Reparation: A Novel of the American Great Plains

PART I

Itokaga, South

Where Life Begins

Chapter One

TO AIDAN LITTLE BOY, San Francisco was a harvest of chokecherries. Each carefully stored fruit was the memory of an hour or a day from a family vacation. Although he and his sisters had left home years ago to start their own lives, the memories were as sour and sweet as if they had been plucked that day. During each trip their parents had carted them to attractions that changed as the kids had abandoned sand castles and theme parks for more mature pleasures.

The beach had remained a constant, fueling his younger sister’s romantic fantasies with an endless parade of boys. His older sister had never been anything but bored there, and broadcast her distaste with constant sighs. For Aidan, the ocean had been ominous. The surf spoke with a strange voice that growled with rip currents and stuttered around sinkholes. Even in the height of summer sudden fogs shrouded the cliffs.

A different kind of fog had crept inside their mother’s body. Cancer grew in her breasts then metastasized to her brain. As the bloated cells muffled her mind, they also shrouded her memories. Her own parents and her childhood, the man who’d become her husband, the births of three children had disappeared into the mist. The speed with which she’d became bedridden and tethered to a catheter had been shocking. Their father was already dead and Zona had gone away to college, leaving Aidan to shepherd Fannie through the chaos of treatment, the endless hospital visits, the nauseating drip of chemotherapy.

Then the cancer had stopped its remorseless progress. It hung on some ridge of her brain, trembling and swirling like fog. It was unheard of, the doctors claimed. Metastatic cancers were always relentless and rapid. And as was so often the case when the European world met the Native American lifeway, what they deemed miraculous was a torment. Their mother’s mind was eaten away yet the body hovered like a slow-blooded lizard. The Lakota called it telanunwela, dead but alive, to celebrate the immortality of the spirit. But for her, it meant that her soul was imprisoned.

Now she lay in a tiny hospital room like a traveler stranded in a whiteout. There she’d lain for four years, calling the doctors to her side whenever her condition drifted downward before stabilizing against the cliffs of life again. And there for four years Aidan had sat, muffled and still, waiting for the day when mother and son would leave through different doors.

Although he’d managed a few weekend trips during that time, he hadn’t dared to leave Ohio. His mother would never wake up but he couldn’t bear for her to pass alone. Last year when Fannie had joined a New Age church based in South Dakota, she’d asked him repeatedly to attend their outreach programs. When he’d put her off too long, she’d roped Zona into working him over. So there he was, threading his way through Golden Gate Park while obsessively checking his voicemail in case the hospital had called.

He spotted Fannie, who was petite and slim, near the center of the park. Her usually sunflower-gold skin had darkened considerably. He looked forward to flying back with her to South Dakota so they could spend some time together. Aidan immediately noticed that her mannerisms had become more refined, as if the heat of her inspired grace had burned away all worldly slag.

Is this grandma’s regalia? He touched the white elk skin cape draped over her shoulders.

Yeah. I wear it almost every day when we’re on the road. She glanced back at the dance arena. The powwow starts in twenty minutes. You can get dressed and dance the opening session with me!

I haven’t danced in a long time.

Please? I’ve been thinking about this for weeks. Besides, I want you to look your best when you meet the minister.

Aidan never could say no to his little sister. While Zona’s abrupt logic had made her practical and precise at an early age, Fanny had remained exuberant even as she’d matured. Her joy was infectious. He went back to the car and dug through his luggage until he found his war shirt and leggings. He slid the thick buffalo hide over his head and cinched straps hung with bells around his knees. As he took his place with the other male dancers, Fanny took her place further back in line. Men entered the ring first to make the way safe for the women. They would sacrifice their lives for their mothers and sisters and wives. He already felt the unsettled thrill of a warrior about to do battle.

***

GIDGEE MANITOU DREAMED; and as he dreamed, he remembered. There had been a time when the world’s indigenous people had fought not for land or food or hunting grounds but for the right to live. Back then he had been a shaman, one blessed with powerful gifts. He healed the sick in body and soul; he turned the weather and knew the hearts of men. That kind of magic did nothing to slow the relentless European march. Settlers broke the prairie sod while trappers stripped the streams; land was stolen and manipulated and wrenched away while missionaries trapped and tricked and stole their souls. When settlers had flooded Turtle Nation, when arrows and spears and rifles could not hold back the tide sweeping North America, he had made a terrible choice. He had turned the direction of his power.

The price demanded by the black arts was so vast it was exacted from the very people he tried to help. He didn’t care. The red nation was falling; it mattered only that the highest price was wrung from the enemy. That darkness tethered his spirit to the earth for two hundred years. By the time he’d forced his way back into a new body, a white body that would serve as well as any, newspapers had replaced the winter count and planes had replaced ponies. People no longer believed in shamans; they believed even less in their own connection with spirit.

Manitou woke as the powwow drums warmed up. This was the last stop on their summer outreach tour. Although the Four Quarters Church wove together beliefs from around the world, the Native American elements were popular with families and family-minded singles. And children, Manitou knew, were the future of every race.

***

AIDAN WANDERED AROUND the dance arena, a large circle roped off from the crowd. An opening on the east side allowed dancers to enter and exit between songs. To the west, a tent arbor sheltered several drum groups from the late afternoon sun. Not that they needed the protection because one of those strange fogs swept in. The white eagle plumes worn by the young women merged with the mist, and the children at the end of the line had been swallowed whole. The songs were mere fragments bleeding through from the spirit world.

The lead drum kicked off the Grand Entry. The mist rolled back, the sun picked out mirrors sewn onto otter-skin sashes, and the pungent smoke of burning sage replaced the fog. Minister Gidgee Manitou took the microphone. His patter was a nondenominational mashup of Earth stewardship, traditions from a variety of cultures, and a smattering of religious beliefs. His entourage included a heyoka, a sacred clown. The wiry man wore his clothes inside out, said the opposite of what he meant, and mimicked others in ridiculous pantomimes. His antics reminded people that their actions often conflicted with the divine. Piece by piece, careful neither to starve their bellies nor sate their appetites, the minister doled out soulful appetizers. The rosters at the membership tent grew longer.

When he wasn’t dancing, Aidan wandered through booths stacked with the usual wares…figurines painted in the colorful Oaxacan style, fans of turkey and macaw feathers, hand drums and whistles and shakers for the kids. Bins of crystals blessed by Manitou let people carry a little spiritual power in their pockets. They could even buy a piece of the minister through his recorded sermons. Half a dozen books bore Gidgee Manitou’s name while dozens more had been written by directors of this or that church program.

One booth was run by Rayna Driver, the author of several books on herbs. Her tent offered hundreds of dried herbs with scents sharply alkaline or as cool as moss. Aidan wondered if she was single. But he’d pretty much stopped dating after his mother had grown ill. One recent effort had been a disaster. He’d dropped food in his lap, slopped wine on the table, and generally proven himself unfit company. He wasn’t about to ruin this vacation with a similar episode.

Fannie stepped out of the arena and headed straight for him. I saw you dancing. You looked great! I do wish you’d grow your hair back, though.

The shaggy cap that had once touched his shoulders now barely covered his ears. When their mother finally passed, he would be unable to mourn her the traditional way, unable to honor her by cutting his hair. His face squeezed into a tight mask.

It’s OK, Fannie said. You’ve mourned a long time already.

With her brown curls framing her face, she looked so much like their mother it hurt. But her black eyes were Indian and her cheekbones, so much like their father’s, were high and sleek like birds skimming the prairie sky. She was both her parents, she knew both their histories, and would forge the future when their mother’s life was done.

Hanta yo, he prayed. So may it be.

They danced until late. Although mist clogged the streets deep inside the wharf district, it did not return to the park that night.

***

MANITOU FLOATED ABOVE a small waterway in South Dakota. The winter had been especially bitter in 1890, and two storms swept Wounded Knee Creek. The first was Colonel James Forsyth, who needed only an hour to decimate Big Foot’s band. Manitou, their eternal witness, was inside this teenager when his brains were bashed out; he was that woman as a bullet drowned her breath in blood. He suffered every death, he writhed with each new wound. Then the second storm descended, a blizzard so thick the dead could not be gathered for three days.

The minister woke with every inch of his lean frame aching. He would hurt all the next day as he healed the ancient wounds. And the emotional pain, the grief of mourning those deaths, would linger for weeks. A preset text sent from his phone summoned Rayna, who let herself into his room with a spare keycard. She brewed herbal tea using spring water from the Black Hills. As he drank from a buffalo horn cup, she chanted a Cherokee song that was an important part of the medicine.

Is there much pain? she asked.

The same as always. He managed a long-suffering smile. It is an honor to carry this burden.

You might carry too much. Whenever we do these outreach programs, the visions come more often. Lately you seem to be in pain longer, too.

I can’t stay at the ranch and expect people to find Creator without help.

I know. I just wish you would rest more.

He squeezed her hand. He never would have guessed that someone from the Cherokee nation would have become so important to him. Their tribe had mixed early with the settlers; at this point, none of them could possibly be purely native. But Rayna had joined the church just as the visions had threatened his ability to minister effectively. Without her, the church might not have survived.

It’s almost seven, she said.

He pushed back the blanket and winced. As always, the pain would have to be endured.

Chapter Two

ALTHOUGH MANITOU WAS IN his early fifties, his chestnut hair was only smattered with gray. The furrows that lined his face were deep but his body had kept its muscle. Although they’d been on the road for weeks, he was back at Golden Gate Park by 9 a.m. The grounds were packed. By the end of the day he would have a thousand new converts. New Age freaks and aging hippies latched onto any spiritual leader who waved his dick in their faces.

He mounted a white horse that wore only a simple bridle. Patches of the gelding’s coat had been dyed black. Real paint ponies roamed the church’s property in South Dakota but the gelding’s showy stature played better with crowds. His war shirt, made of whiskey-colored buckskin, set off a glorious eagle feather bonnet. Although it was illegal for non-native people to possess eagle feathers, the church had received an exemption for ceremonial use.

Lila reached up to adjust his bonnet. She was a two spirit, a man-who-was-a-woman, and Manitou’s personal assistant. The power that flowed through a biological woman during her menstrual cycle could overwhelm the energy of his sacred objects; since Lila never menstruated, she was always available. And, as the third of four genders, she imparted a special energy to the church.

When she finished fussing, Manitou led a small band of mounted warriors into the ring. A blond man dressed as Colonel Custer charged after them. The minister counted coup, drawing close enough to tap Custer with his staff. When the warriors charged, it seemed Custer would be trampled. Then the crowd laughed as he was dragged waving and smiling from the ring.

***

AFTER A LUNCH OF BUFFALO STEW and fry bread, Fannie took Aidan to meet the minister. They found him in his private tent among racks of traditional outfits from all the world’s tribes. Metal shelves displayed a selection of dance sticks and traditional weapons to match every ceremony. The heyoka hovered in the corner pretending to lean against an invisible pole.

This is quite an industry, Aidan said.

It is necessary, Manitou said. The wisdom of the original nations will heal our modern times. Your sister is part of that work.

Fannie pointed to a brochure entitled For the Children. I help women and couples at our fertility clinic.

Where did you learn Lakota? Aidan asked the minister. I caught a few of your lectures. You speak the language as well as our father did.

We have an indigenous language program at the ranch. The staff takes at least two years of Lakota so we can share a common tongue. Your sister helps with that program, too. She is very dedicated to her culture.

When Manitou’s gaze touched her, she blushed and dropped her eyes. The heyoka let out a braying laugh.

We were raised to respect both Mom and Dad’s heritages, Aidan said.

They did a fine job, the minister soothed. You must come to the ranch. My property in South Dakota is our spiritual headquarters. It’s north of Rapid City, not far from Pine Ridge and the Black Hills.

I plan to. Fannie wants me to tour the clinic.

Excellent. I hope you’ll attend the meeting tonight.

Aidan shook his head. I haven’t been to a peyote ceremony in a long time.

You don’t have to drink the tea but the prayers will be good for your spirit.

Aiden wondered how much Manitou knew about his life. That such a showman, well-intended or not, would know his family’s private concerns made him uncomfortable. Then again, the heyoka might have been to blame. Contraries were supposed to make people nervous. He agreed to attend the peyote ceremony.

Please enjoy yourself until then, Manitou said. I’m afraid I’ll be busy the rest of the day.

Of course. I’ll keep out of your way.

"Oh, no. He grabbed Aidan’s wrist. A brother can never be in the way."

After detaching himself, Aidan escorted Fannie outside. He hoped the Four Quarters was genuine and not a profit-making scheme trading on ancient traditions. The research he’d done before the trip hadn’t turned up much; Manitou made a big splash on Earth Day but garnered little attention the rest of the year, which was actually a point in the minister’s favor. The media gave far less attention to good people than criminals.

Throughout the day, he knapped new arrowheads. The movement calmed his mind and he could watch people while pretending to be absorbed with the stone. The obsidian quickly became a buffalo’s head that would slice like a hunter’s broadhead. He wondered which ancestor had guided his hands to make a weapon best suited for war.

***

MANITOU RODE THE ELEVATOR down to the lobby. Church administrators from California and Nevada would assist with the peyote ceremony. The roadmen, as they were called, would pass out the tea and help first-timers overcome the nausea. The doors opened to a crowd choking the lobby. Since recording or photographing the ceremony was forbidden, this would be the media’s only chance for a sound bite.

I greet you as friends, he said. We gather here tonight to partake of a very special medicine. May our prayers heal the world.

He turned to go inside. It was best to appear humble before the reporters, and nothing sent that message better than the briefest of comments. Then a woman called out a question he could not ignore.

Is it true the ATF is investigating your church for drug trafficking?

His face took on a perfect combination of suffering and gentle righteousness. The ATF monitors our peyote supply. We respect their need to keep Americans safe and they respect that our use of this medicine is sacred.

Isn’t it hypnotic? a man called. Are you brainwashing people into joining your cult?

A hint of anger rumbled across Manitou’s brow. Peyote makes us pure. Nothing is more important.

The bodyguards kept reporters from following him into the ballroom. The moment the latch clicked shut, he had eyes only for the hundreds of new converts waiting in the cavernous room.

***

AIDAN WAS SHOCKED TO SEE so many people inside the ballroom. The carpet had been layered with dried sage that crunched beneath his feet, and blankets were being passed around as cushions. The crowd formed a circle against the walls with a second circle inside that. Aidan settled near an altar that had grown large enough to match the crowd. The handful of corn had been replaced with a bushel tipped onto a low platform, the pieces of jerked buffalo meat had grown into a winter’s store, and the bucket of sacred water had become a dozen.

Rayna ended her conversation with a congregant and stood beside Manitou. During the powwow, Aidan had noticed how frequently the minister called for her. Often she’d brewed a cup of tea for him after they’d spoken. Now, however, he seemed simply to want her near. Perhaps they’re a couple he thought, and sourness crimped his tongue.

After an opening prayer, the roadmen passed around tiny bottles of peyote. Participants were reminded to sit very still to stave off nausea. When Aidan took his bottle, a sealed container of red plastic, he noticed that the roadmen were given blue bottles.

They’re more experienced with the medicine, Fannie whispered, so they get a stronger tea.

The peyote must be diluted to serve this many people.

Oh, no. Rayna figured out how to grow more of the cactus. Remind me later and I’ll introduce you.

He cut his eyes toward her but she didn’t seem to have a hidden purpose. He relaxed and opened the bottle. The liquid was muddy and thick, proof of its potency. He turned his attention to the minister. Let’s see what kind of spiritual leader you are, he murmured.

Although Manitou couldn’t possibly have heard, they locked eyes. The lights went out and they plunged into a world of hungry souls and dancing shadows.

***

AT MANITOU’S COMMAND, the spirits of insects choked the ballroom. Swarms of hornets and legions of millipedes accompanied ants and beetles and bees. Each brought its own gift, each offered its own medicine. Only the minister could see them, yet their movement kicked up a draft even the least enlightened visitor could feel. Their shuffling, chirring, scuffling sound tickled ears and their chemical odor overpowered the sage. They surrounded the congregants, held back only by Manitou’s will.

***

WITH PEYOTE, TIME CEASED TO EXIST. Past and future merged with the present in a blissful collage. Aidan was lost in the flow…the start and