The Hawk & The Ravens

It was deep winter when he found the cave that would be his home. There was fresh water from a nearby spring and an eagle stood guard from his perch above. He had plenty of dried meat and thoughts to keep him company. It was a good place to cry for a vision and here he would remain until the winter began to thaw.

The cave was large enough for a sweat lodge. It let in the sun but kept out the snow and the sleet. The walls were granite but the floor was layered with soft earth. It was ideal for a grizzly hibernation but there were no fresh signs of animal inhabitants.

Once he had settled his camp, he sat silently in thought for days, gathering his strength. Then he began a fast, living only on the clear, living waters of a mountain spring. On the seventh day of fasting, a fever took hold of him and a wolf, black as a moonless night, appeared at the entrance of his dwelling.

It did not show its teeth or growl, as a wolf does when it encounters an unwelcome visitor. It remained still, watching as Jerico in his delirium on a bed of skins, made out its form across the fire and wondered if he could even rise in defense. Slowly, as the wolf came into focus and moved forward into the cave, he did not feel threatened. Slowly, as it circled around the fire, its blackness changed to brown and gold and, finally, white.

The wolf was summoning the memory of White Buffalo Calf Woman, who appeared to his people as a black buffalo before the transformation. Had Jerico been in his normal, waking mind, he might have challenged the image as an illusion but his heart was devoid of doubt. He remembered the story of the two warriors who greeted White Buffalo Woman. One greeted her with reverence and was rewarded, while the other desired her sexual treasure and perished in ashes.

The transformation complete, the wolf stood before him as Marie.

Jerico could no more deny his desire for her than a river can flow backwards.

"I took this form," she said, "because I knew it would please you."

She lay beside him and pressed her hand to his forehead. His fever vanished and she placed her lips on his: the taste of honey and sweet memories, a warm spring under starlit skies, the first promise of devotion, the first touch of kindness, a dive into pure waters, the dance of enchanted maidens, city lights and thunderstorms, summer rain and the river flows.

She was his eternal partner, his other half, his soul companion, yet she was also his teacher, his master, the voice of his wisdom and he was her humble student.

In a quiet moment, as they lay entwined, Jerico told her the story of the hawk and the ravens. When he was a child, he wandered off to a place by the creek where ravens gathered in the cottonwood trees. It became his place of solitude, where he would skip stones off the water, study the sky and dream.

On a summer day, he noticed that the ravens were active, squawking and darting across the creek from tree to tree, as if something had invaded their space and disturbed their peace. He noticed a hawk in the tallest tree. He had never seen a hawk in this place before. The hawk prefers the high ground where the wind currents are strong and his powerful vision is most useful. This hawk had chosen a different path.

As the days rolled by, the ravens began pushing the unwelcome visitor. One by one, they swooped across the sky, pulling up at the hawk’s perch. If the hawk moved toward one, another would swoop in from a different direction. After a while, the ravens forced the hawk into the air where they nipped at his wings and tail feathers, blocking the hawk from moving higher where the raven cannot follow.

Even as a child, Jerico understood that the ravens were trying to push the hawk from the land they claimed as their own but the hawk was too proud. He circled back when he should have flown west to the mountains.

Finally, the hawk grew tired as the ravens slammed his weakened body harder and harder. It lost its flight and spiraled into the ground, landing hard on the rocky bank of the creek.

The ravens descended, surrounding his almost still body, but they no longer poked or prodded him. They bobbed their heads and it seemed to Jerico that they were praying in the raven way. One nudged the hawk’s wing as if imploring him to rise and fly away but the hawk could not. His spirit had already risen.

So the ravens flew to the trees and returned with leaves and feathers to place on the hawk’s body. They kicked sand and stone over the grave and bobbed their heads in prayer.

The ravens were praying to the spirit that soars above all beings to grant safe passage to the spirit world for a brave and tireless enemy.

"There is much to be learned from this story," said Marie. "It teaches that pride can lead to folly but it also teaches something about the killing spirit."

Outside a harsh wind whistled through the pines and the bite of winter was deadly cold but inside the fire glowed and warmth surrounded them with comfort.

"The killing spirit loves his enemy," she continued. "It loves only those it respects and respects only those who refuse to bow to its power. It kills for love and laments its victim."

"Is that why it killed Henry Lightfoot?" Jerico asked. "Is that why it killed Ramona and the others? For love?"

"No," she replied. "They were not the targets of the killing spirit’s game. The black heart thinks nothing of killing those who do not matter. They are pawns that can be used and discarded. You are the one that matters. The killing spirit wants to transform you from a man of the spirits to a warrior."

"As it did Crazy Horse," said Jerico.

"They were different times," reflected Marie. "The people needed a warrior then to give them hope, to lead them in a century of struggle to survive as a people. They have survived. Now the people have a different need. They need a warrior for the truth. They need to share a vision of truth that will reveal the killing spirit for what it is."

"When we see the truth, when the vision is revealed, will it change our path?"

"When enough people see it and believe it," replied Marie, "it will change everything."

They listened to the wind as it railed and grew calm like waves on angry sea. Jerico’s thoughts followed the wind, filling with rage and subsiding, racing to understand and subsiding in hopelessness.

"First," she said at length, "you must believe. There is no truth in anger and there is no understanding in vengeance."

"To heal others," Jerico reflected, "you must first heal yourself."

They made love in the cool dampness of a mother’s womb. They let the mountain swallow them and carry them to where eagles nest, where the wind and the snow could comfort them. They let the waves ebb and flow: the small of her back, the salt of her wound, the thrust of her hips, the heat of his breath, the smell of surrender and the long ride home.

He would never be alone. Wherever he traveled, whatever he did, whoever crossed his path, he would always find Marie.

In the womb of understanding, in the still of paradise, two visions of the future unfolded:

The first was a vision of the world as it would be if the killing spirit still ruled. The wasichu gambling castles rose from Indian ground but the people still lived in plywood shacks and cinder block homes that could neither block the chill of winter nor the heat of summer. The people had no jobs or jobs that could not pay a living wage. Men and women were living as empty shells, collecting welfare and seeking truth in liquor and drugs. Children were hungry for knowledge and food. Fat white men and their Indian collaborators counted dollars while their souls rotted.

The second vision was a world without the killing spirit. The people celebrated their culture and heritage and white people in vans and buses came to gather knowledge and hope. It was a world where technology did not poison the air and water, harnessing the power of the sun, the wind and human ingenuity. The old ways, the ways of mother earth and White Buffalo Calf Woman, were taught in the schools and churches, and practiced by the people in a sacred way. Even the white man respected the Indian way and sacred lands returned to the people who loved and cared for them.

All nations were united not in war but in strength and pride. Tribes everywhere took back their lands and replaced the white man’s gambling castles with schools, museums and shrines to the living dead.

"The people cannot go back," said Marie, "but a bridge can be built connecting the old to the new so that both may live in harmony. This cannot be done while the killing spirit is allowed to continue the path it has walked for a thousand years. It can only be done if the darkness yields to light, if the killing spirit is no more."

Jerico felt the weight of her words, even as he welcomed them, for he understood that his responsibility was not to hide but to step forward in battle.

"Do not believe it is impossible," said Marie. "The killing spirit has no greater desire than his own defeat. He has chosen you because he believes you can succeed where others have failed."

In the hours of her departure, a heavy silence descended upon them and, in that silence, their love blossomed and grew. When the time arrived, she drew a circle on the floor of the cave and in that circle, she drew seven lines – seven spokes of the great wheel.

She said that each spoke represented one of the sacred rites. Jerico had completed four parts of his journey: Inipi, Ishnati Alowanpi, Hunka Kagapi and Hanblecheya. To fulfill his vision, he needed to complete the wheel: Wiwanyank Wachipi (Sun Dance), Nagi Wachipi (Ghost Dance) and Nagi Uhapi (Keeping and Releasing the Soul).

"You must follow the path of Crazy Horse," she said. "Accept no titles, no gifts. You must rise above your pride. You must have no anger when you strike your enemy. Anger gives the killing spirit strength. You must have a quiet tongue so that when you speak, your words will reach out and circle the earth as the earth circles the sun. You must be certain in your step. You will see the path as it falls at your feet."

They came together one last time before she walked into the night. The sky was clear, a blue moon hovering like a gift from Father Sky. She became the white wolf, the brown, the golden and the black. As she vanished on the trail above, Jerico’s tears burned with sorrow, with wanting what can never be.

Soon winter would break and he would leave the womb forever.


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