The Exorcism of Jerico Whitehorse
The Killing Spirit trapped in his soul, the body of Jerico Whitehorse is exorcised by the elders of the overworld. From THE KILLING SPIRIT (Cries for a Vision) by Jack Random.
He knew before the arrow pierced his heart and knowing sheltered him from the shock, the pain and suffering.
Jerico Whitehorse lived a full life in three decades and three years. The events of his life mirrored the history of his people. His experience enfolded four centuries of Native American struggle. He had known the hope inspired by Tecumseh of the Iroquois, Wavoka of the Paiute, Cochise and Geronimo of the Chiricahua, Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse of the Lakota. His heart had filled with pride like the Cheyenne and Lakota warriors at the Greasy Grass and broken with the Cherokee on the Trail of Tears. His blood was spilled like the Ghost Dancers at Wounded Knee.
Jerico came to recognize the spirit behind the Great Killing and threw off his medicine robes to do battle against the enemy of his people. He crossed the bridge dividing the suffering of his people from the suffering of the earth and all her inhabitants. His was the spirit of life and hope against the spirit of greed and hatred. He recognized that the Killing Spirit thrived on the darkest of human values.
The dreamers of seven tribes saw what Jerico saw, a future of blight and darkness, and they placed their faith in him. Together, they rallied the spirits of all tribes and races and set a trap not even the Killing Spirit could resist.
What greater prize could there be than the man who carried the spirit of Crazy Horse?
They sheltered and guided him on his path to fulfill the prophecy of the elders and the vision handed down by the Great Spirit. Jerico completed his journey of the seven directions, the seven rituals, the seven spokes of the Great Wheel, knowing that the Killing Spirit was watching and waiting for his chance to claim the prize.
When the Killing Spirit claimed his grandfather’s life, Jerico knew. When he released the soul of his grandfather, the seventh of the sacred rites, Jerico knew.
The moment his grandfather’s soul leapt from his body, the Killing Spirit filled the void and the assassin’s arrow hurled them both to the waiting fire circle of elders in the overworld.
The irony was rich. The assassin was instructed in the ways of the earth by the dreamers, themselves, but his soul belonged to the Killing Spirit. Neither the assassin nor the Killing Spirit nor the dreamers nor Jerico knew how it would play out. It was in the realm of the unknowable and the hands of the Great Spirit.
When Jerico arrived in the overworld, the Killing Spirit trapped within, the elders bound his limbs with thongs of leather, staking him to the ground, arms and legs extended, eyes to the heavens like Leonardo Da Vinci’s perfect man.
They drew a circle in red earth and surrounded him with the light of seven torches, each standing seven feet tall and representing the seven tribes, the seven rites and the seven sacred directions.
The elders took their places around the circle: Geronimo of the Apache, Tecumseh of the Iroquois, Joseph of the Nez Perce, Sequoia of the Cherokee, Wavoka of the Paiute, Quanah Parker of the Comanche and Worm (the father of Crazy Horse) of the Lakota.
One by one, they stepped forward to lead the rites of exorcism while Jerico’s beloved Marie tended to the wounds of his unconscious body, serving water, feeding and comforting him through the seven-day ordeal.
Geronimo began by summoning the powers of the four corners, anointing Jerico’s body with pollen. The others followed, assaulting the Killing Spirit with the salt of the earth, smoking him with sage and sweet grass, drowning him with deep spring waters, piercing him with words and rhythm, pounding drums and the whaling cries of those who died by the Killing Spirit’s guile.
For the first four days and nights, the Killing Spirit fought back like a cornered beast, striking in all directions with spite, hatred and vengeance. Knowing there was no escape, he fought only to take Jerico with him, to share his fate, shattered like broken glass beyond reparation.
On the fifth day, his rage dissipated, his resolve weakened, his shame at having lost to a lowly human gave way to admiration for the courage and fortitude of the warrior in whose body he was confined. The struggle was over.
The Killing Spirit no longer wished to continue his existence, an existence that stretched out across a millennium. He felt the consuming desire to witness the suffering of human kind drain from him like blood through an open vein.
He acknowledged a greater truth, a truth revealed to him by Jerico and his circle of dreamers: He did not wish to win this battle. With all his strength and will, he desired an end – an end to the suffering and the horror of being its root and cause.
He gazed at the stars and the vast distance beyond and wondered if he would retain any sense of self, of individual being, and prayed that he would not.
The elders did not know how to interpret his silence, remaining vigilant and intensifying their efforts, their songs soaring and their drums simulating the heartbeat of the Great Spirit.
On the evening of the seventh day, the Killing Spirit yielded his hold on the soul of Jerico Whitehorse, allowing the elders to flush him out. He appeared as a dark cloud above Jerico’s still motionless body, as each of the elders held a pipe passed down from the generations. Each in turn drew from the sacred pipe and as they blew smoke into the Killing Spirit’s darkness, it scattered in a thousand directions, dispersed to the four corners of the universe, until it was no more.
Worm, the father of Crazy Horse, went to Jerico’s side as his eyes opened and slowly focused on Marie’s tear streaked face. She embraced and kissed him until the color returned and Jerico realized where he was.
"My son," said Worm, "you have honored your mother. You have brought peace to the people and shown the way."
Jerico understood and nodded – too weak from the ordeal to speak.
Worm smiled.
"Jerico Whitehorse. It is a good name. We’ll let it have its place."
They lifted him to his feet and walked him to his tipi, where his son was waiting in silent prayer.
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. CONTACT: JACKRANDOM@EARTHLINK.NET.
Jerico Whitehorse lived a full life in three decades and three years. The events of his life mirrored the history of his people. His experience enfolded four centuries of Native American struggle. He had known the hope inspired by Tecumseh of the Iroquois, Wavoka of the Paiute, Cochise and Geronimo of the Chiricahua, Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse of the Lakota. His heart had filled with pride like the Cheyenne and Lakota warriors at the Greasy Grass and broken with the Cherokee on the Trail of Tears. His blood was spilled like the Ghost Dancers at Wounded Knee.
Jerico came to recognize the spirit behind the Great Killing and threw off his medicine robes to do battle against the enemy of his people. He crossed the bridge dividing the suffering of his people from the suffering of the earth and all her inhabitants. His was the spirit of life and hope against the spirit of greed and hatred. He recognized that the Killing Spirit thrived on the darkest of human values.
The dreamers of seven tribes saw what Jerico saw, a future of blight and darkness, and they placed their faith in him. Together, they rallied the spirits of all tribes and races and set a trap not even the Killing Spirit could resist.
What greater prize could there be than the man who carried the spirit of Crazy Horse?
They sheltered and guided him on his path to fulfill the prophecy of the elders and the vision handed down by the Great Spirit. Jerico completed his journey of the seven directions, the seven rituals, the seven spokes of the Great Wheel, knowing that the Killing Spirit was watching and waiting for his chance to claim the prize.
When the Killing Spirit claimed his grandfather’s life, Jerico knew. When he released the soul of his grandfather, the seventh of the sacred rites, Jerico knew.
The moment his grandfather’s soul leapt from his body, the Killing Spirit filled the void and the assassin’s arrow hurled them both to the waiting fire circle of elders in the overworld.
The irony was rich. The assassin was instructed in the ways of the earth by the dreamers, themselves, but his soul belonged to the Killing Spirit. Neither the assassin nor the Killing Spirit nor the dreamers nor Jerico knew how it would play out. It was in the realm of the unknowable and the hands of the Great Spirit.
When Jerico arrived in the overworld, the Killing Spirit trapped within, the elders bound his limbs with thongs of leather, staking him to the ground, arms and legs extended, eyes to the heavens like Leonardo Da Vinci’s perfect man.
They drew a circle in red earth and surrounded him with the light of seven torches, each standing seven feet tall and representing the seven tribes, the seven rites and the seven sacred directions.
The elders took their places around the circle: Geronimo of the Apache, Tecumseh of the Iroquois, Joseph of the Nez Perce, Sequoia of the Cherokee, Wavoka of the Paiute, Quanah Parker of the Comanche and Worm (the father of Crazy Horse) of the Lakota.
One by one, they stepped forward to lead the rites of exorcism while Jerico’s beloved Marie tended to the wounds of his unconscious body, serving water, feeding and comforting him through the seven-day ordeal.
Geronimo began by summoning the powers of the four corners, anointing Jerico’s body with pollen. The others followed, assaulting the Killing Spirit with the salt of the earth, smoking him with sage and sweet grass, drowning him with deep spring waters, piercing him with words and rhythm, pounding drums and the whaling cries of those who died by the Killing Spirit’s guile.
For the first four days and nights, the Killing Spirit fought back like a cornered beast, striking in all directions with spite, hatred and vengeance. Knowing there was no escape, he fought only to take Jerico with him, to share his fate, shattered like broken glass beyond reparation.
On the fifth day, his rage dissipated, his resolve weakened, his shame at having lost to a lowly human gave way to admiration for the courage and fortitude of the warrior in whose body he was confined. The struggle was over.
The Killing Spirit no longer wished to continue his existence, an existence that stretched out across a millennium. He felt the consuming desire to witness the suffering of human kind drain from him like blood through an open vein.
He acknowledged a greater truth, a truth revealed to him by Jerico and his circle of dreamers: He did not wish to win this battle. With all his strength and will, he desired an end – an end to the suffering and the horror of being its root and cause.
He gazed at the stars and the vast distance beyond and wondered if he would retain any sense of self, of individual being, and prayed that he would not.
The elders did not know how to interpret his silence, remaining vigilant and intensifying their efforts, their songs soaring and their drums simulating the heartbeat of the Great Spirit.
On the evening of the seventh day, the Killing Spirit yielded his hold on the soul of Jerico Whitehorse, allowing the elders to flush him out. He appeared as a dark cloud above Jerico’s still motionless body, as each of the elders held a pipe passed down from the generations. Each in turn drew from the sacred pipe and as they blew smoke into the Killing Spirit’s darkness, it scattered in a thousand directions, dispersed to the four corners of the universe, until it was no more.
Worm, the father of Crazy Horse, went to Jerico’s side as his eyes opened and slowly focused on Marie’s tear streaked face. She embraced and kissed him until the color returned and Jerico realized where he was.
"My son," said Worm, "you have honored your mother. You have brought peace to the people and shown the way."
Jerico understood and nodded – too weak from the ordeal to speak.
Worm smiled.
"Jerico Whitehorse. It is a good name. We’ll let it have its place."
They lifted him to his feet and walked him to his tipi, where his son was waiting in silent prayer.
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. CONTACT: JACKRANDOM@EARTHLINK.NET.
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