Wind Over Marshdale (20 page)

 

Thomas stood on the hilltop overlooking Old Man's Lake. The place was serene; silent. Yet beneath the surface he could feel the pull of unseen forces. It was a sacred place. A place where his ancestors had come to commune with the Creator; where many tribes had come to seek the wisdom and advice of The Wise One.

How had his great-grandfather known so much about the Creator? He had no Bible and no missionaries to teach him about God, and yet, it seemed he had an inside track into the mind of God. Thomas had long ago renounced the teachings of Native spirituality as pagan and ungodly, but now he was beginning to wonder. Could there be a connection? A bridge to bring the two together? What if he was that bridge? He was a direct descendant, next in line as medicine man and “Wise One.” Perhaps it was his destiny.

He began to pray, but his mind was cloudy. He had felt the urge—quite strong—this morning when he awoke, to repent on behalf of his ancestors. Much bloodshed and vileness had taken place here. Human trafficking, slaughter of the enemy, and even sacrifice had been part of the culture. But even the people of Israel had done these things, had they not? How was the history of his people any different? Certainly, they had respected the land more than their colonial counterparts.

The image of thousands of buffalo tumbling to their deaths over a ravine came to mind. It was not exactly a sustainable practice, but nothing in comparison to what the whites had done. Whiskey trading, debauchery, wife swapping, residential schools, rape and abuse all rose before him like a moving picture. But most of this was a direct result of the colonial invasion of an otherwise peaceful life. He felt anger toward the perpetrators, not a sense of guilt for his own ancestors.

“Why did you bring me here?” he asked aloud. When no answer came he said it again, louder this time, “Why did you bring me here?” This time, his own voice echoed back at him, taunting him with the question.

“You haven't figured that out yet?”

Thomas spun around, heart hammering in his chest. Mirna Hyde stood several feet away, a basket full of dried plants and grasses over one arm. The long, brightly colored wraparound skirt she wore flapped to one side like a sail, plastering itself to the fronts of her legs. Tendrils of loose hair also whipped about, with the majority of it frizzling out in a halo of red that was backlit by the setting sun.

“I didn't know anyone else was out here,” Thomas sputtered, embarrassed by his outburst.

“Obviously,” Mirna quipped.

“Where's your car?”

“I don't drive a car,” Mirna replied with just the right amount of superiority. “My bicycle is right there in the brush.”

Thomas squinted in the direction she pointed and sure enough he saw the form of a well-worn touring bike tucked in with some tall grass. No wonder he hadn't seen her.

“The spirits of your ancestors are very strong here,” Mirna commented, looking out over the lake.

“You think so?” Thomas responded.

“Yes. I know you think I'm just an old fool, and I know you think I'm on the wrong side of things, so to speak. But you can't deny the pull of your ancestors, can you? They are speaking to you even now. Crying out for justice. Your great-grandfather especially wants you to know that you must take action against those that would thwart your cause. Before it's too late.”

“What do you know of my great-grandfather?”

“Whether you believe me or not, I, too, have a connection to the people of old. I speak with the dead—including your great-grandfather. Does that frighten you?”

Thomas surveyed the woman, still holding her basket and looking quite nonchalant about her claim. “I don't believe in that. The Bible says we're not supposed to consult the dead.”

“What you say is true. When Saul asked the woman of Endor to speak to Samuel, he was condemned for it. But, she did bring up Samuel's spirit, didn't she? Not being allowed to do something and it not being real are two different things, now, aren't they?”

Thomas frowned. He had been taught that it was a demon, not Samuel's actual spirit. Still, if that were the case, why didn't the Bible just say so?

“I know what you're thinking,” Mirna continued, as if reading his thoughts. “You're thinking that could have been a demon or other satanic spirit, not Samuel at all. But what about Lazarus and the rich man? Lazarus went to be with Abraham and the rich man called across the abyss. Surely these were their actual spirits.”

Thomas's frown just deepened. “You're trying to confuse me. I don't believe in ghosts.”

Mirna clucked her tongue, shaking her head. “Your great-grandfather has been sent as a spirit helper, not a ghost. He wishes only to help you here on your mission to bring respect and credibility to your ancestors. You are the next Wise One. It is your destiny.”

A tingling sensation ran the length of Thomas's body at the words. Had he not been thinking those same thoughts just moments ago? Wavering back and forth between embracing the knowledge and casting it aside like a hot stone?

“I am smudging tonight,” Mirna said, gesturing at the basket. “The sage and grass from this location have special power. You may join me if you wish, even if only to observe.”

Thomas worked the muscles in his jaw, never taking his eyes off the strange woman. She in turn did not back down, keeping her gaze fixed on his. He was at war. He could feel it. He believed in God and Jesus Christ as His only begotten son. But what about the thousands, millions, perhaps billions of people now and in the past that did not have the benefit of the same teaching? What if God did reveal Himself in different ways? He could always join her just to observe, as she said…

“Midnight is always a good time,” she said. “You know where I live.” She nodded and flashed the closest thing to a smile he'd yet seen. He watched as she strode toward her bicycle.

“I could give you a lift,” he called after her. “I'm sure we could fit the bike in the back.”

“No thanks,” she called back. “I try not to contribute to Mother Earth's demise.”

****

Con drove around the block past the church. A light was still on in the Pastor's study. Todd was probably still there. He should stop in for a few minutes before heading home. He needed some advice about the feelings that had punched him so unexpectedly in the gut. Actually, advice was probably the wrong word. A sounding board other than his brother was more accurate. He already knew what the right answer was. Quit playing with fire and leave Rachel Bosworth alone. If God wanted them together, he needed to leave her in God's hands, period.

It had been a while since he'd had a real talk with Pastor Todd, though. Not since they'd had the disagreement over Thomas Lone Wolf. Pastor Todd's lack of backbone in that, and a few other areas, was starting to rub Con the wrong way. At one time he'd thought they saw things the same way, but he was beginning to have his doubts about the man. He seemed distracted these days.

After parking in the church lot, Con walked up to the double doors of the building and fished the key out of his pocket. As one of the youth leaders, he had his own key. The interior of the church was dark except for a crack of light emanating from under the office door. His knock was met with a startled cry from within. “Pastor? You in there?” Con called.

“Yes. Just a minute,” Todd's muffled voice responded. Several seconds later he was unlocking the door and ushering Con inside with an apology. “I wasn't expecting anyone this late on a Sunday night, that's all. Come on in.”

Con followed the pastor into the office. The other man looked flushed and was certainly acting strange. Agitated would be the word. “Everything okay?” he asked.

“Oh yes,” Todd responded, perhaps too quickly. “I was just—wrestling with the Almighty.” He smiled. “Now, what can I do for you?”

“I'm wrestling with some issues of my own,” Con admitted. “Have you got a minute?”

“Of course. Have a seat.”

Con did as requested, taking his place in a comfortable chair in front of the Pastor's desk. He sat for a moment, unsure just how to begin. He cleared his throat and sat forward slightly. “It's about this woman, actually. Someone I'm interested in, except for one problem.”

“She doesn't return your feelings?” Todd suggested.

Con shook his head. “No, that's not it. It least I think she's interested. It's the fact that she's not a believer.”

Todd nodded his head, steepling his fingers and looking past Con into a corner of the room as if deep in thought.

“I mean, the thought occurred to me that maybe I'm supposed to lead her to Christ, you know? Maybe God put us together for a reason.” Con looked hopefully at his pastor for conformation.

“I would say, wait,” Todd spoke. “If God means for you to be together, a little bit of time won't change that. The word is clear about becoming unequally yoked, so you should wait for her to become a Christian before you pursue her romantically. That's my advice.”

Con felt his heart crash to his toes like a lead weight. It was exactly the advice he had expected; exactly what he didn't want to hear.

As he drove home in the darkness he pondered the unfairness of it all, but knew that God had spoken. He also wondered what he'd walked in on before talking to Pastor Todd. The man seemed positively rattled.

Whatever. It could be anything. Besides, he had no business worrying about Pastor Todd. He needed to concentrate instead on the sorry state of his own emotions.

****

Thomas shut the outside door with a soft click. Whisper and Ryder were both safely sleeping. The world was painted in the silver blue monotones of the moonlit night, the land stretching out into blackness here on the fringe of the small community.

His stomach was a giant knot of tension. He'd wavered back and forth several times about visiting Mirna Hyde tonight. The alarm bells sounding in his brain had finally been usurped by his intense curiosity. Burning sweetgrass, or ‘smudging,' was truly a part of his own heritage—a ritual adopted by many other indigenous people, but innately belonging to the Cree. Why shouldn't he experience it? Because some missionary long ago decided it was forbidden? Like speaking one's own language or living solely off the land? Too many times well meaning missionaries had mixed the gospel with their own culture, forbidding certain practices in the name of God when there were really no grounds for it. White European culture was no more Christian than any other. If they really wanted to be purists they'd better go back to Bible times.

He opened the gate that linked their two yards and stepped through. It was like adding a final period to the end of a sentence. He was here, making a statement, and there was no turning back.

Not sure where to go next, he rounded the back of Mirna's low house, the grass crunching beneath his feet. “Over here,” he heard Mirna say, in a surprisingly melodic way. He turned and saw the red glow of some embers in a fire pit. Mirna was sitting in a nearby lawn chair. Some grass and twigs were stuck in her hair. Another chair waited nearby.

“I'm using cedar wood for the fire and we'll smudge with sage and sweetgrass,” Mirna informed as Thomas sat down. “As you know, each has its own special properties.”

“What if I'm only here to observe?” Thomas said.

Mirna just shrugged. “As you wish. It's important to enter into the ceremony with a clear conscience.” She took a small handful of sage from the basket beside her chair and crushed it into the fire pit, rubbing it between her hands and letting the fine powder fall into the burning embers. A billow of smoke arose, filling the air with the distinctive aroma of the plant. Mirna bent over the smoldering fire and waved her arms in a circular fashion, up and over her head several times, breathing deeply. “Sage cleanses the spirit,” she said, looking at Thomas. “Would you like to try some?”

Thomas shook his head. “No thanks.”

Mirna shrugged and turned back to fire. “But it calls to you, doesn't it?” she said. “Indian medicine is strong. You should know this. It's in your own veins; the spirits of your ancestors are calling out to you even now.”

“I'm still not convinced,” Thomas denied. He tried to sound self-assured, unafraid; but his fists were balls in his lap, clenched in an effort to keep them from trembling.

“Your words speak differently than your heart,” Mirna replied, glancing at his hands. “I know. I've been given a vision. There is a way for you to have what you desire. Great power can be yours. All you need do is step into your destiny. That which was prearranged long before you were born.”

“I have renounced all forms of Native spirituality,” Thomas declared again.

“Perhaps. But it has not released you.” There was silence for a space until Mirna went back to the task at hand. “Next, I'll burn the sweetgrass, inviting my spirit helpers to guide me.” She reached for a braided piece of sweetgrass from the basket and held it toward Thomas. “I would be honored if you would wave it over me.”

His eyes widened. “Why not just do the same as you did with the sage?”

“You are the direct descendant of the Wise One—a very powerful medicine man and one of the chief spirit guides in this area.” When Thomas still hesitated, she continued. “No harm can come to you if you don't believe in it.”

Thomas took another moment to think about it. She was right of course. He was a child of God and therefore protected by God's grace. The superstitious beliefs of a crazy white woman could have no real effect. The irony of the situation was almost laughable. He had been so tense earlier—so afraid of coming over and observing the ritual when it was nothing more than throwing some dead plants on a fire and wafting the smoke over your body. The fact that an older white woman was the one to demonstrate this part of his culture was almost embarrassing.

“What do I do?” he asked, taking the braided grass from her hand.

“Hold it in the fire until it begins to burn then wave it over my body. My head first then my torso,” Mirna instructed.

He nodded and did as she asked, shoving the braid into the embers until smoke began to rise. He lifted it out, shaking it once to extinguish one tiny flame, and proceeded to wave it above Mirna's head. His gaze caught hers momentarily, but she immediately shut hers and began to chant in a low voice.

Shivers traveled up and down his spine to the rhythm of her words. It was an unknown language, systematic in its syntax. He threw the remainder of the braid into the fire and stood abruptly.

“Ah,” she nodded, opening her eyes. “You felt it then?”

“Felt what?” he muttered, stepping away from the fire and smoke that continued to rise from the piece of grass.

“Your great-grandfather. I asked him to visit you. To help you understand your mission here.”

“My mission here?” Thomas spat the words back. “What do you even know about my mission here? You make it sound like I'm a desperado against the world.”

“Aren't you? Are you saying you are blind to the racism and opposition you face on a daily basis?”

Thomas snorted derisively. “Your own sister being the biggest obstacle.”

“My sister is a sick woman. She has been blinded from the truth.”

“Well, at least we agree on something.”

“I apologize for her small minded ways,” Mirna continued. “It's something I'm trying to change, but she can be very… stubborn.”

“Thanks, I guess,” Thomas mumbled. He still felt numb from the experience, as if an unseen force had, indeed, been trying to reach him. “I better go now.”

“Stand up for yourself,” Mirna advised. “For your people. Take what you desire. Lay hold of what is rightfully yours. It's what the Wise One wants.”

Thomas grunted his acknowledgement and turned away, still unsure how wise this whole encounter really was. She was a psycho woman, after all, who claimed to talk to dead people. Still, she did seem to have a window into his inner thoughts. And all this talk about his great-grandfather…well, it had him very confused.

“Take what you desire,” Mirna repeated. Thomas stopped in his tracks, willing to listen, but not turning around. “Including the woman.”

His veins turned to pure ice. How did she know he'd been thinking about a woman? A sudden urge to flee almost overcame him and he stalked away, putting as much distance as possible between himself and this witch as he could without actually breaking into a run.