Creek Nation.” Graduated University of Louisiana and went to Harvard Law after a stint in the army. He’s spent many years working for various NPOs and civil action committees to advance the cause of Indians in America, and is eminently more qualified than you.” Menewa looked impassively at McNamara and unconsciously rubbed his wrist, feeling a bracelet there.”
McNamara looked like he was about to protest again, but the fight had gone out of him. He looked at his replacement and sighed “Good luck working with this administration.” He nodded to the President and then turned to leave.
Menewa shrugged, and muttered under his breath “I’ve dealt with worse administrations.” As the door closed, he held out his hand to Johnson “It is a pleasure to meet you, President Johnson. I am grateful for your approval of my appointment.”
Johnson shook his hand and smiled “Ah, think nothing of it. I trust the Seer, and if his group says that you’re the perfect man for the job, then I’m not going to tell them any different.” He reached into his desk and pulled out a folder. You’ve led quite a life, and you have some excellent qualifications for whipping the BIA into something that America can be proud of. One thing, though,” he fished out a paper from the file and handed it to Menewa. “You may want to get a new copy of your diploma from the University of Louisiana, this one is a bit smeared.” He gave Raven a sly wink “Now, if you two will excuse me, the fate of the world may be at stake.” You can show yourselves out.
He left, with Menewa and Raven alone in the Oval Office. She looked around at the furnishings, still a bit shocked to be here. “Well, he seems to be a good man.”
”Better than the last President I met.”
Oval Office, Washington DC
President Johnson was looking over some paperwork, making sure he knew the particulars front and back. He was a stickler for spelling, punctuation, and grammar; oftentimes his secretaries had no revisions to make in his notes, something for which they were extremely grateful. The door opened and Naamah stepped in “Mister President, Secretary McNamara is here to see you.” She was dressed, as always, in an outfit which was both professional and flawless, with the barest hint of sensuality. On the other hand,, Naamah almost seemed to give everything a barest hint of sensuality and in Lyndon Johnson’s mind he was betting that included nearby potted plants if she stayed in one place long enough.
”Thank you, Naamah, give me just a few more minutes.” He went back to his papers, and smiled. He didn’t actually NEED a few more minutes, but he preferred proofreading for grammar to talking to one of, if not the most disruptive and argumentative presidential cabinet members in American history. Naamah was a good assistant, and knew that ‘a few minutes’ meant she was supposed to let the visitor in four minutes after they started to visibly fidget, and it was her discretion as to when they were flustered enough.
The door opened, and in walked McNamara. A perpetually dour man, his demeanor made him look like a bulldog with a bone in his teeth. He started talking as he crossed the room “Mister President, I wanted to thank you for bringing me here today. I reviewed the report the NSC provided me on the Grand Teton incident and-“
”Stay standing.” President Johnson straightened the stack of papers and set them aside, looking up.
McNamara’s hand froze on the back of a chair he had been approaching. “I, beg your pardon sir?”
Johnson smiled slightly. “Pardon denied, Bob. Stay standing, you won’t be staying long.”
”Mister President, I assure you that I came here today to-“ the President held up a hand.
”Bob, I’m not sure why you think you came here today, but I know why I asked you here today, and since I’m the one who’s name is on the door, why don’t we go with my plans?” He pressed the intercom. “Naamah, will you bring those audits in?” He looked back up at the now-sweating assistant secretary. “I read that security report too, Bob. It was very interesting, with twists and surprises.” He picked up a manila folder off his desk. “One thing I found especially interesting is how you have put a hold on Indian law enforcement postings for the past eight months.” He flipped through some pages. “No sheriffs, no deputies, no law of any kind for them to turn to. And after eight months when an Indian man calls your bureau he runs into a wall of red tape tougher than any razor wire I ever saw. According to him, and your call bank, he tried for thirty-five minutes to tell your people what was going on, but he didn’t’ have the right form and got shut-out. If it weren’t for these very same people you ignored while doing your precious investigations, there would be a hell of a lot fewer people in Idaho today.”
”Mister President, I don’t think you’ve fully studied the nature of my-“ Before he could finish, the door opened and two clerks wheeled in a large cart full of papers. Stacks, sheaves, and reams of files. The President nodded to them as they parked it by his desk and then left.
”Do you know what this is, Bob? It’s a complete audit of the Bureau of Indian Affairs, done by outside contractors. After your foul-up almost put a small hole in the eastern Rocky Mountains, I wanted to see if anything else had happened that I should know about. Are you curious?” He reached for a file on the top and flipped it open. “Interesting. It seems that due to revising methods of pay to Indian veterans for the interests of efficiency, over six hundred Navajo haven’t received their pension checks in five months.” He grabbed another file “Mandatory recertification for reservation medical personnel, to be performed at regional offices, as resulted in a LOSS of over two hundred medical workers in the northeast because they were unable to make the trip. As a result, infant mortality is up.” He looked at McNamara “I tell you what, if you pick a file and its good news, you can keep your job.”
For a span of heartbeats, McNamara was frozen. He knew, he KNEW he had been having trouble with the Bureau, but these things took time. He stepped over to the cart and reached out a hand. It drifted over the folders and files, and then he drew back “Mister President, I must protest this-“
”You must not have been too confident in your chances, Bob. Lucky for you, politics is half about appearances and half about covering your own hide. I could fire you, but I am going to give you the chance to save yourself. Now, I don’t believe in kicking a man while he’s down, so here’s what you’re going to do: Tomorrow your office will release a statement that you have accepted a position as the Chairman of the Alaskan King Crab Fisheries Commission, and that you will be resigning from civil service at the end of the week. After that, you are going to spend the rest of the week familiarizing your replacement with the... finer points of your job.”
McNamara sputtered and stammered “You... you can’t... you can’t just... Alaska? You can’t...”
Actually, I can Bob. “I’m the President of the United States, and I wake up every morning and make sure I don’t have to wipe a country off the face of the earth before breakfast, and if you contradict me again, you are going to be the newest postmaster of Reykjavic, and you will do it in short pants.” He pressed the intercom “Send them in.”
A side door opened, and in walked an older Indian man and woman, in the traditional garb of the Washington bureaucrat. McNamara studied both of them; The man was in his mid-fifties, with his hair gathered back in a single braid. He wore a plain, completely unremarkable wool suit of black cloth, and his demeanor was that of a hungry animal. The woman was beautiful, but with a beauty that came from character, not the chance arrangement of features. She had strong face, one that exuded competence and determination but molded and lightened with humor. She was obviously the man’s assistant, carrying a memo-pad and a thick folio and she wore the plain clothes of a mid-level secretary, but her bearing and dignity made even those set her apart.
President Johnson got up and shook the mans hand, then turned to McNamara. “Bob, this is Adam Menewa, of the Creek Nation.” Graduated University of Louisiana and went to Harvard Law after a stint in the army. He’s spent many years working for various NPOs and civil action committees to advance the cause of Indians in America, and is eminently more qualified than you.” Menewa looked impassively at McNamara and unconsciously rubbed his wrist, feeling a bracelet there.”
McNamara looked like he was about to protest again, but the fight had gone out of him. He looked at his replacement and sighed “Good luck working with this administration.” He nodded to the President and then turned to leave.
Menewa shrugged, and muttered under his breath “I’ve dealt with worse administrations.” As the door closed, he held out his hand to Johnson “It is a pleasure to meet you, President Johnson. I am grateful for your approval of my appointment.”
Johnson shook his hand and smiled “Ah, think nothing of it. I trust the Seer, and if his group says that you’re the perfect man for the job, then I’m not going to tell them any different.” He reached into his desk and pulled out a folder. You’ve led quite a life, and you have some excellent qualifications for whipping the BIA into something that America can be proud of. One thing, though,” he fished out a paper from the file and handed it to Menewa. “You may want to get a new copy of your diploma from the University of Louisiana, this one is a bit smeared.” He gave Raven a sly wink “Now, if you two will excuse me, the fate of the world may be at stake.” You can show yourselves out.
He left, with Menewa and Raven alone in the Oval Office. She looked around at the furnishings, still a bit shocked to be here. “Well, he seems to be a good man.”
”Better than the last President I met.”
Re: 1969 - Home of the Brave
Chapter 8
ABC Network Offices, Hollywood, California
”No, no, NO!” A stack of portfolios and headshots sailed through the air, and might have decapitated the young casting executive if not for his quick reflexes. He gulped, and reached for another stack under his arm. “Sir, if you could look at these actors I’m sure-“
The man behind the desk put up a hand, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. The executive, Mark Ellis, studied him carefully, trying to figure him out. Bill Shaych was the new head of writing and creative development for this project, and he didn’t play by the normal Hollywood rules. For one, he tried to stay under-budget, and for another, he ignored most of the notes handed down by the studio executives. This new show, Ghost Walk, was being put together by some firm called Locke Invenstments from back east, and they had sent out Bill Shaych as their chosen mover and shaker.
Not much was known about Shaych, other than he had gotten his start writing plays. Bouncing around the social circles of New England, he contracted for private plays and performances which he would write, produce, and direct by himself. Clearly he was well-connected, but Mark hadn’t been able to find anyone in LA who had worked with him directly. His influence was clear, as evidenced by the disdain he was showing for the whole of ABC. Shaych looked at Mark and the other studio personnel in the room “Forgive me, I fear you may have all simultaneously taken leave of your senses. What is the name of this program?”
”Its Ghost Walk, Mr. Shaych.” One of the yes-men piped up.
”And what is it about? He took a glass of water from a tray nearby.”
”Its a new take on a western, sir.” The yes-man recited the memo he had been handed two days ago “Instead of the cowboy, its about the Indian. After he loses his family to some banditos, Grey Wolf wanders the west helping folks and stopping bad guys. It’s really a great idea, Mr. Shaych!” He took a breath, having said his whole piece in one exhalation.
”Thank you. Get him a chair.” Bill eyed the man, who looked like he was going to faint. “Now, can someone else tell me why I have yet to see an Indian actor in our selection for a man to play an Indian?”
”Sir, its our demographic research. We’re not sure if the American family is ready for an Indian on TV.” Lynn Stalmaster, from casting, spoke up. “I think some of the men I’ve found could work, especially David Carradine who is part Cherokee and-“
”I don’t want David Bloody CARRIDINE!” Bill thundered. “You’re telling me that the American family will not accept an Indian playing an INDIAN?!” He stood up and looked out the window across the movie lot. “Lynn, Mark, you have to respect your audience. You don’t write what you think they want to see, you write what they NEED to see. If you give them something that’s gripping and controversial and something that’s safe and familiar, they will come back to gripping and controversial every day of the week. They will come back because its not what they expect, and whether they love it or hate it they will give their back teeth to see what is coming next. What we are going to do is have an Indian that is a hero and a real person at the same time, and were going to put him in twenty million homes every week.” He looked back at the room full of people spellbound by his impromptu monologue. “Why are you all still here?” He raised an eyebrow as the room cleared faster than he thought possible.
He sat at his desk and went over the latest notes from the head office. Thanks to Robins financial maneuvering he had considerable latitude, thank God. Some of the notes were downright laughable. How white man? Dear Lord. He crumpled it up and tossed it in the wastebasket. At least the Lord Chamberlain had had the sense to keep out of his work.
***
Window Rock, Arizona
It had been a long time since so many of the Dineh had gathered together. Over twenty years ago the People had decided to send their sons to fight for America in the Great Snow War, as it was called. That gathering, though, had been nothing compared to this. Word had come that Five Elks of the Path was coming, as was Kai of the Path, and over a thousand leaders of the Dineh or Navajo, as well as the Hopi, the Ute, and the Jicarilla Apache. Kai looked out over the crowd as Five Elks spoke from the elevated platform in the middle of the large circle. He was outlining the plan the Seer had come up with, careful to keep silent who and what the Seer was, and the reaction was mixed.
Some of the youths were excited, and smiled or whooped at the thought of getting jobs near their homes and money to spend. Some of the elders remembered the promises of the white man to their fathers and grandfathers, and feared they would lose the home they still had within the four sacred mountains. The men who had fought in the war remembered the treatment they got, fair and honorable as one warrior to another. There had been no room for racism or malice on the Great Bend of the Volga, only for trust. One of the women shouted out “Kai! What do you say of the idea?”
Kai looked around, nervous. She had only been with the Path for a handful of years and was only newly ghost-touched, with only a tenth of Menewas years. She looked at Five Elks, who nodded, and then spoke. “I am Kai of Naschitti, some of you know me. When I was born the floor of my parents home was dirt. Two of my siblings did not survive childhood, and no white doctor ever saw them. Out in the world that is not the way things are. Whites don’t sit corralled like horses, waiting to be watered by their master. They go and work, and build, and make things their own! Their way! The Dineh do not do that, we have no way! Our way now is the way that they want us to be.” The crowd murmured angrily.
”Do you think they want us to do this plan? They would never want this! If they wanted our sacred mountains they would bring a piece of paper and some guns and take them from us. But we can use our land ourselves! Think about it! Does a white have the desire and the heart for their people to succeed like the Ute, or the Hopi? No. They have what they need and are content. WE have the desire, the hunger to make our people stronger. We know the land, it is our mother. The stones will give to us in a way that the whites can’t, and from our mother the earth we will bring out a new future! White doctors will FIGHT to take care of our children, and we will build homes that are sound and sturdy, because OUR way is to protect our people and make them strong. Who here says that that is our way?”
There was a heartbeat of silence, and then a thunderous cheer echoed off the rocks. Kai and Five Elks smiled, relieved at what had happened. Not everyone was cheering, to be sure perhaps one in five were not, but it was a beginning that they could both see on the faces of the young men and women gathered that day.
***
Bureau of Indian Affairs, Washington DC
She didn’t think it was possible, but Amanda Thunderhead was drowning in paperwork. Her people had had a long mistrust of treaties, laws, and legal processes, but she had found it relaxing, and had been working with papers her whole life. Born in 1899 near Chicago, her father had worked as a printer’s assistant for the Chicago Tribune and after her mother died he had brought her to work with him. A curious child, she had wandered around the heavy machinery, oblivious to the danger. Her father’s co-workers respected his dedication and care, he had never made a mistake twice, and so she had been adopted by all of the men in the shop as surrogate fathers.
They all lived together in the shanty-town suburbs, and Amanda had grown up a bright and precocious girl with a sharp wit and a well-rounded education. All those immigrant fathers and mothers meant Amanda spoke Yiddish, Italian, German, and a few Slavic dialects in addition to English and Algonquin. One of the shop managers had taught Amanda to read, and so she would spend her day in a corner reading a copy of the previous days paper and looking things up in the encyclopedia. Ordinary school was forbidden to Indians, especially women, but when she was sixteen a friend of the shop owner obtained a high school final exam and tested Amanda. She passed with only two questions missed, and since the paperwork was submitted anonymously she became the first Indian woman in Chicago to graduate high school.
After that, she had managed to get into a small university back east, and five of her fathers set aside part of their pay to send her there. She was the bright hope of their little community, none of her childhood friends had done so well with book learning. Sadly, the hope and familiarity did not follow her to college, and though she completed her work efficiently and precisely, no professor would even consider a squaw could deserve more than barely passing marks. After two years Amanda had had enough, and took her business education home. There she did finances for the families in the community, until Raven found her and brought her into the Path during the depression.
Now, that same prejudice and nepotism which had kept her from her degree was coming at her on the grand scale of Washington. Trying to get the casino notion through was kicking up a lot of opposition from congress and lobbyists. Injunctions, appeals, and committee after committee were all trying to keep Indians from doing anything unusual. There was a knock on her door. “Come in.” She was in a small room in the BIA, a hidden consultant without even a secretary. In walked an older gentleman holding a long coat over his arm. “How’s things going, Miss Thunderhead?”
Amanda recognized him and smiled “Henry, come in! And please, call me Amanda.” They had met a few times since the initial meeting a few months ago, mostly over business. “Sit down, sit down!” She lifted stacks of books off a chair. “What brings you to this little corner of the BIA?”
Henry settled easily into the chair “Well, word is you’re having a bit of trouble making the whole casino thing happen.”
She rolled her eyes and sighed, sitting in the chair next to him. “You have no idea. You would think these congressmen would be all over each-other to get a revenue source like this in their district, but too many of them grew up listening to the stories of the wicked Indian and don’t want us playing in their backyards.”
”Sounds about like what I heard.” He nodded. “You know, back when I was a kid, if the railroad wanted to buy your land they might get a hired gun to run you off, get things moving.”
Amanda laughed “Thanks, Henry, but I don’t think you can draw down on the Senate Committee for me.”
”Oh, I’m not your gun.” He smiled slightly at her. “But, I do happen to know a few folks who knew a few folks, and those folks happen to know their way around the casino business.”
”What do you mean?”
”Well, it seems to me...” Henry pulled at his mustache “that there’s no better way to make folks want to come to your casinos than to get them a taste for gambling. “
”But how do I get them to get the taste?” Amanda was lost in his reasoning.
”No no, you folks, your casinos are the taste. The REAL gambling, no offense, is Vegas and Cuba.” He smiled as the realization dawned on her, “The way I figure it, Cuba would be real keen on seeing more casinos in America, because it would broaden their potential tourist market. Also, I just happen to have a few very old friends who can make sure that a letter from you gets read by the Cuban ambassador. Once the Cuban lobbyists get their teeth into that notion, they’re gonna be like bulldogs on a hamhock.” He gave her a wink.
”Oh, Henry that’s brilliant!” Amanda rushed to her desk and started putting together a proposal. “I could just kiss you!”
”Well,” he scratched his head and looked down “how about dinner and we’ll take it from there?”
ABC Network Offices, Hollywood, California
”No, no, NO!” A stack of portfolios and headshots sailed through the air, and might have decapitated the young casting executive if not for his quick reflexes. He gulped, and reached for another stack under his arm. “Sir, if you could look at these actors I’m sure-“
The man behind the desk put up a hand, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. The executive, Mark Ellis, studied him carefully, trying to figure him out. Bill Shaych was the new head of writing and creative development for this project, and he didn’t play by the normal Hollywood rules. For one, he tried to stay under-budget, and for another, he ignored most of the notes handed down by the studio executives. This new show, Ghost Walk, was being put together by some firm called Locke Invenstments from back east, and they had sent out Bill Shaych as their chosen mover and shaker.
Not much was known about Shaych, other than he had gotten his start writing plays. Bouncing around the social circles of New England, he contracted for private plays and performances which he would write, produce, and direct by himself. Clearly he was well-connected, but Mark hadn’t been able to find anyone in LA who had worked with him directly. His influence was clear, as evidenced by the disdain he was showing for the whole of ABC. Shaych looked at Mark and the other studio personnel in the room “Forgive me, I fear you may have all simultaneously taken leave of your senses. What is the name of this program?”
”Its Ghost Walk, Mr. Shaych.” One of the yes-men piped up.
”And what is it about? He took a glass of water from a tray nearby.”
”Its a new take on a western, sir.” The yes-man recited the memo he had been handed two days ago “Instead of the cowboy, its about the Indian. After he loses his family to some banditos, Grey Wolf wanders the west helping folks and stopping bad guys. It’s really a great idea, Mr. Shaych!” He took a breath, having said his whole piece in one exhalation.
”Thank you. Get him a chair.” Bill eyed the man, who looked like he was going to faint. “Now, can someone else tell me why I have yet to see an Indian actor in our selection for a man to play an Indian?”
”Sir, its our demographic research. We’re not sure if the American family is ready for an Indian on TV.” Lynn Stalmaster, from casting, spoke up. “I think some of the men I’ve found could work, especially David Carradine who is part Cherokee and-“
”I don’t want David Bloody CARRIDINE!” Bill thundered. “You’re telling me that the American family will not accept an Indian playing an INDIAN?!” He stood up and looked out the window across the movie lot. “Lynn, Mark, you have to respect your audience. You don’t write what you think they want to see, you write what they NEED to see. If you give them something that’s gripping and controversial and something that’s safe and familiar, they will come back to gripping and controversial every day of the week. They will come back because its not what they expect, and whether they love it or hate it they will give their back teeth to see what is coming next. What we are going to do is have an Indian that is a hero and a real person at the same time, and were going to put him in twenty million homes every week.” He looked back at the room full of people spellbound by his impromptu monologue. “Why are you all still here?” He raised an eyebrow as the room cleared faster than he thought possible.
He sat at his desk and went over the latest notes from the head office. Thanks to Robins financial maneuvering he had considerable latitude, thank God. Some of the notes were downright laughable. How white man? Dear Lord. He crumpled it up and tossed it in the wastebasket. At least the Lord Chamberlain had had the sense to keep out of his work.
***
Window Rock, Arizona
It had been a long time since so many of the Dineh had gathered together. Over twenty years ago the People had decided to send their sons to fight for America in the Great Snow War, as it was called. That gathering, though, had been nothing compared to this. Word had come that Five Elks of the Path was coming, as was Kai of the Path, and over a thousand leaders of the Dineh or Navajo, as well as the Hopi, the Ute, and the Jicarilla Apache. Kai looked out over the crowd as Five Elks spoke from the elevated platform in the middle of the large circle. He was outlining the plan the Seer had come up with, careful to keep silent who and what the Seer was, and the reaction was mixed.
Some of the youths were excited, and smiled or whooped at the thought of getting jobs near their homes and money to spend. Some of the elders remembered the promises of the white man to their fathers and grandfathers, and feared they would lose the home they still had within the four sacred mountains. The men who had fought in the war remembered the treatment they got, fair and honorable as one warrior to another. There had been no room for racism or malice on the Great Bend of the Volga, only for trust. One of the women shouted out “Kai! What do you say of the idea?”
Kai looked around, nervous. She had only been with the Path for a handful of years and was only newly ghost-touched, with only a tenth of Menewas years. She looked at Five Elks, who nodded, and then spoke. “I am Kai of Naschitti, some of you know me. When I was born the floor of my parents home was dirt. Two of my siblings did not survive childhood, and no white doctor ever saw them. Out in the world that is not the way things are. Whites don’t sit corralled like horses, waiting to be watered by their master. They go and work, and build, and make things their own! Their way! The Dineh do not do that, we have no way! Our way now is the way that they want us to be.” The crowd murmured angrily.
”Do you think they want us to do this plan? They would never want this! If they wanted our sacred mountains they would bring a piece of paper and some guns and take them from us. But we can use our land ourselves! Think about it! Does a white have the desire and the heart for their people to succeed like the Ute, or the Hopi? No. They have what they need and are content. WE have the desire, the hunger to make our people stronger. We know the land, it is our mother. The stones will give to us in a way that the whites can’t, and from our mother the earth we will bring out a new future! White doctors will FIGHT to take care of our children, and we will build homes that are sound and sturdy, because OUR way is to protect our people and make them strong. Who here says that that is our way?”
There was a heartbeat of silence, and then a thunderous cheer echoed off the rocks. Kai and Five Elks smiled, relieved at what had happened. Not everyone was cheering, to be sure perhaps one in five were not, but it was a beginning that they could both see on the faces of the young men and women gathered that day.
***
Bureau of Indian Affairs, Washington DC
She didn’t think it was possible, but Amanda Thunderhead was drowning in paperwork. Her people had had a long mistrust of treaties, laws, and legal processes, but she had found it relaxing, and had been working with papers her whole life. Born in 1899 near Chicago, her father had worked as a printer’s assistant for the Chicago Tribune and after her mother died he had brought her to work with him. A curious child, she had wandered around the heavy machinery, oblivious to the danger. Her father’s co-workers respected his dedication and care, he had never made a mistake twice, and so she had been adopted by all of the men in the shop as surrogate fathers.
They all lived together in the shanty-town suburbs, and Amanda had grown up a bright and precocious girl with a sharp wit and a well-rounded education. All those immigrant fathers and mothers meant Amanda spoke Yiddish, Italian, German, and a few Slavic dialects in addition to English and Algonquin. One of the shop managers had taught Amanda to read, and so she would spend her day in a corner reading a copy of the previous days paper and looking things up in the encyclopedia. Ordinary school was forbidden to Indians, especially women, but when she was sixteen a friend of the shop owner obtained a high school final exam and tested Amanda. She passed with only two questions missed, and since the paperwork was submitted anonymously she became the first Indian woman in Chicago to graduate high school.
After that, she had managed to get into a small university back east, and five of her fathers set aside part of their pay to send her there. She was the bright hope of their little community, none of her childhood friends had done so well with book learning. Sadly, the hope and familiarity did not follow her to college, and though she completed her work efficiently and precisely, no professor would even consider a squaw could deserve more than barely passing marks. After two years Amanda had had enough, and took her business education home. There she did finances for the families in the community, until Raven found her and brought her into the Path during the depression.
Now, that same prejudice and nepotism which had kept her from her degree was coming at her on the grand scale of Washington. Trying to get the casino notion through was kicking up a lot of opposition from congress and lobbyists. Injunctions, appeals, and committee after committee were all trying to keep Indians from doing anything unusual. There was a knock on her door. “Come in.” She was in a small room in the BIA, a hidden consultant without even a secretary. In walked an older gentleman holding a long coat over his arm. “How’s things going, Miss Thunderhead?”
Amanda recognized him and smiled “Henry, come in! And please, call me Amanda.” They had met a few times since the initial meeting a few months ago, mostly over business. “Sit down, sit down!” She lifted stacks of books off a chair. “What brings you to this little corner of the BIA?”
Henry settled easily into the chair “Well, word is you’re having a bit of trouble making the whole casino thing happen.”
She rolled her eyes and sighed, sitting in the chair next to him. “You have no idea. You would think these congressmen would be all over each-other to get a revenue source like this in their district, but too many of them grew up listening to the stories of the wicked Indian and don’t want us playing in their backyards.”
”Sounds about like what I heard.” He nodded. “You know, back when I was a kid, if the railroad wanted to buy your land they might get a hired gun to run you off, get things moving.”
Amanda laughed “Thanks, Henry, but I don’t think you can draw down on the Senate Committee for me.”
”Oh, I’m not your gun.” He smiled slightly at her. “But, I do happen to know a few folks who knew a few folks, and those folks happen to know their way around the casino business.”
”What do you mean?”
”Well, it seems to me...” Henry pulled at his mustache “that there’s no better way to make folks want to come to your casinos than to get them a taste for gambling. “
”But how do I get them to get the taste?” Amanda was lost in his reasoning.
”No no, you folks, your casinos are the taste. The REAL gambling, no offense, is Vegas and Cuba.” He smiled as the realization dawned on her, “The way I figure it, Cuba would be real keen on seeing more casinos in America, because it would broaden their potential tourist market. Also, I just happen to have a few very old friends who can make sure that a letter from you gets read by the Cuban ambassador. Once the Cuban lobbyists get their teeth into that notion, they’re gonna be like bulldogs on a hamhock.” He gave her a wink.
”Oh, Henry that’s brilliant!” Amanda rushed to her desk and started putting together a proposal. “I could just kiss you!”
”Well,” he scratched his head and looked down “how about dinner and we’ll take it from there?”
Re: 1969 - Home of the Brave
Chapter 9
NSC Building, Washington D.C. 1972
Delivering the perfect cup of coffee was no easy task. It began with the selection of the proper beans, which could vary by day, season, and the mood of the drinker. Next came the water, which had to be clean and room-temperature; cold water would not heat at the proper rate, and lead to a weaker brew. Only then came the actual preparation, which took many forms. Long ago, ground beans were mixed into boiling water directly, and the drink had to be carefully seasoned. Later the French developed percolation, by which coffee would be brewed up through the beans and down into the coffee pot. True aficionados, however, used a vacuum brewer, which produced a clear, flavorful brew. Next came pouring, and after that cream, milk, or sugar had to be added in the right measure for taste (or not added), and then the brew had to be drunk after the exact right time for temperature. All of this consideration flew by in a moment as Naamah worked in the small kitchenette at the NSC building. They had people to do these things, but she was an artiste, and took pride in her work. She walked the cup down the hall, knocked once, and then stepped into a conversation.
”Right, Tony. I can’t tell you how much my uncle would have appreciated this.” Henry waved Namaah in, and returned to his phone call “They should be getting to Cuba in a few days, and I need you to make sure that they actually talk to some guys who know some guys, not just some kid who fills a chair.” He paused “Yeah, I know who I’m talking to, but I wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t important. This can mean a lot of green for everyone all around the Lake, if you know what I mean.” He nodded “Consider that bottle sent already, a courier should have it to you day after tomorrow, and ‘Ill tell him if it takes three days, that you can shoot him.” He laughed “Alright, thanks again.” He hung up.
“Guys who know guys?” Namaah raised an eyebrow “Afraid of wire-taps?”
”Always, but that was an old friend of my ‘uncle’ Henry’s who now lives in Cuba, a mid-level guy in The Families. I did him a few good turns back in Chicago, and he said he owed me one I could collect anytime.” There sounded to Naamah to be more of a story there, but Henry would only share on his time. “At any rate, when the Seer and the Path get to Cuba they’re going to get a real look at things, and not the dime show.
”Good work, Henry.” Naamah set down her load of files “The Seer wanted you to see these before everything goes down,” she handed him a stack of files “and I figured you would be staying up late, so…” she set the cup on the table “Dutch Java, black with a finger.” She turned to leave “Don’t stay up too late.” She glided out the door and closed it lightly.
Henry smiled and shook his head, she was a fine woman. He raised the cup to his lips, then paused. Naamah never did things without a reason, and he had been with her for many years. He set the cup down and reached into his pocket. He took out a key and unlocked the bottom drawer of his desk, removing a box of vials. He took a dropper and put coffee into five pits on the tray, and then added various chemicals. No reactions happened, and he sighed. Dating a skilled poisoner gave a man more than a healthy paranoid imagination. He took a drink of the coffee and sighed, it was very good. The door creaked open “Henry?” Namaah stuck her head in. He raised an eyebrow. “Catch!” she tossed him a small vial. He caught it and recognized it as one of the ones from his sampling kit, which she had substituted her own fake chemical for. He read the label of what it tested for; A potent laxative.
He sighed. “It was just a few dinners and it was a while ago!”
”That’s why your’e only going to have a bad weekend instead of a bad few months.” She stuck her tongue out at him, closed the door and walked back to her desk. She was an artiste, after all.
***
Military Recruiting Center, Sioux Falls
Major Denning shook the man's hand "Welcome aboard, Mr. Jensen." It was his fifth signing this week. As he completed the paperwork, a colleague came in.
"Another one, eh?"
"Darn right." Denning nodded. "I wish everyone had the kind of service ability these Indians do."
"Really? Indians make good soldiers?" The colleague was a young lieutenant, fresh out of training.
"Lieutenant, you're young, so you may not know it," Denning put an edge in his voice, "but you'd be damn lucky to command as many Indians as possible. They fight like nobody's business, and the SEALs learned most of what they know about wilderness fighting from them. On the Russian front, the Russians called them ‘Brown Russians’ because they didn't cry out if they died."
"That's tough, sir."
"Darn right."
***
Burbank, California
The sun was shining brightly, and even though autumn was well underway the air was still warm. Bill Shaych noted that it was always sunny in southern California. As a boy he had wondered if there might be a place that had weather as pleasant as England’s was dismal, and truly the Los Angeles basin was such a place. He rested on a park bench enjoying his lunch, and watching children play.
One child waved a stick like a tomahawk “Ha, got you! My people are avenged!”
”No fair!” Another boy called out. “You were already Gray Wolf, I want to be Gray Wolf!”
”I’m Running Bear!” A third boy called out “I can track you anywhere!” He tackled the second boy to the ground “I’ll show you to steal a settler’s land, you evil banker!” They whooped and hollered, changing identities as they ran across the grass. No cowboys, only Indians. It was a fine honor for a show only in its’ third year, and the merchandise was flying off the shelves and into toy chests everywhere.
Bill smiled, and spooned some herring onto toast. He was glad that the North Atlantic was finally recovering, it was these private lunches that kept his sanity between whatever pretentious new cuisine fads he had to sit through in this town. A frenzy of arms and legs suddenly appeared from around a bend. “Mister Shaych, Mister Shaych!” It was a production assistant from the studio, no doubt with more supercilious notes from the studio heads. They sent fewer now, once they’d discovered he didn’t read them, but every once in a while one of them had an idea that they had to share. “What is it, son? You know I like my lunch to be my own time.”
”Yes sir, but I figured you’d want to see this.” The assistant thrust a crumpled paper into his hands. “Ghost Walk is being nominated for an Emmy! Two, actually, best Drama and writing in a drama. Its a great day, sir!”
”Hmmm…” Bill read the other nominees, mostly to contain himself. He didn’t want to lose his dignity. “Thank you.” Inside he fairly leaped, as he returned to his lunch. Its no knighthood, but it will do nicely.
***
New Jersey Zinc Company Corporate Headquarters
”I don’t know about this, Mr. Locksley.” Kai hurried down the hall to catch up, her heels clicking as she walked.
”Don’t worry about anything, Kai, the papers are all in and done. This is just the final bash before we knock them all down.” Robin was in his element, stalking the hallways of corporate America as if he were hunting a boar in the woods.
”No, I mean this skirt, I think it’s too short.”
”You… what?” Robin stopped and turned, eyeing Kais past-the-knee green business dress.
”Just checking to see if you were paying attention,” she winked “I really appreciate your help on this meeting.”
”Don’t mention it.” He pressed for the elevator “It isn’s not often I get to rob from the rich and give to the reasonably sensible.”
***
The CEO of New Jersey Zinc sat stunned, his eyes glazing over as he stared at the stack of paperwork in front of him. “I want to be clear, Jim,” Robin smiled “that while my company has no doubt that you had no idea about the various measures taken to acquire these properties, we feel it would be neglecting our civic duty to not report these sorts of events to the Department of Justice.”
One of the other men at the table sputtered “That- that would RUIN us! We would lose almost everything we have in the Southwest!”
”Actually, Mr. Wilks,” Kai flipped through some papers “you would lose ALL holdings in the Southwest, along with the West Virginia coal holdings to boot.” She smiled sweetly. “However, I have a feeling you have been considering simplifying your company for a while.”
”I what?” The men were all still reeling from the white-paper bomb these two had dropped on them. It had been industry practice for years to nudge or push Indians out of the way when you needed to mine, but in the past few years a number of high profile run-ins with the BIA had brought more than one mining company to its knees.
”Streamlining.” She looked at the CEO. “I have asked Mr. Locksley here to help with some of the finer points, but I represent the Indigenous Mining Consortium and have been granted full proxy power in negotiations for the acquisition of all the contested lands. In return for abandoning all charges, well set a fair-market price for the lands and buy them back from you.”
”I don’t know who you think you are, little girl, but that is extortion!” Mr. Wilkins seemed to have found his fire, and rose to his feet.
She didnt back down “I am Kai Green Rock of the Pueblo, and I’ve killed rattlesnakes scarier than you with my bare hands.” She pointed to the pages “I have read all of these, and made note of your signatures, and your associates. There is enough here to empanel a grand jury TOMORROW, and you know it. Think of it as reverse-eminent-domain if you like.”
Robin cleared his throat “Besides, don’t you think its best if everyone makes some money out of this and goes home happy and handcuff-free?”
The CEO held up a hand before Wilkins could speak “Alright, I’m sold. Let’s see this deal.”
Kai opened a new file “Well, for starters the IMC doesn’t have a distribution network, so were going to need to partner with you for that. Eight million tons of uranium ore doesn’t really move itself…”
***
Hours later, they emerged, tired but triumphant. “That was splendidly done, Kai.” Robin offered an arm to her, and she took it.
”Thank you.” She was fairly beaming. All she had done was lay out the facts, but she felt like she had won a battle worthy of a song. “You did pretty well yourself, quite the skillful soft touch.”
”Yes, I did. But, after that little performance I’m afraid I am going to have to retire for a while until my ‘son’ can take over my holdings.” He rubbed his jaw. “At least I will be able to shave this beard off, dratted thing itches.”
Kai laughed as they exited the building. “Retire, eh? What will you do to fill the time?”
”Well,” He smiled at her wryly “I know a certain new executive of the IMC I’d like to do something with.”
”Really? She returned his smile. He nodded, and she squeezed his arm “Do you have two bows?”
NSC Building, Washington D.C. 1972
Delivering the perfect cup of coffee was no easy task. It began with the selection of the proper beans, which could vary by day, season, and the mood of the drinker. Next came the water, which had to be clean and room-temperature; cold water would not heat at the proper rate, and lead to a weaker brew. Only then came the actual preparation, which took many forms. Long ago, ground beans were mixed into boiling water directly, and the drink had to be carefully seasoned. Later the French developed percolation, by which coffee would be brewed up through the beans and down into the coffee pot. True aficionados, however, used a vacuum brewer, which produced a clear, flavorful brew. Next came pouring, and after that cream, milk, or sugar had to be added in the right measure for taste (or not added), and then the brew had to be drunk after the exact right time for temperature. All of this consideration flew by in a moment as Naamah worked in the small kitchenette at the NSC building. They had people to do these things, but she was an artiste, and took pride in her work. She walked the cup down the hall, knocked once, and then stepped into a conversation.
”Right, Tony. I can’t tell you how much my uncle would have appreciated this.” Henry waved Namaah in, and returned to his phone call “They should be getting to Cuba in a few days, and I need you to make sure that they actually talk to some guys who know some guys, not just some kid who fills a chair.” He paused “Yeah, I know who I’m talking to, but I wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t important. This can mean a lot of green for everyone all around the Lake, if you know what I mean.” He nodded “Consider that bottle sent already, a courier should have it to you day after tomorrow, and ‘Ill tell him if it takes three days, that you can shoot him.” He laughed “Alright, thanks again.” He hung up.
“Guys who know guys?” Namaah raised an eyebrow “Afraid of wire-taps?”
”Always, but that was an old friend of my ‘uncle’ Henry’s who now lives in Cuba, a mid-level guy in The Families. I did him a few good turns back in Chicago, and he said he owed me one I could collect anytime.” There sounded to Naamah to be more of a story there, but Henry would only share on his time. “At any rate, when the Seer and the Path get to Cuba they’re going to get a real look at things, and not the dime show.
”Good work, Henry.” Naamah set down her load of files “The Seer wanted you to see these before everything goes down,” she handed him a stack of files “and I figured you would be staying up late, so…” she set the cup on the table “Dutch Java, black with a finger.” She turned to leave “Don’t stay up too late.” She glided out the door and closed it lightly.
Henry smiled and shook his head, she was a fine woman. He raised the cup to his lips, then paused. Naamah never did things without a reason, and he had been with her for many years. He set the cup down and reached into his pocket. He took out a key and unlocked the bottom drawer of his desk, removing a box of vials. He took a dropper and put coffee into five pits on the tray, and then added various chemicals. No reactions happened, and he sighed. Dating a skilled poisoner gave a man more than a healthy paranoid imagination. He took a drink of the coffee and sighed, it was very good. The door creaked open “Henry?” Namaah stuck her head in. He raised an eyebrow. “Catch!” she tossed him a small vial. He caught it and recognized it as one of the ones from his sampling kit, which she had substituted her own fake chemical for. He read the label of what it tested for; A potent laxative.
He sighed. “It was just a few dinners and it was a while ago!”
”That’s why your’e only going to have a bad weekend instead of a bad few months.” She stuck her tongue out at him, closed the door and walked back to her desk. She was an artiste, after all.
***
Military Recruiting Center, Sioux Falls
Major Denning shook the man's hand "Welcome aboard, Mr. Jensen." It was his fifth signing this week. As he completed the paperwork, a colleague came in.
"Another one, eh?"
"Darn right." Denning nodded. "I wish everyone had the kind of service ability these Indians do."
"Really? Indians make good soldiers?" The colleague was a young lieutenant, fresh out of training.
"Lieutenant, you're young, so you may not know it," Denning put an edge in his voice, "but you'd be damn lucky to command as many Indians as possible. They fight like nobody's business, and the SEALs learned most of what they know about wilderness fighting from them. On the Russian front, the Russians called them ‘Brown Russians’ because they didn't cry out if they died."
"That's tough, sir."
"Darn right."
***
Burbank, California
The sun was shining brightly, and even though autumn was well underway the air was still warm. Bill Shaych noted that it was always sunny in southern California. As a boy he had wondered if there might be a place that had weather as pleasant as England’s was dismal, and truly the Los Angeles basin was such a place. He rested on a park bench enjoying his lunch, and watching children play.
One child waved a stick like a tomahawk “Ha, got you! My people are avenged!”
”No fair!” Another boy called out. “You were already Gray Wolf, I want to be Gray Wolf!”
”I’m Running Bear!” A third boy called out “I can track you anywhere!” He tackled the second boy to the ground “I’ll show you to steal a settler’s land, you evil banker!” They whooped and hollered, changing identities as they ran across the grass. No cowboys, only Indians. It was a fine honor for a show only in its’ third year, and the merchandise was flying off the shelves and into toy chests everywhere.
Bill smiled, and spooned some herring onto toast. He was glad that the North Atlantic was finally recovering, it was these private lunches that kept his sanity between whatever pretentious new cuisine fads he had to sit through in this town. A frenzy of arms and legs suddenly appeared from around a bend. “Mister Shaych, Mister Shaych!” It was a production assistant from the studio, no doubt with more supercilious notes from the studio heads. They sent fewer now, once they’d discovered he didn’t read them, but every once in a while one of them had an idea that they had to share. “What is it, son? You know I like my lunch to be my own time.”
”Yes sir, but I figured you’d want to see this.” The assistant thrust a crumpled paper into his hands. “Ghost Walk is being nominated for an Emmy! Two, actually, best Drama and writing in a drama. Its a great day, sir!”
”Hmmm…” Bill read the other nominees, mostly to contain himself. He didn’t want to lose his dignity. “Thank you.” Inside he fairly leaped, as he returned to his lunch. Its no knighthood, but it will do nicely.
***
New Jersey Zinc Company Corporate Headquarters
”I don’t know about this, Mr. Locksley.” Kai hurried down the hall to catch up, her heels clicking as she walked.
”Don’t worry about anything, Kai, the papers are all in and done. This is just the final bash before we knock them all down.” Robin was in his element, stalking the hallways of corporate America as if he were hunting a boar in the woods.
”No, I mean this skirt, I think it’s too short.”
”You… what?” Robin stopped and turned, eyeing Kais past-the-knee green business dress.
”Just checking to see if you were paying attention,” she winked “I really appreciate your help on this meeting.”
”Don’t mention it.” He pressed for the elevator “It isn’s not often I get to rob from the rich and give to the reasonably sensible.”
***
The CEO of New Jersey Zinc sat stunned, his eyes glazing over as he stared at the stack of paperwork in front of him. “I want to be clear, Jim,” Robin smiled “that while my company has no doubt that you had no idea about the various measures taken to acquire these properties, we feel it would be neglecting our civic duty to not report these sorts of events to the Department of Justice.”
One of the other men at the table sputtered “That- that would RUIN us! We would lose almost everything we have in the Southwest!”
”Actually, Mr. Wilks,” Kai flipped through some papers “you would lose ALL holdings in the Southwest, along with the West Virginia coal holdings to boot.” She smiled sweetly. “However, I have a feeling you have been considering simplifying your company for a while.”
”I what?” The men were all still reeling from the white-paper bomb these two had dropped on them. It had been industry practice for years to nudge or push Indians out of the way when you needed to mine, but in the past few years a number of high profile run-ins with the BIA had brought more than one mining company to its knees.
”Streamlining.” She looked at the CEO. “I have asked Mr. Locksley here to help with some of the finer points, but I represent the Indigenous Mining Consortium and have been granted full proxy power in negotiations for the acquisition of all the contested lands. In return for abandoning all charges, well set a fair-market price for the lands and buy them back from you.”
”I don’t know who you think you are, little girl, but that is extortion!” Mr. Wilkins seemed to have found his fire, and rose to his feet.
She didnt back down “I am Kai Green Rock of the Pueblo, and I’ve killed rattlesnakes scarier than you with my bare hands.” She pointed to the pages “I have read all of these, and made note of your signatures, and your associates. There is enough here to empanel a grand jury TOMORROW, and you know it. Think of it as reverse-eminent-domain if you like.”
Robin cleared his throat “Besides, don’t you think its best if everyone makes some money out of this and goes home happy and handcuff-free?”
The CEO held up a hand before Wilkins could speak “Alright, I’m sold. Let’s see this deal.”
Kai opened a new file “Well, for starters the IMC doesn’t have a distribution network, so were going to need to partner with you for that. Eight million tons of uranium ore doesn’t really move itself…”
***
Hours later, they emerged, tired but triumphant. “That was splendidly done, Kai.” Robin offered an arm to her, and she took it.
”Thank you.” She was fairly beaming. All she had done was lay out the facts, but she felt like she had won a battle worthy of a song. “You did pretty well yourself, quite the skillful soft touch.”
”Yes, I did. But, after that little performance I’m afraid I am going to have to retire for a while until my ‘son’ can take over my holdings.” He rubbed his jaw. “At least I will be able to shave this beard off, dratted thing itches.”
Kai laughed as they exited the building. “Retire, eh? What will you do to fill the time?”
”Well,” He smiled at her wryly “I know a certain new executive of the IMC I’d like to do something with.”
”Really? She returned his smile. He nodded, and she squeezed his arm “Do you have two bows?”
Re: 1969 - Home of the Brave
Chapter Ten
Standing Rock Reservation, South Dakota. 1990
"You lying piece of garbage! You dusty white man!" In the middle of what was supposed to be a peaceful meeting with the Lakota Sioux, a young BIA agent working with the Path was suddenly inches away from death. Edward Sun Hawk had been raised on the Crow Creek reservation, and though he was not ghost-touched he had a gift for oratory. He could connect with people, make them his friend without more than a word and a touch, and that gift had served him well until now.
"Please, please!" Edward held up his hands. "You know me! I'm not here to lie to you, or trick you! What I've brought for you to hear is just-"
"Is just nonsense!" A chief of the Hunkpapa stepped forward. "Every time the whites come to us with a 'deal' or a 'treaty' we lose more. The Lakota tried to fight once, our Great Chief Sitting Bull fought them, but in the end it was the lies of the whites that destroyed our spirit."
"The lies of the whites?" A voice echoed across the clearing, and people turned to see an old man walking towards the center. "Do I look white to you?" He walked slowly, but with the deliberate grace of a grizzly bear.
"Who are you?" The Chief pointed a finger at him. "You have no right to be here! We are not your people!"
"I have every right to be here, for I am Deganawida, and my people are all of The People." Five Elks knew how to use his name when he had to. "I will tell you this; I sat with Powahattan, and Menewa, and Sitting Bull, and none of them were afraid to listen to the winds of change." He cocked his head to one side and turned to the crowd. "Do you hear the winds? They speak of a better time, a time when we can use the land we call home to benefit us. The Navajo and the Hopi, the Cherokee all have done it. Why not the Lakota? Do your people not deserve to join in the new ways?"
A ripple of conversation spread in the crowd. They had heard of the wealth of the western tribes, how they had built vast businesses selling resources on the open market. More than one old woman now said "Bargains like a Hopi" when they lost a bout of haggling, and they knew that what Five Elks said was true.
"But our land, Deganawida!" An old man cried out. "My father hunted here, and so did his father!"
"And so will your sons," Five Elks nodded. "And their sons, because after this offer today, you are choosing to stay here, to be stuck here." He looked at the chief. "Do you choose something better for your people?"
The chief looked at Edward. "Please, tell us of your offer."
***
Hollywood, California
"And the Emmy goes to... Bill Shaych for Warpath!" The auditorium went wild. Bill stood up, a satisfied smile on his face. He strolled to the stage, looking out at the totality of the Hollywood aristocracy. He took the award and shook the presenter's hand.
"Thank you all." He beamed. "I wish I could say I've lost track of how many awards I've gotten over the years for my shows, but we all know every one counts." The crowd laughed. "Truly, I am a fortunate man do to such well-received works. Seven years on Ghost Walk, and now six on Warpath, it has been well over a decade well-spent. I have reached the height of my profession, and now with your praise in my ears, I will retire. Thank you, thank you all." He walked offstage, to the traditional media-circus that followed Emmy-winners.
It had all been worth it, Bill reflected. It was rare that a playwright actually had the chance to change minds and hearts, but he had done it. Indians were a part of the television culture, and the American culture. On T-shirts and lunchboxes his work lived on, and in a tragic way, it was an honor. There was a new TV show in development, "Miami Vice", which partnered a white detective with a Seminole. It showed some promise.
Now, in the ways of demons, Bill Shaych had to fade from the limelight. After decades of work and acclaim, he had become "well-preserved" and "gracefully aged". Perhaps he'd go back to New England and write some more plays, on a blank canvas. It wouldn't be the first time.
Empire Hotel, Chicago
"Ladies and gentlemen, I wanted to thank you for coming tonight." Kai stood in front of a room full of people, mostly Indians, all enjoying a gourmet meal. "Welcome to the fifth annual meeting of the National Indigenous Business Association." There was a smattering of applause. "I also wanted to welcome representatives of the Innuit tribes, and to commend them on their successful development of their oil resources on the north-Alaskan ranges, bringing them and other indigenous businesses several billion dollars." A stronger round of applause as Kai motioned to the little brown men, looking uncharacteristic in fine suits and above-zero temperatures. One had remarked the warmest summer he'd ever felt was a Chicago winter.
"The past five years have brought tremendous growth to our organization," Kai went on "and with the trials of growth has come tremendous change. Currently our efforts have supported the election of Indigenous congressmen in six states, and Mr. Jason Tall Horse to the US Senate. It is a wonderful accomplishment, and we must push for more." More applause for Jason, who was sitting at the main table.
He knew, as Kai did, that they probably wouldn't be able to get much more. Six congressmen and a senator was quite a feat, but there were too few indigenous to make more of an impact in congress. Most state governments had gained a few indigenous members since the Path joined with the Circle, and that was doing more good.
"Responsible economic growth is our key to success and influence, my friends. New casinos, credit unions, and industries have caused unprecedented new changes in the American landscape, though as always we must be responsible in our work." That line was directed at the Navajo Statehood Movement, which desired to turn the Four Corners region into a state the size of South Carolina. Everyone was a bit wary of that idea, and there was a less-organized group of Cherokee and Seminoles in the Florida panhandle with a similar goal.
"Let us never forget the ideas this organization was built upon," Kai was closing her speech "that we must never be too afraid of the future to let go of the past, and we must never forget our past while embracing the future." The people took to their feet now, applauding Kai of Naschitti.
***
Henry McCarty's home, Northern Virginia
"Come in!" Henry called to the knock on the door. Menewa stepped in, the snow swirling around his ankles as the door closed behind him. "Hey there, Menewa!" Henry took his coat and slapped him on the back "We were beginning to think you weren't coming."
Menewa sighed. "Oh, you know paperwork. Reducing the size and authority of the Bureau into smaller agencies takes time, though why it takes so much work to make things smaller is something I'll never understand."
"It's a trick of the white man." Robin joked as he stepped in from the kitchen, and handed Menewa a drink. "We get you coming and going."
"That would make sense." Menewa sipped at the liquor. "How's Amanda? I haven't seen her in a while."
"Good, she's good." Robin nodded. "We're getting settled in, bought a private island off the coast, and she's having a grand time furnishing the cottage." The 'cottage' was an immense estate, one with its own rotopad and yacht. Locke Investments still did quite well, even while he was 'in seclusion'. There was even talk among the Circle that Robin might finally take the plunge, though Henry would believe it when he saw it and checked its dental records.
"So, is the Seer here?" Menewa stepped in and flipped on the TV. He had spent enough evenings here, joking and laughing with Henry, that it felt almost as much of a home as his D.C. apartment.
"I'm about to deal the cards!" A voice called from the other room. It had been an idea of Henry's originally; every few months they would come together for a game, either cards or something equally diverting. Last time Parmenio had chosen an esoteric Egyptian game called "Hounds and Jackals" which Robin had inexplicably won.
The men filed into the back room. "Hey, where's Hank?" Menewa looked around.
"We can play without him till he shows up." Henry dismissed it with a wave. "He was going to the zoo today, and you know how he is about elephants."
They all nodded. Menewa shrugged. "At least its been a while since he told us about beating the Romans at Can-"
"Don't remind me!" Parmenio put up a hand. "Every time we compare battles, he brings that one up and, though he's a dear friend, he's resting a bit on his laurels." He started dealing the cards. "Ante up!" They all tossed in a few chips.
"What's the game?" Menewa asked while stacking his chips.
"Poker."
"Great." Menewa picked up a card and held it to his forehead, studying the other three men intently. They looked at him first in bewilderment and then pity. "Got you!" Menewa picked up the rest of his cards. "Five card stud, right?"
Standing Rock Reservation, South Dakota. 1990
"You lying piece of garbage! You dusty white man!" In the middle of what was supposed to be a peaceful meeting with the Lakota Sioux, a young BIA agent working with the Path was suddenly inches away from death. Edward Sun Hawk had been raised on the Crow Creek reservation, and though he was not ghost-touched he had a gift for oratory. He could connect with people, make them his friend without more than a word and a touch, and that gift had served him well until now.
"Please, please!" Edward held up his hands. "You know me! I'm not here to lie to you, or trick you! What I've brought for you to hear is just-"
"Is just nonsense!" A chief of the Hunkpapa stepped forward. "Every time the whites come to us with a 'deal' or a 'treaty' we lose more. The Lakota tried to fight once, our Great Chief Sitting Bull fought them, but in the end it was the lies of the whites that destroyed our spirit."
"The lies of the whites?" A voice echoed across the clearing, and people turned to see an old man walking towards the center. "Do I look white to you?" He walked slowly, but with the deliberate grace of a grizzly bear.
"Who are you?" The Chief pointed a finger at him. "You have no right to be here! We are not your people!"
"I have every right to be here, for I am Deganawida, and my people are all of The People." Five Elks knew how to use his name when he had to. "I will tell you this; I sat with Powahattan, and Menewa, and Sitting Bull, and none of them were afraid to listen to the winds of change." He cocked his head to one side and turned to the crowd. "Do you hear the winds? They speak of a better time, a time when we can use the land we call home to benefit us. The Navajo and the Hopi, the Cherokee all have done it. Why not the Lakota? Do your people not deserve to join in the new ways?"
A ripple of conversation spread in the crowd. They had heard of the wealth of the western tribes, how they had built vast businesses selling resources on the open market. More than one old woman now said "Bargains like a Hopi" when they lost a bout of haggling, and they knew that what Five Elks said was true.
"But our land, Deganawida!" An old man cried out. "My father hunted here, and so did his father!"
"And so will your sons," Five Elks nodded. "And their sons, because after this offer today, you are choosing to stay here, to be stuck here." He looked at the chief. "Do you choose something better for your people?"
The chief looked at Edward. "Please, tell us of your offer."
***
Hollywood, California
"And the Emmy goes to... Bill Shaych for Warpath!" The auditorium went wild. Bill stood up, a satisfied smile on his face. He strolled to the stage, looking out at the totality of the Hollywood aristocracy. He took the award and shook the presenter's hand.
"Thank you all." He beamed. "I wish I could say I've lost track of how many awards I've gotten over the years for my shows, but we all know every one counts." The crowd laughed. "Truly, I am a fortunate man do to such well-received works. Seven years on Ghost Walk, and now six on Warpath, it has been well over a decade well-spent. I have reached the height of my profession, and now with your praise in my ears, I will retire. Thank you, thank you all." He walked offstage, to the traditional media-circus that followed Emmy-winners.
It had all been worth it, Bill reflected. It was rare that a playwright actually had the chance to change minds and hearts, but he had done it. Indians were a part of the television culture, and the American culture. On T-shirts and lunchboxes his work lived on, and in a tragic way, it was an honor. There was a new TV show in development, "Miami Vice", which partnered a white detective with a Seminole. It showed some promise.
Now, in the ways of demons, Bill Shaych had to fade from the limelight. After decades of work and acclaim, he had become "well-preserved" and "gracefully aged". Perhaps he'd go back to New England and write some more plays, on a blank canvas. It wouldn't be the first time.
Empire Hotel, Chicago
"Ladies and gentlemen, I wanted to thank you for coming tonight." Kai stood in front of a room full of people, mostly Indians, all enjoying a gourmet meal. "Welcome to the fifth annual meeting of the National Indigenous Business Association." There was a smattering of applause. "I also wanted to welcome representatives of the Innuit tribes, and to commend them on their successful development of their oil resources on the north-Alaskan ranges, bringing them and other indigenous businesses several billion dollars." A stronger round of applause as Kai motioned to the little brown men, looking uncharacteristic in fine suits and above-zero temperatures. One had remarked the warmest summer he'd ever felt was a Chicago winter.
"The past five years have brought tremendous growth to our organization," Kai went on "and with the trials of growth has come tremendous change. Currently our efforts have supported the election of Indigenous congressmen in six states, and Mr. Jason Tall Horse to the US Senate. It is a wonderful accomplishment, and we must push for more." More applause for Jason, who was sitting at the main table.
He knew, as Kai did, that they probably wouldn't be able to get much more. Six congressmen and a senator was quite a feat, but there were too few indigenous to make more of an impact in congress. Most state governments had gained a few indigenous members since the Path joined with the Circle, and that was doing more good.
"Responsible economic growth is our key to success and influence, my friends. New casinos, credit unions, and industries have caused unprecedented new changes in the American landscape, though as always we must be responsible in our work." That line was directed at the Navajo Statehood Movement, which desired to turn the Four Corners region into a state the size of South Carolina. Everyone was a bit wary of that idea, and there was a less-organized group of Cherokee and Seminoles in the Florida panhandle with a similar goal.
"Let us never forget the ideas this organization was built upon," Kai was closing her speech "that we must never be too afraid of the future to let go of the past, and we must never forget our past while embracing the future." The people took to their feet now, applauding Kai of Naschitti.
***
Henry McCarty's home, Northern Virginia
"Come in!" Henry called to the knock on the door. Menewa stepped in, the snow swirling around his ankles as the door closed behind him. "Hey there, Menewa!" Henry took his coat and slapped him on the back "We were beginning to think you weren't coming."
Menewa sighed. "Oh, you know paperwork. Reducing the size and authority of the Bureau into smaller agencies takes time, though why it takes so much work to make things smaller is something I'll never understand."
"It's a trick of the white man." Robin joked as he stepped in from the kitchen, and handed Menewa a drink. "We get you coming and going."
"That would make sense." Menewa sipped at the liquor. "How's Amanda? I haven't seen her in a while."
"Good, she's good." Robin nodded. "We're getting settled in, bought a private island off the coast, and she's having a grand time furnishing the cottage." The 'cottage' was an immense estate, one with its own rotopad and yacht. Locke Investments still did quite well, even while he was 'in seclusion'. There was even talk among the Circle that Robin might finally take the plunge, though Henry would believe it when he saw it and checked its dental records.
"So, is the Seer here?" Menewa stepped in and flipped on the TV. He had spent enough evenings here, joking and laughing with Henry, that it felt almost as much of a home as his D.C. apartment.
"I'm about to deal the cards!" A voice called from the other room. It had been an idea of Henry's originally; every few months they would come together for a game, either cards or something equally diverting. Last time Parmenio had chosen an esoteric Egyptian game called "Hounds and Jackals" which Robin had inexplicably won.
The men filed into the back room. "Hey, where's Hank?" Menewa looked around.
"We can play without him till he shows up." Henry dismissed it with a wave. "He was going to the zoo today, and you know how he is about elephants."
They all nodded. Menewa shrugged. "At least its been a while since he told us about beating the Romans at Can-"
"Don't remind me!" Parmenio put up a hand. "Every time we compare battles, he brings that one up and, though he's a dear friend, he's resting a bit on his laurels." He started dealing the cards. "Ante up!" They all tossed in a few chips.
"What's the game?" Menewa asked while stacking his chips.
"Poker."
"Great." Menewa picked up a card and held it to his forehead, studying the other three men intently. They looked at him first in bewilderment and then pity. "Got you!" Menewa picked up the rest of his cards. "Five card stud, right?"
Re: 1969 - Home of the Brave
Long Lifers in the story.
The Path
Sacagawea (Raven) Female
Menewa Male
Five Elks Male
Kai of Naschitti (Kai Green Rocks) Female
Amanda Thunderhead Female
others in story
William Shakespear (Bill Shaych)
Robin of Lockslye (Robin Locke)
The Path
Sacagawea (Raven) Female
Menewa Male
Five Elks Male
Kai of Naschitti (Kai Green Rocks) Female
Amanda Thunderhead Female
others in story
William Shakespear (Bill Shaych)
Robin of Lockslye (Robin Locke)