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| Ancient Voices by � goeswith3faces and moon_grace His father�s work changed when he was very young. Hunter could still remember the bright orange U-Haul that carried his family�s belongings from Pineridge to Fergus Falls, North Dakota. For the most part, their possessions stayed the same, but their lives changed in the ten years that followed. Some changes were good and some not so wonderful, but always, always at Christmas, life was the same. The family woke up long before dawn to cram food and presents in the car trunk before heading back to Pineridge. Christmas meant time to stay with his grandparents on the reservation. Even after he was grown with children of his own, Hunter remembered most vividly the Christmas he had just turned eight. He had spent a lot of time this morning blowing on his fingers to keep them warm and shaking the wrapped packages as he helped load the trunk. He figured shaking the boxes might get him an idea of their contents. The only thing he was certain of, after all the shaking, was if there were clothes in the box. Finally, the last present was expertly shaken and tucked away as the whole family piled into the car and started the day�s journey. The roads were almost clear of traffic as the old car surged to life in the frost filled morning. Earlier that week, Hunter�s father had put chains on the tires as it had been snowing virtually non-stop for days now. It was slow going and they sang and talked and argued in unison with the clink-clinks of the tire chains until finally, they saw the old fence and pulled into the yard. The wind howled around the modest wooden frame house of his grandparents. The family arrived to a world filled with snow crystals and every living creature�s breath left a mystical cloud in the air. Each cloud hovered despite the indefinable knowledge of just how fragile its universe was. Inside, the windows and doors to unused rooms were obliterated against the cold with faded colored towels and blankets. But within the confines of the simple wooden structure was the warmth of real existence and humanity. It held the roots of a family as they came together to celebrate the holiday and fellowship of belonging. They sat around the table in this small room that doubled as kitchen and living room. The glow of the fire cast long shadows across the walls as the brave embers put up resistance to the iciness outside. Hunter felt the warmth of it. Once more, he felt the same feeling of home and connection that happened every time he stepped onto Rez ground. He gazed into the fire and felt an intense connection to the ancient, to Mother Earth and a connection to his own roots. A faceless voice whispered into his mind the names of men long gone but never forgotten- great men like Crazy Horse, Sitting Bull, He Dog, Little Killer, Gall, Fast Horses, Thunder Heart, Red Cloud, American Horse, Rain In The Face. Names that swirled around in his head as his eyes reflected the glimmer of the fire. Even at eight, he knew there was a vast difference between his people and the waccincu families. Here, within the confines of this room, surrounded by family, he knew children had the right to question, to ask, and to join in and be counted. He could never remember a time or situation in which children were forced into silence when adults spoke. From first breath of Life, he had been taught children were full. They shared a full count within tribe and family. He was not forced into silence only by meek virtue of his age. He also realized the waccincu children did not have this tradition and he noticed it even dwindling within some of the other families that no longer lived on the reservation. Mom and Grandma were pouring over a basket of herbs that Grandma was picking through and handing to his Mom to put in a bag for the journey home in a few days. His Grandpa was catching his Father up on tribal interests when Hunter quietly slipped onto Grandpa�s knee. The old man looked down and grinned. Hunter looked into the deep wrinkles on his Grandpa�s face. They left brightness like the sun and when he laughed, the wrinkles deepened and sent unmeasureable warmth and kindliness into the young boy�s heart. �Grandpa, last time I was here you told me the story of Crazy Horse and how he got his name. Do you remember?� The old man smiled and his eyes flashed with the sparkle of a universe only found in one who has lived for many years and realizes the honor of being asked by a child to speak. �Yes, I remember,� he said as he wrapped his strong arms tightly around Hunter to prevent the child from falling off his knee. �Grandpa, I wish I had a name like that- you know, a GOOD name like Buffalo Hunter or Great Hunter or Great Buffalo Hunter.� Out of the corner of his eye, Hunter could see a smile spread across his Father�s face and he noticed his Mom and Grandma now sat down with them at the table. A wind gust blew through the window and the towel swayed out for a second before landing back against the glass pane. His Grandfather�s face became quiet and thoughtful. � I remember when your Father was about your age. He sat at this very same kitchen table and asked me for nearly the same thing. I am going to tell you the story I told him many years ago.� Many, many years ago, before the time of reservations, we lived free as the wind flows free across the plains. The waccincus settlers from the East began to journey to the West, their wagons drawing closer and in greater numbers all the time. Ancient tribal hunting grounds were forced to change. Change came from without and from within as antagonistic tribes met and fought across the plains. The pawnees, our enemies, had always lived far away but even this changed. As more and more settlers came across the mountains, the Pawnee were upon us before we knew it. It was during these times of great change that a young boy dreamed of becoming a great warrior. He longed with all his heart for a mighty warrior name. Since this was the only thing he cared about, he felt time had come for him to walk his path upon a vision quest. He fasted. He prayed. Finally, after many days, the Wiccaca Wakan took him to the sacred place where he could speak with the Tunkashila. Four days and four whole nights, the little boy earnestly prayed for his name and his place in the tribe. He was deeply hurt when the Wakan Tanka did not seem to answer his prayers. After the four days and nights ended, the boy was returning to the village without a vision or a name. At first, his sadness overcame him and being only a child, he cried. Later, his tears turned to a mighty anger. How could this happen? Why did he not get an answer? It was not right! He had done everything, every single thing that he was supposed to do! This was not fair! He decided to lie. He would tell the Wiccaca Wakan that he had a vision of himself riding a swift ghost horse and hunting the mighty buffalo. Yes, that�s what he would say. He walked toward the clearing located within site of his people where the Wiccaca Wakan was expected to meet him. Suddenly, things seemed strange. He had played with his friends all around the outskirts of the camp and knew every inch of the land by heart, but something seemed different today. He couldn�t figure out exactly what it was, but something was different. He didn�t have a name for it. He couldn�t shake this feeling that something about this place was not right when suddenly, the Wiccaca Wakan stepped from behind a tree. The Wiccaca Wikan looked deeply into the boy�s eyes. The young boy stood there, looking back into the dark eyes of the Wiccaca Wikan and he became so frightened that he was afraid the ground was going to swallow him up! They stood there for only seconds but to the boy, it was an eternity. Just as quickly as he had appeared, the Wiccaca Wikan turned to leave the clearing. In that same instant, a large black wing softly brushed against the boy�s head and sent him into the world of dreams. When he awakened, he found himself lying alone in the little forest not 500 feet from his people�s camp. There was no sign of the clearing or the Wiccaca Wakan. Both had disappeared. Confused, the boy forced himself to stand and staggered into the camp of his people on weak knees. He made his way straight through the village directly to the Wiccaca Wakan�s teepee. Before the young boy could say a word, the Wiccaca Wakan stood in front of him and asked him to come for a walk to the nearby creek. Once there, they sat on the old tree that had long ago fallen on the shore and was now used for a bench to sit on and reflect at the water�s edge. Here, in this quiet place, the little boy breathlessly blurted out his story, including the part that he had earlier decided to lie about the vision. Attentively, the Wiccaca Wakan listened and from time to time, the corners of his mouth curved in a smile of sorts and his eyes twinkled. When the little boy had finished his last sentence, something black swished down from the sky and circled between the two of them. It was a little raven. He circled a few times then, to the boy�s surprise, the raven landed on his shoulder! The boy was in such shock that he didn�t move and the bird remained. The Wiccaca Wakan smiled and said, �Sometimes, my son, we can�t see the ground in clear water. Sometimes, we don�t see the blue sky on a sunny day and sometimes, the sun of our wishes and desires shines so bright that we don�t see the naked truth that stands before us. We take a long time and a lot of journeys to reach a place only three feet in front of us. Tunkashila shows us our place in life. Be sure, Tunkashila knows why he sent you this little raven. It is up to you whether to accept it or not. But it is not always up to you to choose as you tried to do when you planned to lie about your visions. Tunkashila�s language is clear even though he does not use words to speak. Discipline and trust make us all strong and able to control our wishes and desires so that we avoid letting our ego blur the truth that forever surrounds us. Discipline and trust are needed for all peoples, whether they are old or child. Again, I say to you, be sure, Tunkashila knows why he sent you this little raven. He sends you a brother from the family of our feathered brothers and sisters. Tunkashila calls you LITTLE RAVEN.� Immediately, the smile that had been on the boy�s face evaporated and he tried not to cry in front of the man who sat with him at the water�s edge. Looking down, the Wiccacca Wakan saw the fallen look on the boy�s face. �I see that in your heart you are not happy with this name. How things look or sound is never the measure of a true spirit. Nothing happens without reason. The mystery and magic of life and wisdom lives in all creatures and things and sometimes it is stronger in those things that we think are too small to pay attention to.� With these words, the Wiccaca Wakan rose and left the boy on the fallen log with the raven on his shoulder. The boy did not hide his sadness over the name Little Raven. He didn�t care anymore. It was ruined. He started to cry. The dark bird on his shoulder softly pecked at his cheek, but in anger the boy knocked the bird away with his hand and ran into the bushes where he cried to the depths of his heart. When he finally returned to his village, everyone already knew of his new name, Little Raven. The other boys began to make fun of him, saying things like, �The GREAT hunter and warrior�LITTLE Raven!� Wherever he went, his black feathered friend was not far away. He tried countless times to drive the bird off. He even threw stones and tried to hit him with a stick, but the bird persistently followed the boy everywhere he went. This made his friends mock and make fun of him even more. The repeated jeers began to weigh heavy on him and, after many weeks, he stopped fighting back and began to spend more and more time in the forest alone. Summer ended and fell into fall. Fall began to slide into winter and one chilly morning it was time for the tribe to move to winter camp. His family was so busy making preparations that no one noticed Little Raven had been gone for nearly the whole day. He was hiding in the forest. He had decided not to go with the others to the winter camp. They all made fun of him anyway. The only thing different about today was his feathered shadow had disappeared and been gone the entire time. Not once had he seen him. Little Raven himself did not know if he felt happy or sad over the bird�s disappearance. But as life is sometimes, the sun began to set and the young boy began to get hungry and decided it would be better to go home for tonight. He would leave another day. Next time, he would remember to pack some food. He had nearly reached the camp when his little friend came and lit on his shoulder. The bird pecked his neck hard and Little Raven, in his anger began to lift his hand to lash out at the bird when suddenly he noticed something caught in the bird�s claw. It was a little piece of a warrior�s hairshirt. Little Raven removed it from the bird�s claw and stared at it in disbelief. He turned it over and over in his hand, staring. It was part of a PAWNEE warrior�s hairshirt. Running so fast he thought his heart would burst, he raced into camp to his father�s teepee to show him this thing the black raven had brought him. When the men went out, they discovered that, indeed, there WAS a pawnee war party only half a day�s ride away. The strangers were planning to attack them as they moved to their winter camp. This plan was changed when the pawnee were surprised by Little Raven�s father and the other men of the tribe. There was much celebration in the camp that night for the token of the bird�s love for his human brother had saved them all. After this day, nobody, adult or child ever said another word against or in mockery toward Little Raven or his small feathered brother or his name. The name Little Raven was one of great honor and respect among his tribe and this honor and respect followed him to the end of his days. The fire was getting low and his father stood to put more wood on. Grandpa finished his story and smiled at the boy. Hunter looked across the little warm room and saw that his father was smiling, too. Looking at the clock on the wall, his mother told him it was time for bed. His father bent to hug the boy as he was leaving and told him, �Son, this is really the story of how Grandpa�s Grandpa got his name, �Little Raven.� It was a true story, still written somewhere in the book called Time and as long as there are little boys to ask, these stories rise again in the storyteller to keep the tracks of our people visible. The winds of Time carry these stories from generation to generation and when we listen very, very carefully, we can still hear the whispering of Tunkashila between the words of the ancient voices.� Later that night, in the cool bedroom, lying warm beneath the quilts, Hunter heard the wind outside the window and listened as carefully as he could for the whisper of Tunkashila. He listened and he drifted off to sleep. |