As night awakened and day snored in slumber, the moon slowly rose above the horizon only to give way to dense clouds that seemed to settle across the land like a blanket of warning. A whippoorwill called in the distance, its mournful song eerie and mysterious, making the hairs upon the neck of a weary traveler stand on end. Upon the slight breeze that rustled the leaves of trees nearby, whispers carried to her ears begged her to seek refuge from this night. A stranger to this land she was, coming from far away. She had been drawn like a moth to the candle, only to have her wings seared by the dancing flame. Something was here; she could feel it in her bones. Yet what it was, she did not yet know. So onward she ventured, wandering slowly, as if to invite whatever was out there to test her forbearance.
Somewhere between being awake and asleep, where the Elysian Fields passed between the twin pillars of reality and dreams, a little wrinkled medicine man with long, white hair sat upon a smooth, flat boulder of igneous rock, making notes and curious sketches of wayfarers upon that ancient, well-traversed road. When he had created a handful of these gargoyle-type portraits on finely pressed charcoal paper by inscribing it with pungent elemental pigments, he would consign it to a constantly tended fire pit just to the right of the boulder, the dancing flames of which demanded to be fed.
Shirley stopped to visit, curious as to why the medicine man would send all of his creations into the fire.
“I quench the thirst of the eternal flame,” said the medicine man. Dipping a nib into a flask of sable ink, he quickly executed a not-entirely-flattering portrait of her with knotted hair, a warted nose, and a dark complexion mottled with pale spots.
Shirley was not overly impressed with the medicine man’s rendition of her.
“That is quite horrendous; I wouldn’t mind if you threw that into the flames,” she said. “It is truly ghastly.”
“It is the picture of your soul I paint,” said the medicine man.
As her eyes turned dark in indignation, she fingered the great crystal Ulun’suti, then uttered a particularly malevolent series of injunctions against this vindictive man that caused the unfortunate shaman to become naked. The skin on his body was etched in words, and as Shirley tried to decipher what was written upon him, he rapidly assumed the physical attributes of a wolf, a snake, a bear, a mountain lion, and a majestic eagle—each of which, in a passionate act of auto symbiosis, caught and then consumed with considerable relish its immediate predecessor. The eagle unceremoniously spewed forth the medicine man to stand before him.
The medicine man:
“The never- ending red road unfurls at my feet,
The boundless sky beats its wings above my head; the steps of the sacred white buffalo calf woman begin at my doorstep; my pipe of peace and truth feeds an eternal flame.”
The eagle:
“I will pluck the ever-watchful eye from the sky to feed my little baby in its nest of down. I will pluck the quills from the wings of infinity to weave into the walls of my nest with twigs and little strips of frayed rags filched from the hides of the rotting carcasses of buffalo. Once, this mighty wilderness was crisscrossed by a thousand pathways; prancing wolves, elk, and buffalo beyond number traveled upon them, seeking mysterious and glorious pastures. Now they are the playgrounds of scavengers and bone-hoarding vultures.”
The medicine man:
“I have looked Chief Yunke-lo in the face and read the great truth in his amused expression; I have seen the sons of man wielding the perennial scythe that harvests the souls from all mortal forms. In the interval between two breaths, I stole a glimpse to the entrance of heaven and, making my obeisance, prostrated myself before the Great Spirit of Wakan Tanka.”
The eagle:
“Here I am in my bright and flashing plumage; observe the exquisite arch of my wing and my white-crested head! What need do I have for the divine realm full of resplendent mystery? The sun is warm upon my back, the water is wet beneath my sure talons, and the rainbow trout wriggles delightfully in my golden beak! Besides, there is a monster—a great serpent blocking the way, impeding all who would look upon heaven.”
The medicine man:
“My life’s blood runs through all of creation; all things blowing in the wind is my father, and the womb of potential is my mother. The stars that shine in heaven are my ancestors; everything is a thought-projection of the Great Spirit—even Uktena, the Keen-Eyed One, who is the keeper at the gate.”
The eagle:
“Here is the rain to smooth the earth and heal the framework of the world. In their bright, speckled eggs, my little chicklings dream of what is yet to be. I will call to the young doe; surely she will quell the desire of the serpent monster, and then together, we will glimpse the happy hunting ground.”
The medicine man:
“Days and nights fly over me; one day there will be no more tomorrows, and the shell of the fragile grandmother world shall crack. My children will be proud and strong-winged warriors in the light of the final sun; they will traverse the great red road of the sacred white buffalo calf woman; only then will I put off feathers and flesh to dance a final sun dance before the Great Spirit …”