Ancestry Lost
By Matthew Abrams
The sun held a creamy gold as it hung like a fiery sickle over the mountain’s edge. A vulture’s screech echoed through the North Country highlands. And the colors of the late Montana sky were ignited – clouds of fire blazed upon Montana’s stretched cerulean canvas.
Deep in Glacier National Park I heard the drumming. I followed the sounds down a foothill. Yellow and white cloths twisted around many of the trees honoring those spirits who’ve transcended the human form. The smell of sweet grass was thick in the air as I passed the burning moss rock. In short descent was the lodge, a low hut, eight feet in diameter adorned with a patchwork of carpets and retired rugs - contemporary rawhide.
I stepped lightly by the entrance flap. Outside the hut a braid of sweet grass, a tail feather and an infant steer skull sat on a stone ledge. The chanting and drumming silenced. The back of my neck tingled. The chanting resumed.
As I entered the forest, Little Tree, a man I’d met a week prior, was walking toward me. I gave him 5 pounds of Webster – the steer we slaughtered at the farm - and three packs of Marlboros. He paused, then grabbed my offerings. He walked passed me, put them in his trunk and left. In a ceremony of respect, my tangible offering drove away before it reached the palms of the participants.
Beside the pit, towels and white sheets laid at the base of evergreens born before Whitman. Cigarette packs, lighters and water bottles strewn about. Behind the lodge dropped a steep precipice where bluebells, pink bitterroots, lupines and fireweed swam among wild horsetail. In all compass points the giant mountains gazed like ancient sages with glacial beards and smoky cloud coiffures.
The chanting turned to staccato talk. The air was still. Silence hung for a moment. Everything glowed through a scarlet gel. Pink was peach and orange, crimson. The flap flipped open. A tall gangly German man stepped out. Sweat glistened on his pink flesh. My eyes drew to a silhouette of a buffalo tattooed on his shoulder. He looked at me with glistening eyes and offered me five bony fingers and a smile.
“Fabian”
“Matthew, good to meet you.”
His hand was warm and moist in mine and his knuckles slid off each other.
One by one they came out. The women first. Pale cheeks speckled with red lakes. Rivers of hair squiggled from temples to necks. Most greeted me with smiles. Some ignored me. Some laid down. Most lit cigarettes. There was little talk.
I recognized two women. One woman surveyed my presence. She was plump. Her belly distended round and firm. Her floral dress stuck to her like a grape wears its skin. As she spoke an unlit cigarette bobbed in her mouth.
“Did you tell Wilbur you’re here?”
Wilbur is the eldest and the spiritual leader and this is his show.
“No, not yet.”
She swiped a match and spoke. “You should. He’s in there,” she said, tossing her head to the structure then lighting her cigarette.
“Alright.” I said with most of a smile.
I ducked into the hut and was hit by a bucket of damp heat which fogged my glasses to solid. I removed them and saw three men on the west side of the circle. In the middle was a dugout in the earth where stones smoldered. Wilbur sat in the middle.
“Come in,” Wilbur said. “You came back.”
Wilbur sat on the other side of the circle from me. The three men were elderly, hair just shy of waist, skin painted with animals and design. Adorned in shorts, necklaces of bones, stones and crystals hanging from their necks.
After sitting on my knees a moment by the door, I crawled around the circle and sat by the men. A small pillow separated us. The air was sweet and sharp.
“You like to be with the women” the one in the middle said inciting giggles from the other two. Not understanding, I smiled.
“You are sitting on the women’s side,” Wilbur said pointing at the pillow.
I allowed myself a little laughter as I crawled back to where I entered.
“First time,” I said. “Sorry.”
I sat with the men for a few minutes in silence before Wilbur called out, “Let’s do seven.” A wood plank was laid through the entry flap into the middle of the hut where there was a hole the size of a large globe. One by one, seven heated moss rocks called Tunkashina, or Grandfather, were dusted with sweet grass and rolled into the earth-pit. Once all seven were in, Wilbur called out, “Okay, let’s go.” Men and women crawled around the pit on all fours. The women leaned back on straight arms and inverted palms. There were twice as many men sweaty knee upon sweaty knee two deep. When everyone was in, the flap was shut and the heat swelled through the inky blackness. My lungs struggled to expand. Immediately my forehead and cheekbones grew damp. A pinch of powdered sweet grass was dropped in the pit, sizzling, it glowed orange to a deep burgundy. Water splashed on the stone. It smelled like strong like marijuana.
“Three splashes for the Creator.” Wilbur said dropping three handfuls of water upon the stones inciting pops and crackles. “Thank you Grandma, Grandpa, for giving us this opportunity for understanding. This time to celebrate the Creator. Thank you Grandma, Grandpa, for giving us the power to heal. Let us offer these powers to Roberta Whitetree and her family. Together we will guide the power of the Spirit to her. Omytakouias he said in Siksiká – we are all related. “That is all.”
“Aaaiiiyeeehaa.”
Was the howl that escaped from a woman and was followed by the answer of its brother. The primal calls nudged a long dormant creature from within me.
A cool wave passed through my body. The rattles pounded in syncopation of my heart. The song continued. Beneath the music Wilbur chanted, praying for all species and life in suffering and in joy. An intense whirlwind of sensual experiment swirled my conscious in upheaval. The round ended as it began: like a tornado twisting over a field. Rivulets of sweat coursed the length of my face, back and chest as my eyes were drawn to needles of light dancing across flesh and soil as the door was handled. The flap lifted sending a shard of light running across twiggy soil and crossed legs. Everyone exited sun-wise. Towels draped over shoulders wiping faces. Some people smoked and some rested in the cooling Montana twilight.
Beside the hut a man smeared handfuls of earth upon his body. I felt like doing the same, but didn’t. I was in a cognitive battle between embracing free will respecting the norm: The White Man’s Burdon.
“Seven again,” Wilbur said. And again seven stones were dusted and rolled down the plank upon the hearth of the circle. Just as the stones absorb the heat, they absorb the impurities of the Spirit. They are called Grandpa because they are of the Ancients. Our teachers.
We crawled in. Fabian flopped down the flap. Heat and silence grew in the darkness.
“Three splashes for the Creator.” The beads of water sizzled on the stone like spit on a griddle. The sizzle fizzled to silence. Then another three splashes. The air became a thick porridge that burned as it entered me. The rattles slowly drummed. My eyes pinched with sweat creeping in the corners. My hair was hot. My hands formed a pyramid over my mouth and nose to filter the heat. Three more splashes. One woman left.
The chanting began to assuage the heat that was once employed by my senses. I removed my hands, held my toes and rocked like a shokeling Hasidic to the beat of the rattles. More splashes. The hot water bounced off the stones and splashed hot on my bare legs. The chanting grew in timbre. My fingers squeezed tighter around my toes. I wanted more heat, more beat, more song. My senses drifted further. My feelings and thoughts no longer guided by my mind, but by something grander.
Like a snap of the maestro’s arm, the music seized. Some let out grunts, some howls. Round three was over.
Outside the lodge Wilbur stood nibbling on a hard green and brown root. It cracked in his teeth like a carrot. He walked the periphery of the pit, bent over and rose up. He walked to the woman who had left as the third round began.
“Chew on these,” he said to the woman handing her three dandelions. “It will boost your energy.”
“Let’s do seven more.” Wilbur said to the group.
The heat was taking its toll. In the past hour and a half my shorts had grown fully sodden and stuck coolly to my hot flesh. Muscles tiring physically. Mentally, in place of the familiar din was an absence. An ice water clarity. I rose and walked hearing only the sound of my naked feet cracking sticks and leaving leaves.
We assumed our plots on the twiggy floor and let the blackness get used to us. I noticed for the first time sweet grass filigree coursing the roof of the hut. The scent was strong and piercing. There were no splashes this time.
Two of the original three elders exchanged words in Siksiká E-nŭks-äp-ĭ! e-nŭks-äp-ĭ! “ Let me be old, let me be old.
Again there was silence. The final sweat began.
“My name is Lillooet.” His words were woven with the threads of emotion. “My white name is Don... Donald. I want to thank you for this opportunity to speak, to share myself with you and to participate in the collective spirit. I know it is not easy to make this commitment. With the time, with the heat. So, thank you. We do this to obey the integrity of our souls. To find happiness in this world the white man has created. To understand our power and to respect the oneness. That is why we are here.” He paused, swallowed hard and took a deep breath. “I’d like to speak a moment about my brother, Wilbur. He is a man that has always given. Given never expecting anything. Giving all the time to people and nature. You have taught me more than you will every know, my brother.” Silence
The heat that was in someone else was now in me and mine in another. A tear mixed with the sweat in my eye. Sorrow and sweetness swelled in me, pushing from my core, gathering behind my sternum. For decades this passage of spirituality was forced to secrecy for fear of floggings and death. Floggings and death induce by my white forefathers. 100 years ago missionary teachers slapped Indian women across the face for speaking Siksika or Pikanii in the English-led mission.
“I have learned so much from you Wilbur.” A deeper strain cracked his voice. Lillooet said something to his brother and there was laughter among the tears. The rattles cracked. The passion intensified. The verses sang. The white man stole away this element of life. And I remain conflicted as to my true ancestry.
