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00:24:36

•  • The West Wind's howling voice, muffled by the thunderous crash of massive sheets of ice shoved from Green Bay unto the rocky coast, is fair warning to back off, or better yet, to stay indoors. For all of Man's technology, none of his mechanical genius can contend with the fiercest of winter's storms. The native Yooper knows this all too well.
•  • A thin light illuminated a snow impacted west window in the record blizzard of '57. Inside, by the light of a kerosene lamp, a mother checked on her six-year-old son one more time. He is found laboring for breath. She fetched her husband, fearing the boy could die on them that night. In desperation, he headed outside, 'though he had no idea what he would do. The storm drifted snow knee high, closing roads and downing the party phone lines. Visibility did not reach an arm's distance.
•  • She clutched the limp hand of her son. The boy's response to his mother's whispered love was limited to eye contact - a pitiful, pleading look, fading to one of resignation.
•  • The northern woodland, wild and pure, held little hope that night of finding relief for the terminally ill boy. The father of the terminally ill boy frantically felt his way through the snow, bumping into trees, stumbling over rocks. He dropped the flashlight. He left it. It was useless anyway. The light only reflected the heavy falling snow in front of his face. He needed both hands to find his way.
•  •  The father walked into an entanglement of raspberry bushes. He knew he bypassed Job's cabin, his estranged neighbor to the west. He was probably within inches of the cabin at one point, but the severity of the storm blocked it from view.
•  •  Job, too, was experiencing the storm's fury. The wind pelted his face with snow, numbing him 'till he entered a trance-like state. Everything seemed otherworldly, strangely silent. Riding a horse, it was impossible to make out anything beyond a couple of feet in front of him. He was apprehensive of crossing thin ice and falling into Green Bay. The horse worked against a merciless wind and stinging snow to maintain balance. The horse took the deep drifts one tentative step at a time. His Grandfather, who had passed on a long time ago, called to Job. The voice, clear and comforting, sounded close at hand.
•  •  In his slow, articulate manner, the Grandfather spoke out again, "Stop, my boy, let me guide you."
•  •  Job wondered how his Grandfather could see any better than himself.
•  •  "Those of us who wa'k on have a c'earer vision." The elder's native accent avoided blended "L's". There was a slight chop in his pronunciation. "Let me he'p you," he repeated in a reassuring tone, full of confidence.
•  • Although Job could see neither his Grandfather nor the bridle of his own horse, he did feel another person take over and lead the horse and rider to safety. Job dismounted onto his porch while the horse disappeared in the blizzard. He realized he was barefoot. Suddenly his grandfather opened the door from inside Job's house.
•  •  "How did you get in?" Job asked, simultaneously thinking back to the horse. Job wondered where it came from; he had never owned a horse.
•  •  The Grandfather was dressed in buckskin leggings and a breach cloth. He was bare-chested, save for a leather thong around his neck, suspending a small medicine bag. "I must get back. I wa'k in another country now. I came to give you a gift." "A gift?"
•  •  "You must use it for another. It is a gift of vision."
•  •  He lifted the medicine bag and placed it over Job's head. Job examined it closely. It was made of a single piece of sacred buffalo hide, throng and all. There wasn't a seam in it.
•  •  "There is a red road and a black road," the Grandfather explained; "Those who wa'k the black road find life fractured, in pieces. When they try to mend life there is a seam left holding the many pieces together. Along the red road, in the land I now wa'k, everything is whole; there are no seams. All is one."
•  • Job woke with a start.
•  • The noise of the storm resonated throughout the house. His Grandfather was no longer there. Job still clutched his fist near his chest where he had held the medicine bag, but the bag had vanished along with the dream. The dream was so lucid and sharp that the darkness of his bedroom seemed to be an illusion. His hands were even cold as if he had been outside, and his face tingled as if he just had just come in from a long stay in the cold.
•  •  He thought he heard his name faintly called from somewhere out in the storm. Perhaps it was just the trick of the wind, but his wife sat up also.
•  •  Job slipped out of their bedroom. He tested the light switch in the kitchen but it was out. The lack of electric sounds, such as the refrigerator, confirmed downed lines. Pumping up the Coleman gas lantern that they kept in the rear entranceway, he kept an ear out for the voice calling his name. He struck a wooden kitchen match against the rough hewn wood molding near the floor and guided it into the lamp. It ignited the silk-like filament sack. He adjusted the level to a comfortable low and went to the living room with it. He went outside, leaving the lantern on a reading table, when his name was called again.
•  •  The father of the sick boy retraced his steps toward the faint light he hoped was from Job's window. The two men bumped into each other. The father clung to Job's arm, pleading his cause in a voice trembling from cold and anxiety. Job had heard of the boy's plight and led the father inside. They shook and stomped off the heavy snow in the sunken foyer. Job's thin goatee was caked with snow now melting into slush. The father pleaded with Job to come over and try to do something for his boy. Job remained silent.
•  •  "For the sake of God, or who ever you believe in, would you please come to my son and try to do something for him?"
•  •  Job recalled the words, "...or who ever you believe in," to himself. Now was not the time to discuss the point with a desperate father.
•  •  Job thought to himself, "How could you imagine there is anyone other than the One we both believe in, The Eternal Mystery, the Father and Grandfather of us all, despite the different expressions we sometimes use in referring to Him?"
•  • He pushed, interiorly, on his lungs, nearly speaking the last few words out loud.
•  • The father thought this was just a sigh.
•  •  "A gift?" he had asked his Grandfather.
•  •  "You must use it for another."
•  •  "Vision." What sort of vision did he mean?
•  •  His wife, Hazel, came to the doorway of their bedroom. She said nothing. She did not want the neighbor to see her, or, worse, for the distraught father to think he disturbed her. She had strong facial features; not hardened, but expressive of a weathered life. Still, a life she would not trade. Her long black hair had begun to gray. Two ribbons of white hair flowed from her temples. Job would ceremoniously braid and wrap these in soft strips of bleached deer hide. Those she let hang in front. People saw this as a sign of sacred wisdom. Job adorned the braids with two eagle feathers for Pow-wow. One feather the tribal Elders gave her, along with the name Gi-Gi-Go-Kway, Sky Woman. The other feather was an inheritance from her father and the honor paid him. She was a full blood Ojibwe from a reservation up along Lake Superior. They called the lake, Gitchigame.
•  •  This night, however, the hair was simply combed straight. A soft wave formed where it cloaked proud shoulders then fell down her back. She gave Job a look of approval and calmly turned back to their bedroom.
•  •  Job dressed for the elements. He grabbed a birch-bark basket, and selected some herbs, a decorated medicine hoop of four colors with an interlaced, crossed center before heading out the door. A strange light lit the way for Job, keeping ahead of him by several feet. The father followed, but floundered. He could not see a thing. Job gave him a walking stick and led the man back to the house where the afflicted boy lay.
•  •  The mother gave a look of shock and anxiety when the half-breed "shaman" neighbor came inside. She knew her husband went out in frustration, perhaps to find help; but Job was the last person she expected to see. This was akin to welcoming a priest on a sick call with the Sacrament of Extreme Unction for the dying.
•  •  Job spotted a large Crucifix on the living room wall and snatched it. The mother of the boy made a weak start to rescue the sacred symbol. She wasn't sure what a heathen would do with a Crucifix, but decided the Medicine Man could have it.
•  •  "The Pagan?!" she mouthed, in silence, to her husband.
•  •  She was not certain if she was following the cross or deserting it. The traditional understanding of their faith, devoutly shared for nearly a quarter century, was being tried tonight. The adoptive parents had sent up their traditional novenas, lit blessed candles, and had Masses offered. There was nothing left for them to do.
•  •  If this trial was the will of God, they had a hard time understanding it; less so, surrendering to such a will. Bringing in a heathenish shaman would have to be a sin laid upon their souls, if only the small boy could be saved.
•  •  "God would not hold this against the boy," they both concluded.
•  •  The parents worried their other teenaged children would be scandalized to learn a pagan was summoned. They would concern themselves with explanations later and hope that for now the older children would remain asleep. But with all the commotion, the siblings were awakened. The boy, nineteen, grabbed the rail at the top of the second floor while his sister, a year younger, squeezed past to sit on the top step.
•  •  They had been accustomed to their parents attending their adopted brother late at night, but sensed this to be different. They thought the sound of a third adult entering the house was the retired Dutch Doctor Van de Avert from the village. The sight of their mysterious Indian neighbor stayed the teens for a moment.
•  •  Job removed the candlesticks from the dining room and carried these into the sick boy's room. He instructed the mother to boil water for tea, referring to her as Sister Faye. She paused a moment at this unexpected title of relationship. They had been neighbors for ten years, yet Job never addressed them by name, a peculiarity other villagers had noticed. Now it was Sister Faye and Brother Earl, spoken as smoothly as if this had always been the case.
•  •  The teens, quickly and quietly, came downstairs, but holding back from their mother's field of vision less she send them back up.
•  •  Job nodded to the children. "Raymond. Marie," Job pronounced in a warm and friendly manner.
•  •  Raymond, a slender six-footer, widened his eyes, surprised that the neighbor they were supposed to avoid would mention his name. Marie was no less taken back, but lowered her eyes and stepped towards the safety of her mother.
•  •  Then, making the Sign of the Cross, Job chanted the Pater Noster. The family, astounded to discover that he might be a Catholic, joined him in the last few words, "Sed libera nos a malo," - deliver us from evil. Amen.
•  • Tears formed in the parents' eyes to think that God had not forsaken them; even though they thought they were abandoning Him.
•  •  "He hears the cry of the poor," Job said, turning to the parents as if given a revelation of what concerned their troubled minds and hearts. Whether he was granted this grace that night, no one knows, but the effect was divinely blessed.
•  •  Up to this point they took his odd ways to be paganism. Job opened up the Crucifix-sick-call-set on the boy's nightstand and set up candles from the dining room. He left the tiny cellophane wrapped candles and small vial of holy water that came inside the crucifix in their respective storage slots. An ordained priest for the Last Rites could use those items another time. Braided herbs were lit from one candle and Job set about smudging the patient, his family and the room. Facing west, north, east and finally south he chanted in his ancestral language softening the typical nasal tone of Native American song. His voice was baritone, rich in resonance, yet gentle and soothing. The ancient, ancestral prayers were sounded with clarity. It was not that the family understood the Potawatomi language, but so the word-sounds could be more appreciated. The aroma of sweet-grass calmed the anxious family. Watching his careful and determined movements towards the four directions, the heavens and the earth, the family felt a tranquil energy fill the room. Job's gestures had a priestly quality to them.
•  •  He handed the smoldering braid of sweet-grass to Raymond. The young man, honored with the task to care for the sacred herbs, looked back with admiration for the medicine man.
•  •  "Thank you," Job said with soft, kind eyes and a somber face.
•  •  Taking the medicine hoop, he waved it over the child in a cross-like motion. Starting from an invisible center point he fanned the sacred hoop towards the west and paused, then returned the hoop to the center. He did the same towards the north, the east and the south, always returning the hoop to that same center point. He then made four clockwise circles over the boy who was still struggling to breathe.
•  •  When the hot water was ready, Job mixed some herbs into a coffee cup and let it sit on the nightstand. He called for a serving bowl, freely expressing his gratitude each time a family member assisted him. He set aside a bundle of dried sage from the birch bark basket, and then froze. There, hidden by the twist of sage, was the red medicine bag. He slowly withdrew it from the basket for all to see, then laid it beside the sage. His eyes fixed intently on the bag a few moments before he continued with the ritual.
•  •  Job mixed the remaining herbs in the bowl and stripped the boy of his pajamas. He washed the child with the pleasant smelling liquid. Not a drop touched the bed. He coaxed about half the cup of herbal tea down the boy. Job rubbed the boy's pillow with dry sage and placed the medicine bag over the boy. He then covered the boy with blankets as if he was his own son, kissed him and sang the Te Deum. He repositioned the medicine bag to lie on the child's chest. It was 3:30 in the morning.
•  •  "What is this?" Raymond asked as he handed the braided herbs back to Job.
•  •  "Sweet-grass."
•  • "What does it do?"
•  • "Incense," Job said putting the charred braid in the basket.
•  •  "Does it have any power of its own?"
•  •  The parents both took in a long breath of air, worried about what sort of answer Job might have for that last question.
•  • "No."
•  •  The brief response was direct and honest. Earl and Faye took it to be a denial of any mysterious powers. Job knew that nothing came into being except through the power of Grandfather Creator. Any power invested into the sacred herbs belonged to God.
•  •  Job pulled out a smaller stump of sweet-grass braid and handed it to Raymond. To Marie he gave a palm sized webbed hoop.
•  •  "Hang this over your bed and it will capture dream spirits, allowing only sweet dreams to drip down," Job said with a smile that permitted her to take or leave the explanation.
•  •  Marie looked to her mother who nodded permission to accept the gift. She graciously took the gift into her slender hands, admiring the delicate weavings and colorful border. The spontaneous hug and kiss took Job by surprise, nearly setting him off balance.
•  • During the next couple of hours the boy's breathing became more and more regular. The fever left and he rested in sleep. Job spoke more directly with the parents once the lad was in a deep sleep. The couple took turns weeping and thanking Job for coming over. Job was embarrassed over this, saying instead, "Thank you for calling me. I will come back in a few hours."
•  • He trudged back to his own cabin on borrowed snowshoes. The blizzard diminished, but added another foot or so of snow to what was already on the ground. A lighter snow fell now. It was the predawn morning of Christmas Eve. He felt the overpowering peace of the Christ Child in the quiet stillness following the storm. Job strapped the borrowed snowshoes over another pair that hung just outside his door. Once inside the warm cabin, he went over to a window and looked out. The light that led him back and forth was gone now.
•  • Hazel came downstairs to be with her husband. She rested an arm over his shoulders. "How is the boy?"
•  •  He placed his hands over the rosary beads that dangled from her right hand over his chest. They were plain, worn, oval beads repaired several times. He inched his left hand up along the chain of beads searching for the three rounded beads that replaced those she lost years ago. The three substitutes were at his fingertips. These were taken from her mother's rosary before closing the casket a year ago at this time. These were the three prayer beads she often paused at the longest, especially in times of greatest need. Her prayers were such a comfort to him.
•  • "I knew your Grandfather," she said.
•  • "You did?"
•  •  "He drove a minister to our reservation a long time ago, someone we called Minwahjimo Winini. Mom had the two of them in for dinner. Anyway, he came to me in a dream tonight. It was good to see him again."
•  •  Tears welled up in Job's eyes. He inched his hand up to cover hers and gave it a reassuring squeeze. They would have to wait for the rising of the sun to see what the storm had left them.

Hawk Dancer © 2004 Bro. Joshua Seidl,SSP
Hawk Dancer llustrations © 2004 by Kathy Johnson
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