Two Medicine (45 page)

“
I know you do,” Clayton
answered.

Floyd looked back down the
path we were on and stared at the approaching forest, “But we are
hearing things – things that make me worry. There’s a new tension
between the tribe and the police and they say that it is because
Canadian drugs are moving through Browning again.”

I saw a tired kind of
sadness in his eyes. “I have asked Clayton about this, Will, and he
swears he is not involved, but he says that someone in Two Medicine
Campground is, but he is not sure who. And there’s only a few of
you at Two Medicine.” Floyd stared at me a moment, as if searching
my eyes and my face for some sign. Floyd’s eyes were wrinkled bags
that overhung his pupils, almost hiding his brown eyes from view.
It was like looking at a topographical map of someone’s life, on
their skin. He looked back down at the path and continued to walk.
“This is not a time to be holding secrets back, boys.”

“
And we’ve been told about
Alia Reynolds, her murder, the resulting investigation,” he
continued. “We all knew Alia, Will. Thunderbird told us about her
final days, and that someone in Two Medicine was with her before
she died.” Floyd stared straight down the path; his manner of
speaking was like his manner of walking: plodding, steady, slow,
and deliberate.

“
And so you see why I
wanted you to come to the powwow, Will.” Floyd Crow looked over at
Clayton and then at me. “Between the two of you young men, there is
a lot that could be answered that could help us out in these bad
times – a lot you can answer. You both need to come clean about
what you know to help us move beyond these bad times.”

We walked on a moment,
stopping when a bald eagle suddenly flew overhead and towards the
trees. Floyd Crow watched it in silence for a moment. “And then
there’s the spirits…” he said. He then reached over and held my
wrist – the one with the beads. His hand felt dry and rough like
sandpaper. “I don’t see spirits – that’s not my gift. But I’ve been
told you are struggling with a spirit that is not yours, Will, and
Thunderbird says you are to attend the sweat this evening. I think
that’s good. I want Clayton to be there too.”

Clayton looked up. “I was
going anyway,” he muttered.

“
And when you’re done,”
Floyd continued, “I want you both to come see me. I keep an office
in the VFW – I’ve heard you’ve been there.” He reached out and took
my hand again. “I’m glad you’re here,” he said, staring me in the
eyes. “I think it will be good for you.”

He released my hand and
began walking back towards the crowds. “I’m at my office after
three on weekdays. Let’s talk about all this next week.”

Clayton still hadn’t said
a word, but as we approached he reached out a hand and touched the
old man on the shoulder. “I’m going to help get the sweat lodge
ready. I’ll see you later.” Floyd Crow just nodded and kept
walking.

Clayton walked off
alone to a different part of the area I hadn’t
been to yet, and I headed over to where I had last seen Greg. I was
tempted to turn around and tell Floyd Crow what I knew, or thought
I knew, about Jake being the murderer. But it seemed
premature.

Greg was nowhere to be
found, but as I stood on the parameter of the group of native
singers shouting and drumming loudly (the same group as before,
still going strong) Thunderbird came over out of
nowhere.

“
Big Will! Did you talk to
Floyd Crow?”

“
Yep,” I said. “He mostly
talked to me.”

“
Good! Good!” He slapped
me on the back. He waved both of his hands up in front of me
frantically. “Don’t tell me what he said! That’s between you and
him.” He grabbed my arm and began leading me away. “Let’s go at get
ready for the sweat.”

“
Did you find Greg?” I
asked, looking around the crowd again.

“
Oh he left. He told me to
let you know he was sorry he couldn’t stay, but his daughter was
sick.”

Greg was gone?

Thunderbird shrugged and
then patted me on the shoulder. “Don’t worry; I’ll get someone to
give you a ride home.”

Now it’s just me and
Thunderbird...
I followed him over to the
area of the powwow that Clayton had walked towards. It led down a
sloping hill at the bottom of which was a dome like structure, made
of blankets spread over the top – the sweat lodge itself! More
haphazard thrown-together shelter than a “lodge.”

A large fire was being
tended near the entrance of the lodge by two men with rakes in
their hands. A wheelbarrow and shovel were next to them, as were a
pile of round, smooth, dark river stones. As we walked towards the
sweat lodge, the sun dipped behind the top of the hill, and we
descended down into a dusky and chilled gloom.

The blanket-tent-lodge
looked extremely small for the ten-or-so people who were supposedly
attending, and it was strangely low to the ground. I figured
someone must have dug out the center into the ground to get lower
down. Thunderbird dropped his backpack he had been carrying and
pulled out a pair of shorts. He tossed them into my hands and said,
“You’ll need to change; you don’t want to be wearing anything good
when you’re in there.”

I looked at his bag, and didn’t see any
other clothes. “What about you?”

“
I don’t wear any clothes
in the ceremony – many of us don’t.”

Us?
I thought.
White guys?
Weirdo’s?

With that he pulled off
his clothes one by one, revealing a huge, hairy mass of a chest and
stumpy, hairy legs. He pulled off his boxers and stood stark naked
– like a big, naked garden gnome. I looked away out of
embarrassment, and then saw out of the corner of my eyes that he
was stomping off into the direction of the entrance of the tent,
where a couple of men were shoveling large, white-hot stones into
the enclosure.

I took my shirt off, my
pants off, and even my underwear – quickly, while no one was
looking – and pulled on the ratty khaki shorts he had given me,
thankful that I had them. They were too big for me but stayed on if
I gripped the waist.

I walked over to the
entrance gripping my waistband as the light began to fade into
early evening. The little valley we were in was getting dark, and
very quickly the only light was coming from the fire. I looked
around me before I entered the tent with a feeling of apprehension,
but also with a new, calm assurance that I was meant to do this. I
pictured Alia watching me go in, shaking her head ruefully, but the
ghostly image faded as I felt the heat reach me from the tent
entrance.

As soon as I flipped up
the flap on the front of the tent I was struck by a cloud of smoke
and intense heat. I smelled an overpowering fragrance of sage and
pine needles, and recoiled for a moment with the intensity of it
all shocking my senses.

Then I set my gaze firmly
towards the entrance, took a deep breath, and shoved my way in,
crouching low and sliding into the darkness. The inside was just
the ground, but with some blankets strewn about. In the center was
a small but deep fire pit, smoldering with stones, some herbs and
grasses. I saw a large plastic bucket and with a ladle next to it.
I could barely see in the dark gloom, but I detected several legs
crossed around in a circle as several figures had already started
in.

I didn’t know if I was
supposed to sit in any certain place, and I really didn’t want to
sit next to a naked, hairy, and sweaty Thunderbird, so I just
plopped down near the entrance flap a few feet from the next
sitter.
A good spot for a quick
getaway
.

The smoke and heat and
fumes weren’t as strong inside as I had thought when I first got
blasted by the cloud, or maybe I was just getting used to it. I
could see better in a few minutes as well, and could see some faces
now staring down somberly into the fire pit, or stretching and
breathing heavily to get their bodies acclimated.

An old, very skinny man
with short grey hair in a military-style buzz cut stepped in and
carefully tiptoed his way into one of the empty places near the
pit. He got settled and drew the ladle from the bucket and poured
water onto the stones, which hissed and spat and steamed up the air
in the small space within seconds. I thought I saw in the bucket
that sticks of sage and other herbs were floating around in the
water.

“
More stones!” the old man
croaked to the men outside. A couple of other figures crouched in
almost naked, like the rest of us. I sat with legs folded like the
rest, not yet sweating but getting hot. I breathed in the steam and
smoke and felt the air stinging my eyes and nose. More stones were
shoveled in and carefully dropped into the pit. More water. The
heat was fierce now, coming in steamy clouds that began to sweat on
my skin. The heat plumes assaulted my chest, my head and my legs.
The popping of stones and the breathing and snorting of the men
were the only sounds in the tent.

A final figure popped in
and I saw out of the corner of my eye that it was Clayton. I
realized when I saw him that I had subconsciously been waiting for
him – or Jake – and now I wondered if Jake would show. With his
clothes off, I could see Clayton had a lithe and athletic frame and
long hair that fit the stereotypical image of a young Indian. He
sat down next to me by the entrance – perhaps blocking it in case I
couldn’t take it and tried to run!

More
stones
, more water, steam billowing in the
dark up into the dome of the tent just inches from our heads.
Breathing became a manual, forced effort. Everyone had their heads
bowed, not out of reverence maybe, but in submission to the
steam-smoke. My thoughts slowed to a animalistic crawl as I just
breathed the heat in and out, in and out, in and out, the sage and
pine penetrating my head. Some men coughed and spat, others like me
just sat and stared at the ground like wet figurines, and just
breathed.

Clayton looked relaxed but
was already covered in sweat, the dim light from the coals
reflecting on his dark skin. He slowly cracked a knuckle in each
finger, the sound mixing with the popping rocks. The heat was
almost unbearable for me, now; but others seemed at peace and
relaxed, from what I could see through the dripping
sweat.

The old man with the buzz
cut began to mumble, and then he got louder. “Oki Ni-kso-ko-wa.
Hello, my relatives.” he said to the group. No one
answered.

“
We are the children of
the Great Holy Being, iit-tsi-pah-tah-pii-op, The Source of Life.”
The man ladled more water onto the stones, and then tossed in some
dry pine needles onto the stones that hissed and sparked. A few
flames shot up around as the needles were consumed. “And we gather
together of our own free will tonight, because the Creator made us
to be free and to live in harmony.

“
We call together those
who have lived before us, those that are still with us, but no
longer live in their bodies.” He chanted a phrase lowly, over and
over, “Kso-ko-wa, kso-ko-wa, kso-ko-wa.”

“
We call you home tonight
to be our relatives in this place, with Stah-koomi-tapii-akii,
Mother Earth, and beyond.”

I felt lightheaded, dizzy,
and I caught myself leaning to one side and then straightened back
up, putting a hand down on the ground to steady myself. I tried to
breathe softer, shallower, to lessen the intake of the heat and the
steam-smoke, but the light breathing only made me more lightheaded.
I looked at the entrance and thought about getting up and sliding
out, my heart started beating in a new panic. I thought about Alia,
however, and pictured her standing outside, waiting for me to
finish this; and then I willed myself to make it another five
minutes, at least.

“
More stones!” The
grey-haired croaked to the outside.

I shot him a look of
dismay, and then I glanced around the darkness at the other faces.
Most of the men sat motionless, sweat dripping from their noses and
running down their faces and chests in little rivulets. Nobody
appeared to be in distress in the way I felt. Did I look
distressed?

More stones shoveled in.
Ladled water poured onto the hissing and popping stones. Intense
searing heat. Like wrapping yourself in a blanket of boiling, hot
steam. I ran my hands over my face and through my hair, now soaked.
I tried shifting my position a little bit, and inched back towards
to the side of the tent behind me, trying to see if closer to the
wall it would be cooler, but it made no difference. It was torture;
and I felt like I had to get out or I would die. I looked to the
front flap again, but kept my place. Clayton hadn’t
moved.

The old man
spoke again. “A mosquito bites you and drinks your
blood. The trout eats the mosquito. You eat the trout. Our blood
passes through the mosquito, passes through the trout, and returns
back to us again, and eventually feeds the ground. Nothing is lost
in the wild.”

What was this old man
talking about?
I groaned. I was in agony
and felt certain that I was about to pass out. What would they do
when I did? I guessed they would just drag me out and pour water on
my head.

“
Your blood is given back
to you. Your life is returned to you. Blood is the
iit-tsi-pah-tah-pii-op, the Source of Life. Our blood never leaves
this earth, even after death.”