Michael Blake: The Holy Road

"And what is your name, sir?" the Great White Father asked.

"Kicking Bird."

"Kicking Bird, uh-huh. .”

The Great White Father shook Kicking Bird's hand and hung a second medal around his neck. When he was finished with the line, he returned to his place at the head of the table as the delegation drifted back to their seats.

At some unseen signal the black-skinned slaves came forward to pour coffee into large white cups and lay thick, dark cigarettes called cigars in front of each man. The slaves fell back to their positions and the Great White Father commenced a talk, expressing gratitude to his “Indian children” for coming so far to meet him and hoping that their visit had been pleasant and informative. He spoke a long time of the need for peace and assured his guests that the key to peace and prosperity depended on their willingness to embrace the new world of the reservation and avail themselves of its many advantages. He closed his remarks by inviting each man to speak, pronouncing himself ready to hear their hearts.

For more than an hour the tribesmen took turns sounding the familiar themes of contention between the races, concerns that the Great White Father deflected with paternal benevolence, constantly returning to the declaration that his greatest desire was to ensure the welfare of his children.

The sharpest questioning came from Kicking Bird, who iterated a long list of conditions for a successful transition to the reservation, including freedom from assault by whites, limited sovereignty, hunting rights, and proper instruction in the ways of the holy road.

The Great white Father proclaimed repeatedly that he would never abandon those of his children who promised to behave themselves, and Kicking Bird's questions, like those of his brethren, at last collapsed under the weight of platitude.

Only Ten Bears was left to speak. He had sat placidly in his chair through the afternoon, listening attentively but expressionlessly to every exchange, and the Great White Father, though he was anxious to get on with his schedule, was curious about the old man.

"The oldest of you has not spoken,” he said, pointing out Ten Bears. “I would like to hear what is on his mind.”

Laying a hand on each arm of his chair, Ten Bears pushed himself up.

"You made us an invitation to come to Washington, and we accepted. You have taken our hands and made us presents and cared for our needs with generosity, and no harm has come to us. We never invited the white man into our country but he came anyway, not looking for game to hunt but for people to kill. Comanches did not fire the first shot. . the white man did.

"Why the white man wants our country I do not know. He has more than enough for himself. I do not understand why the white man wants to kill everything in our country and make it poor. When the Comanche resists, the white man says he is misbehaving and must be punished.

"We have never tried to take over your country. All that we have ever asked is to be left alone. You will not grant that wish. Instead you want us to give up everything we love and come to live in a small space and wear your clothes and eat your food and pray to your god. You want us to walk with you on what you call the holy road. I will not do that.”

As Ten Bears paused to wet his lips with a sip of coffee he could see and hear the whites shifting in their seats. Only the Great white Father did not move but kept his eyes steadfast on the speaker.

“I was born upon the prairie," Ten Bears continued, "where the wind blows free and there is nothing to break the light of the sun. I was born where there are no enclosures and everything draws a free breath. I want to die there. I would rather wander the prairie eating dung than live on a white man's reservation."

Silence continued a few seconds after Ten Bears was seated again. At last the Great White Father rose.

"There is a poet among you," he announced, directing his gaze upon Ten Bears. “His speech is beautiful. Thank you for sharing it with us. And thank you for coming to my home today. I wish you all a swift, safe journey home."

Ever mindful of lasting impressions, the whites surprised the delegation by moving them to an even grander hotel on the eve of their departure, where they, their agents, their interpreters, and a host of Washington dignitaries were feted in a private banquet room. Before the meal was served the primitives were treated to the spectacle of gaslight as two black-skinned men entered and went from lamp to lamp, creating light out of a metal valve and the application of a spark.

The depth of conviviality that had been reached between Indian and white was amazing. After only a few days of intimacy, white and Indian were familiar enough to sit side by side at a dinner table. They talked, and in several instances Ten Bears noticed they were easy enough other's company to poke fun.

Ten Bears did not find fault with any of it. Nothing was better than peace and goodwill. At the same time, however, he found himself detached, as if he were viewing everything from a distance. He was no longer interested in human affairs. His motivation for living had been reduced to a single, powerful drive, and that was to go home.

The appearance, toward meal's end, of a white man priest, only increased his desire for the prairie. The priest made a long talk, during which he often referred to the black book which the white man said contained instructions from the Mystery. Ten Bears listened attentive, concluding, as did everyone else, that there was much in the book that made sense. But to the old man the appearance of the priest and the talk he made were final confirmation that the holy road should not be walked.

Though it no longer seemed important to do so, he shared his misgivings with Kicking Bird after they retired for the evening to their suite of rooms. Kicking Bird had been taken with many of the priest's ideas about brotherhood and not wanting other men's wives and loving neighbors and not stealing.

"Yes," Ten Bears agreed, "the words were good. But he didn't smoke the pipe. He didn't acknowledge the Mystery. These things have to be done."

“The whites have a different way of doing it," Kicking Bird answered resignedly.

“They think the Mystery lives in a book. Even a fool knows the Mystery is everywhere. The whites tell us they love the Mystery's instructions, but so far as I can see they don't do anything the Mystery tells them to do. I think the whites believe they are the Mystery.”

In his heart Kicking Bird agreed with Ten Bears, but understanding that the whites were wrong about the world would not aid his cause of helping people adjust to the reservation.

“You're probably right, Grandfather," he sighed, "but the whites will not change."

"No," Ten Bears replied wistfully, "they won't change. And neither will I. I want to go to sleep now. Sleep will bring tomorrow, and tomorrow we start for home."

Ten Bears found the bed to his liking. Kicking Bird, who preferred the floor because it was closer to the earth, performed his nightly ritual of clearing away the rugs to make a place on the wood to spread blankets.

As he was executing this chore, one of the departing rugs revealed a rough spot on the floor about the size of two men laid side by side. The flooring was so cracked and rotted that in some places light shone, through. The white people had used the rug to hide the eyesore but for Kicking Bird it was just right. He was tired of perfect surfaces and happily spread his blankets over the rough spot. Though the night was cold and there was much on his mind, Kicking Bird willed himself straight to sleep.

Ten Bears had a more difficult time of it. As on the night of the council when his village was split forever, he could not shut down his mind. It flitted, uncontrolled, from one disconnected thought to another, teasing the old man toward the border of sleep only to pull him back again.