Heart of the Storm. Lindsay McKenna
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blue heron standing near water, Agnes shook her head. Then she gazed around the circle. “Our society was created so long ago that we have no way to know how old it really is. Doris and I figure it may have begun three thousand years ago. We are nations with oral history, not a written one. And from all I have been told, the Hokahto Society is very, very old.”
Lifting her hand, Agnes gestured around the room. “Each of you carries a sacred ceremonial pipe from a time long ago that has come to you in the present. Each of you was specially chosen to represent your nation here, because you have a good heart and a good way of walking. Each pipe carried in this room represents Mother Earth, Father Sky, our sun and moon, in some way. Each is different. But each functions in harmony with the others to create a connection for all our relations.”
Agnes paused to wipe the corner of her thin mouth with a white cotton handkerchief. She patted her lips with a trembling hand and tucked the handkerchief away once more. “According to tradition, only women can be members of the Blue Heron Society. Each pipe created was to be cared for and used by a woman. Only one of the sister-hood may open up the pipe bag, look upon the medicine object within, hold it and connect it to the stem for use. We are charged with working with the pipe to inspire life and harmony upon our planet for the good of all beings.”
The breeze strengthened and the slanting sun brightened the shadowy space where they sat. Agnes welcomed the cooling breeze and silently said thank-you to Father Sky and the wind spirits. “Each of the pipes has tremendous power that has been gathered over time. That is why a pipe carrier is always chosen with the greatest of care. Each pipe is capable of positive deeds, or can be ordered by the carrier to wreak death and destruction.”
Pulling out her handkerchief once again, Agnes dabbed at her watering eyes. “The Storm Pipe was given to the Lakota people. Not only has Rogan Fast Horse stolen it, we now know what he’s going to do with it—kill others. A month ago, I heard gossip from a young woman from the Crow nation. She said she’d heard that Rogan had vowed to use the pipe to destroy the white man and his government.” Shrugging her bony shoulders, Agnes SpiderWoman said, “It was gossip, and I don’t like tattling about others. The woman who told me was a good person with a good heart, but it was still gossip. Yet looking back, I know I should have listened and not dismissed her claims so lightly. It was the Great Mystery’s way of warning me.” Agnes’s mouth turned downward. “And I did not listen.”
Silence hung heavy in the heated hogan. Finally, Sheila One Feather, of the Crow nation, spoke up. Her square face was deeply lined from eighty years in the mountains of Montana. “Rogan is a two-heart, Grandmother Agnes. None of us here likes gossip. We all know the danger of it. You cannot blame yourself for not listening. We’d all have done the same.”
There was a faint murmur of agreement from the group.
Kate Little Bird of the Iroquois nation spoke up. Her eyes flashed with fire. “Let’s face it—Rogan has stalked power all his miserable life! He’s bent on vengeance against anyone—red or white. Is that not so, my sister?”
Sadly, Agnes agreed. “Rogan killed one of us to steal the Storm Pipe. We all felt that, since he was a man, he could not use it. But he has found a way to do so.”
Kate scowled. “How could he use the pipe? It will only awaken and respond in the hands of a woman. I do not understand this. Do you?”
“Yes,” Agnes said wearily. “This same young Crow woman told me that Rogan had gathered twelve women to aid him. He taught one of the twelve how to awaken the pipe and use it. With these women willingly cooperating, he was able to control the pipe for his own evil ends. I am ashamed of these women, for they are no better than Rogan. They seek power that is not theirs to use. They are all two-hearts.”
“Power,” Kate Little Bird said, “is an aphrodisiac to those who have none. We all know that.”
“Power is earned through walking in balance and harmony,” Doris Red Turtle stated. “It cannot be stolen, nor can shortcuts be taken to work with such power.”
“Yet,” Agnes said, “that is exactly what has happened here. Rogan knew he couldn’t touch the Storm Pipe himself, or force it to work for him. So he’s spent the last two years seeking and finding twelve women who thirst after power like he does. Rogan assembled a team of medicine women to support his goals and vision. We all thought that the Storm Pipe would eventually resurface and we’d get it back. I didn’t dream that Rogan would devise something like this. None of us did.”
“Do not blame yourself,” Doris advised the older woman gently. “When the pipe was stolen, we all felt it would return to us sooner or later. Ceremonial objects are taken all the time by those who seek power that is not rightfully earned, or theirs by heritage or training.”
“Humph,” Agnes muttered. “We all thought since it was a woman’s pipe, it would be rendered impotent in Fast Horse’s hands. We underestimated him.”
“No one has ever done this before,” Kate said. “How were we to know? Or guess?”
Again, there was a murmur of agreement from the group. All shared in the blame.
Blotting her eyes, Agnes murmured, “Sometimes it is beyond whoever walks the Red Road with a good heart to plumb the depths of a two-heart, to discover what evil they carry or the plans they create. This is one of those times. We do not think like them and are incapable of such diabolical misuse of power. But we are all paying for it, and so is Mother Earth and all our relations. That is why we must act.”
CHAPTER THREE
AGNES SPIDER WOMAN RAISED her thin hand and looked around the hogan at her sisters. “The daughter of Cora was to become the next woman to carry the Storm Pipe. This is as it should be. Since she was nine years old, Dana Thunder Eagle was being trained by her mother to step into her shoes as a ceremonial pipe carrier when the time was right. When Cora was murdered, and Dana’s husband, Hal, was as well, the young woman went wild with grief.”
“That is only natural,” Doris said, shaking her head over the violent deed.
“Of course,” Agnes agreed. “Dana is like a granddaughter to me, as you all know. She is Lakota and Navajo, a beautiful young woman filled with such love and care for others, a true pipe carrier in every sense of the word. When she was twelve years old, I gave Dana a personal pipe to train with—the Nighthawk Pipe, in preparation for carrying the ceremonial Storm Pipe. Dana accepted the honor and responsibility, as I knew she would.” Smiling fondly, Agnes wiped the corners of her mouth once more. False teeth and old age made her mouth water constantly. “We need to contact Dana and ask her to come home and fulfill her destiny.”
“How?” Doris demanded, scowling. “How old is she? In her twenties?”
“Yes, twenty-nine.” Wiping her lips, then clutching the damp handkerchief in her thin hand, the elder added, “Dana left the Rosebud Reservation after the murders because both sets of her grandparents were dead. She was crazed with grief. I tried to convince her to come and live with me, but she refused, and disappeared. But I sent out the spirit of the pipe I carry to keep in touch with her. She lives in Ohio right now and teaches first graders at a school near Dayton. It is her way of dealing with her loss of the two people she loved most in the world. Children are nothing but love, and that is where Dana has found refuge…until now.”
“Of course,” Sparrow Hawk muttered, “the murders were a terrible blow to all of us. At first we didn’t know who did it. Over time, we were able to track down the culprits—Rogan and his lead woman, Blue Wolf.” She tightened her right hand into a fist. “I wish I could pray for their deaths. I’d do it.”
Doris gave her Apache friend a gentle smile. “As a ceremonial pipe carrier, you are charged with walking the Red Road with a good heart. None of us can use the pipes we carry for anything but good for all our relations.”
“I know,” Sparrow Hawk growled, opening her pudgy, callused hand. “But I will tell you that, in my heart of hearts, I have dreamed of taking their lives for what they took from the Blue Heron