by Buffalo Hair
Many times I would walk on the prarie. With the Rockies as a most beautiful horizon I would ponder my place on Mother Earth. I would separate myself from the modern world as I walked.
The spirits of the prarie are many. My brother, the coyote, would flank my journey as I walk. Birds and their music would fill the sky. On occation antelope would make their presents known. Ants and bees would curry about gathering food for their people.
Through the eyes of an eagle, the creator would watch over all that is life. As the eagle flew overhead, I would offer a prayer of thanks than ask for a vision to keep me strong in my ways.
I would find a rocky butte to sit on at it's highest point. The wind spirit would caress me with a warm breeze. As my eyes close, I hear the faint sound of thunder. The thunder would get louder.
Thunder would turn to the sounds of heavy hoofs meeting the soil. Buffalo would roam free again as I view them with happy surprise. Dust would tickle my nostrils while they passed.
Their eyes open wide and their mouths froth with white foam as they make their way accross the prarie. In their wake several men on spotted ponies make way to the last of this magnificent herd.
Copper skinned men with lances race to kull for their families needs. A man with crow feathers and red cloth in his hair makes for a fst bull. His lance, shorter than the others, plunges deep into the side of the animal. In response the bull grazes the horse before death overcomes him.
Once at the scene of the dying beast the warrior makes a prayer for the spirit of the fallen buffalo. He than makes medicine for his injured horse with mud on the wound.
I close my eyes in a dream state while pondering the great past of my people. My dream world is shaken by the shrill voice of an old timer. My eyes open to view an old one dictating tio the young women the proper way to skin the animal other old women direct other operations as they gleen everything from this noble beast.
As the last of the hides are streched, a fire crakles with excitement. Smoke burns my eyes for a moment as the wind dances with ash. Roasting on a stick are portions of hump, the smell makes my stomach growl with anticipation.
Dogs bark and play a tug of war with scraps of meat and hide, children mimic their parents in an imaginary hunt for bison. A little toddler cries for his mother while she helps prepare the evening meal.
Drummers make music while singers tell of hunts and adventures of the past. The heart beat of a people, the drum, beats a rythmic tune as I close my eyes again.
Smoke fills my lungs as I reawake from my trance only to find an old woman purrifies the camp and all the inhabitants. The sharp smell of cedar almost choaks me at first. She begins to tell a story to the fat bellied crowd of listeners.
For some reason I can not make out the words as she speaks. She mumbles in a soft monotone voice. Her eyes close as she chants her magical words. This story must be very special. I must hear more.
Slowly I move closer to the circle in the camp. Cedar and sweetgrass fill the air. She shakes a gord rattle as she speaks. I can make out the deep lines in her face as I approach.
Her eyes open and meet mine as I look on in wounderment. She drops the rattle and makes a jesture for others to look my direction, she is surprised at my presents at the camp. As I turn to make my escape I fall.
In a flash I found myself on the ground next to the butte I once sat on. The sun beating down on me. Stammering to my feet I dust myself off and look around, but know one was there except the coyote and the eagle.
"What a dream", I thought as I made my way back to the house. "Ghost Walker!", shouted someone. Than I heard it again, "Ghost Walker, up here!". I stopped in my tracks and slowly looked up towards the billowy clouds.
The voice than said. "It was not a dream, young brave!". To my joy, on the rim of the clouds were a chief in full regalia surrounded with his people looking down on me.
Looking into the clouds I asked grandfather if It was a dream. they laughed and told me that I was the ghost in their camp. He was the warrior with the small lance and the people around him were at the camp. I was the Ghost Walker. The old woman was dressed in buck skins and porcupine quills, she was no longer old eather.
I thanked them for the journey than made my way back home with a fond memory of life on the prarie. I only wished that I got a bit of that buffalo hump. It looked and smelled good too. |
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