Day of Reckoning: September 11, 2001

There was something in the woods. It began in the early morning hours as a faint, pulsating beat, like the first heartbeat of life, a sound so delicate it fell beyond the range of human perception.

The animals were alarmed. Wolves, mountain cats, rabbits, possums, raccoons and squirrels stopped in their tracks, sniffed the air, scratched the earth, and let their eyes drift over their surroundings. Owls, hawks and ravens took flight, deer bolted and moved to higher ground.

There was something in the woods and it tasted dark and unnatural, breeding fear, promising danger and growing with every minute. Soon the forest itself grew silent in waiting, too frightened to run, too horrified even to move. There was something monstrous in their midst yet it had no point of origin, no beginning and no end. It was everywhere at once, from the darkest cave to the highest sunlit peak.

In the camp of the dreamers, each had awakened from the dream of the firebirds as they crashed into the towers, as the towers crumbled to the ground, as they continued on to the home of the great white fathers – the Pentagon and the White House – and as the darkness spread across land and sea in expanding waves of terror. The cries of women and men, the smell of toxic air, and the tears of frightened children still lingered in the morning chill.

In hushed tones, they spoke around the campfire. Little Crow Woman wondered if there was someone in the government they could warn while there was still time.

"What should we tell them?" asked Strikes Lightning. "That we have had a vision. They would not listen. Then, when the vision materialized, they would point the finger of accusation at those who issued the warning. We have already alerted the airports in the east. There is nothing more we can do."

"In my dreams," said Jerico, "I have walked the halls of power. I have talked to their leaders. I have placed the truth before them. They smile and shake hands but they have no ears to hear, no eyes to see, no hands to act, no hearts to feel. The shadow of the killing spirit has found a home in the halls of congress, the halls of justice and the secret halls of power."

A silence descended though only Jerico heard and felt the familiar pounding in the forest. He knew the source. He recalled the first time he encountered the killing spirit, deep in the Mississippi woods, and he prayed that this time it came for him alone. His eyes had grown old for the suffering he had witnessed. He would willingly give his life if others could be spared.

A pall of solemnity fell over the camp in waves of invisible darkness as the pulsing beat, still silent to the dreamers, grew and spread in all directions.

It was the day of the soul’s release and there was still much to do before Inipi. They silently practiced the songs and prayers of the ceremony, as they went about their business, tying bundles of sage and sweet grass, preparing charms and medicines, making sure everything was in place.

No one noticed the activities of the strange little white man when he left his camp in the hours before dawn and went into the woods alone. He had heard the call of the killing spirit and it was stronger than he was. His path was chosen and could not be altered.

Jeb Morgan found his way to the place where souls are released without direction, without knowing and without seeking. It was a clearing guarded on all sides by towering walls of stone, a granite cathedral carved by the hand of the Great Spirit. He found his station on the northern wall where he drew a circle of protection, anointed it with holy water, gave offerings of tobacco to the four directions, lit sage, placed his crucifix, readied his bow and arrow, and waited in silent prayer.

The dreamers taught Jeb well. He had learned to love the earth as his mother. He had learned to cherish all beings as equals. Though they served the great evil, he had grown to respect the savage culture and the men and women who upheld it. He found it difficult to believe that such strong and virtuous people could be so easily deceived. He would pray for their forgiveness. He would ask their redemption before the gates of heaven, before the one true Lord and Savior.

The sun was high in a September sky when Strikes Lightning called the dreamers together. As they bathed in the purifying smoke of burning sage, he spoke of destiny in the moment that would define their lives and direct the future of their people. He reminded them that the strength of the circle was infinitely greater than the strength of the individual: one mind, one heart. He warned them that the killing spirit would create distractions in the form of illusions. They must not yield but remain focused, directed: one heart, one mind.

When the sun began its descent, the circle of dreamers began the long hike to the place where souls are released that would have them arriving at sunset. It was a cool, clear fall day and Jerico walked in silence, each step a prayer of renewal, each breath a remembrance of all that he treasured in life. His thoughts returned, as they always had, to Marie and the joy they shared walking this same ground in the days of their youth. He felt her spirit now as palpably as he had when she walked the earth beside him. It was a sensation so powerful he could almost see her, just as he saw the spirits of the ancestors all around him: beings of light, spirits dancing in beams of sunlight splitting the air through tall pines, animal spirits and spirits of starlight. The air was charged with mystical forces, a convergence of the powers of the universe.

He thought no longer of the killing spirit. The dark pulsating beat that before was everywhere at once, pounding, growing, seemed to fade as the moment approached.

The shadows of the setting sun fell long on the clearing when they arrived. The moon was rising and the stars emerged as if to observe what was happening on the earth below.

Strikes Lightning gave an offering to each of the seven directions and marked a circle with red and blue paint, one mark for each in the circle of dreamers. On each mark, he placed a sacred stone where the dreamers each took their assigned positions.

On Strikes Lightning’s signal, they began to move in a sunwise direction, east to north to west to south, the old one leading with Jerico and Little Hawk close behind. After four revolutions, Jerico and Little Hawk moved to the center, kneeling and bowing. Facing the north, Jerico called out to the terrible thunderbird, hands to heaven, head to earth. Little Hawk stood behind him, poised and alert, scanning the surroundings for signs of danger.

At the caw of a crow, the dreamers began to chant, one song for each direction, for the thunderbirds, for the four winds, for the soil, the air, fire and water. They sang for the earth that is our mother. They sang for the sky that is our father. They sang for the Great Spirit that lives in all things. They sang for the soul of every living being.

It is the soul that holds eternal knowledge. It is the soul that connects past to future. It is the soul that embraces beauty and gives birth to hope. It is the soul that is the essence of life, that makes the individual both one and one with all, and it is the soul that survives.

Strikes Lightning spoke as the sun made its final descent in a burst of fire on the western horizon: "It is time to release the soul of this good and simple man from the ties that bind it to this world of illusions. It is time to set this man free!"

The high, piercing cry of an eagle sounded to the north, followed in succession by cries to the south, east and west, signaling the presence of the sacred thunderbirds of Lakota lore, like the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.

The killing spirit raised its ugly head and the darkness of a September night became infinitely darker. In the minds of the dreamers, there was a growing storm, a darkness that spread like ink in water, and thunderbolts of lightning shook the ground like a powerful quake.

They held strong as Jerico chanted and Little Hawk stood his ground. They would not be moved. The circle would not be broken. They would stand until there was no longer ground to stand upon. They would sing until they had no voice to sing.

The moon broke through the clouds, illuminating the circle with silver light, as Jerico struggled to maintain his hold upon sacred ground. He opened as a rose in spring, hands to heaven, and sang through tears of mourning. He saw the desolate earth, abandoned cities, shattered villages, mountains of waste – the vast ruins of a declining civilization. Like the after days of endless genocide, nomadic warriors, armed with machetes, clubs and pitchforks, wandered a barren landscape: child warriors, women warriors, wounded warriors with missing limbs, absent spirit and soul.

He saw time move backwards to the cause.

He saw people dying on the streets of lawless cities where gangs of scavengers roamed. He saw armies and governments disband, each to his own device, survival of the fittest. He saw chained men, women and children forced to labor and compelled to take up arms. He saw torrential rains, floods and red tides, walls of water, plagues of locust, pestilence, poison and disease, rivers of flames, rats and scorpions, men strapped to the torturer’s chair, prisons in underground canyons, empty and fallen mosques, cathedrals and temples.

The smell of decay. The smell of burning flesh.

He saw mushroom clouds answered by mushroom clouds. He saw wars among civilizations, wars between religions, wars between powerful nations, and the seed of all wars in the desert sands of ancient Mesopotamia, where a tattered and scorched American flag littered the streets in a land of chaos.

He saw missiles over Baghdad, lighting up the night, and bombs strafing a mountainous land of poppies and hooded peasants.

He saw firebirds on the eastern horizon and understood that this was the root and cause of all this terror and destruction.

"Grab my arms!" he cried and Little Hawk complied.

"Do not let go!" he demanded.

As the towers collapsed, spilling poisonous debris and darkness in all directions, as cries of children ripped at his heart, he felt grandfather’s soul leap from his chest, the killing spirit enter with a cry of "Victory!" and an arrow split the night.

Little Hawk held strong, tears streaming down his face, as the man he loved as a brother and respected as a leader collapsed in his arms.

Jerico was dead. He let go of all that bound him to the earth and died with the killing spirit buried within his soul.

He awakened in the arms of love, in a land where the grass was still green, where the sky was still clear, where the water was pure and the animals of the forest still lived in freedom. As his vision was drawn to the tear-stained eyes of the one he had always loved, he spoke the only word his lips could form: "Marie."

"Welcome home," she replied.

She held him in her arms and kissed his burning eyes, his forehead, his cheeks, his lips, and wiped away his tears.

"You’ve won," she said. "The killing spirit is no more. You brought him to us. We flushed him out and scattered his being to the four corners of the universe."

Jerico struggled to sit up but his body would not follow.

"Rest," said Marie. "You have endured more than any one should."

He was in his tipi, bundled in blankets and furs. A fire was burning and Marie was sweating from the heat, yet he was still cold.

"How long have I been here?" he asked.

"On earth," she replied, "it is September 18th. You came to us on September 11th, the most important day in history that few on earth will remember."

"The thunderbirds never reached the towers."

"No," said Marie. "Without the killing spirit, the attackers lost their resolve. Some were arrested at the airport. The others ran. Most have already been rounded up. The government is being asked some hard questions: Why they did so little to protect the people? Why they ignored the warnings? Why they turned their backs on the terrorists they knew were in the country? Why they dismantled the antiterrorist unit that could have stopped this attack? Why they tried to hide or kill those who were caught so that they could not talk? Many questions but, without the killing spirit to guide them, they have no answers. All their plans have fallen. Their mission has failed."

Jerico felt the burden he had carried too long lighten. His body warmed to Marie’s touch and he felt the healing begin.

"The people are finally free," he said.

"Yes," said Marie, "and they are prepared to do what must be done to protect the mother from the men who have stolen her wealth."

Jerico struggled to keep his eyes open. He wanted to hold on to the moment for fear that it was only a dream.

"Sleep, my love," said Marie. "There will be many days to speak around the fire. There will be many nights to share our love."

Jerico let go of his consciousness and allowed the sweet coil of sleep to take him where it wanted him to be. If it was a dream, it was the dream he had chosen. It was a dream of peace and the beginning of a new world.

JACK RANDOM IS THE AUTHOR OF THE JAZZMAN CHRONICLES (CROW DOG PRESS) AND GHOST DANCE INSURRECTION (DRY BONES PRESS). THE CHRONICLES HAVE APPEARED ON DISSIDENT VOICE, THE ALBION MONITOR, BUZZLE, COUNTERPUNCH AND PEACE-EARTH-JUSTICE. GHOST DANCE IS AVAILABLE ON AMAZON.COM. SEE RANDOM JACK: www.jazzmanchronicles.blogspot.com. Contact: jackrandom@eartlink.net.