Dan Simmons - Phases of Gravity

On a whim, Baedecker grabbed his old flight jacket out of the back seat and began walking up the trail from the visitors' center.

Although patches of snow lay here and there in shaded areas, the day was warm and Baedecker could smell the thawing earth. He felt somewhat light-headed as he switchbacked up the first, steep segment of trail, but he had no trouble breathing. He wondered idly why he had felt no appetite the past three days and why, despite no sleep for two days and an empty stomach, he felt strong and fit, almost buoyant.

The trail evened out to run along the rising ridgeline and Baedecker paused to look out over low piñon and ponderosa pines to admire the view to the north and east. About a third of the way up he began noticing bits of cloth, tiny colored rags, tied to low bushes along the trail. He stopped and touched one of them as it fluttered in the warm breeze.

'Hello.'

Baedecker spun around. The man was sitting in a low area near the cliff edge about fifteen feet from the trail. It was a natural campsite, sheltered from the north and west winds by rocks and trees but open to the view on three sides.

'Hello,' said Baedecker and walked closer. 'I didn't see you over here.' Baedecker had no doubt that the old man was an Indian. His skin was a burnt copper, his eyes were so dark as to appear black, the wrinkles on his brow radiated from a broad blade of a nose, and he was wearing a loose, blueprint shirt, had a red headband pulled tight, and had tied his long, graying hair into pigtails. He wore a single ring of some deep blue stone. Only his tattered, green-canvas sneakers were out of character. 'I didn't mean to intrude here,' said Baedecker. He looked beyond the old man to where a tan canvas tent had been erected near a lower structure built of boughs and rocks and branches. Baedecker instantly knew that the thing was a sweat lodge without knowing how he knew.

'Sit down,' said the Indian. The old man himself was seated on a rock, not cross-legged but with one leg over the other in a comfortable, almost feminine pose. 'I am Robert Sweet Medicine,' he said. His voice was husky, amused, as if he were on the verge of chuckling at some unstated joke.

'Richard Baedecker.'

The old man nodded as if this was redundant information. 'Nice day to climb the mountain, Baedecker.'

'Very nice day,' said Baedecker. 'Although I'm not sure I'm going all the way to the top.' The Indian shrugged. 'I have been coming here a very long time and have never been to the top. It is not always necessary.' He was using a pocketknife to whittle at a short stick. There were various twigs, roots, and stones on the ground in front of him. Baedecker noticed the bones of some small animal in the heap. Some of the stones had been painted bright colors.

Baedecker looked out at the miles of prairie to the north. From this vantage point he could see no highways and only small pockets of trees showed where ranches huddled. He had a sudden, visceral sense of the physical freedom the Plains Indians must have felt a century and a half earlier when they had roamed without restriction across that seemingly boundless land. 'Are you a Sioux?' he asked, not knowing whether the question was polite but wanting to know the answer.

Robert Sweet Medicine shook his head. 'Cheyenne.'

'Oh, for some reason I thought the Sioux lived in this part of South Dakota.'

'They do,' said the old man. 'They ran us out of this region long ago. They think this mountain is sacred. So do we. We just have to commute farther.'

'Do you live near here?' asked Baedecker.

The Indian took his knife and cut off a small section of new cactus growing between the rocks, peeled it, and set the leaf on his tongue like a wood-wind player readying his reed. 'No. I travel a long way to come here. It is my job to teach things to young men who will someday teach them to other young men. But my young man is a little late.'

'Oh?' Baedecker looked down at the distant parking lot. His Civic was still the only vehicle there. 'When were you expecting him?'

'Five weeks ago,' said Robert Sweet Medicine. 'The Tsistsistas have no sense of time.'

'The who?' said Baedecker.

'The People,' said the old man in his amused, husky voice. 'Oh.'

'You also have traveled a long way,' said the other. Baedecker thought about that and nodded.

'My ancestors such as Mutsoyef traveled a long way,' said Robert Sweet Medicine. 'Then they fasted, purified themselves, and climbed the Sacred Mountain to see if a vision would present itself. Sometimes Maiyun would speak to them. More often he would not.'

'What kind of visions?' asked Baedecker.

'Do you know of Mutsoyef and the cave and the Gift of the Four Arrows?'

'No.'

'No matter,' said Robert Sweet Medicine. 'That does not concern you, Baedecker.'

'You say the mountain is also sacred to the Sioux?' The old man shrugged. 'The Arapahoes received a medicine here they could burn to make sweet smoke for their rituals. The Apaches received the gift of a magic horse medicine; the Kiowas the sacred kidney of a bear. The Sioux say they received a pipe from the mountain, but I do not believe them. They made that up because they were jealous. The Sioux lie frequently.'

Baedecker shifted his weight and smiled.

Robert Sweet Medicine ceased his whittling and looked at Baedecker. 'The Sioux did claim to have seen a great bird on the mountain, a true Thunderbird, with wings a mile across and with a voice like the end of the world. But this is no great medicine. This is Wihio trickery. Any man with even a little bit of medicine can call up the Thunderbird.'

'Can you?' asked Baedecker.

The old man snapped his fingers.

Two seconds later the earth shook with a roar that seemed to come from the sky and ground at the same time. Baedecker caught a glimpse of something huge and gleaming behind him, its shadow hurtling toward them and covering entire hillsides, and then he was up on one knee and watching as the B-52H finished its bank and roared off to the north at less than five hundred feet altitude, lower than the Butte, its eight jet engines leaving a black wake of smoke in the afternoon air. Baedecker sat back down, still feeling the vibrations of the aircraft's passing in the rocks under his thighs.

'Sorry, Baedecker,' said the old man. His teeth were yellow and strong looking, with only one of the lower ones missing. 'That was a cheap Wihio trick. They come by here from Ellsworth Base every day at this time. I am told they use this mountain to make sure their radar device tells them the truth as they travel.'

'What's a Wihio ?' asked Baedecker.

'It is our word for the Trickster,' said the Cheyenne, cutting and chewing a new cactus leaf. ' Wihio is Indian when he wants to be, animal when he wants to be, and always is up to no good. He can show a very cruel sense of humor. It is the same word we use for spider and for White Man.'

'Oh,' said Baedecker.

'Many of us also suspect that he is the Creator.' Baedecker thought about this.

'When Mutsoyef came down off this mountain,' said the old man and paused a second to remove a bit of plant from his tongue. 'When he came down, he brought with him the Gift of the Sacred Arrows, he taught us the Four Songs, he told us our future — even of the passing of the buffalo and the coming of the White Men to take our place — and then he gave his friends the Arrows and said, ‘This is my body I'm giving you. Always remember me.' What do you think of this, Baedecker?'

'It sounds familiar,' he said.

'Yes,' said the old man. He had been cutting a root into small pieces, and now he frowned at it. 'Sometimes I worry that my grandfather and great-grandfather borrowed a good story when they heard it. It does not matter. Here, put this in your mouth.' He handed Baedecker a small piece of root with the outer layer removed.