LAST WEEK: Ryo, the ghost of River’s uncle, begins to talk to Jim. River was attacked by a Dire wolf, a species that went extinct 10,000 years ago.
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Chapter 62
Jim
Onteoras — 1985
The Lenni Lenape
Jim lies in his bed. His eyes close, and in the darkness, he is carried into the land of dreams. His bedroom grows icy and clouds with frost. Crystalline curtains drape his windows. His floor sprouts a carpet of thick, plush snow. The night metronome of the crickets slows to a funereal tempo as the temperature plummets.
Wrapped tight inside his blanket of dreams, Jim shivers.
Out of the earth, up through the floor, dust rises. It clings together, forming a translucent woman. She is brown as earth. Her face is worn. Her eyes are shadows in the night. Red paint dots her cheeks and ears. Her hair is made of darkness, the part decorated by a circle of crimson. Her head is encircled by a glowing circlet of deer skin and feathers. Her deep scarlet skirt is swirling with silvery constellations. The edges are fringed with porcupine quills stiff as starched lace. Her shoulders are covered with the iridescent feathers from wild turkey backs. Strands of white shell, bones, tiny skeletal claws, and fangs encircle her neck and dangle from her ears.
“I am Amimi, matriarch of the Lenni Lenape,” she says. Her words are full of K’s and odd stops, cracked and hard as granite. Jim has no idea what language it is. But somehow, he understands the meaning behind the sound.
“Lenni Lenape means The Common, True People, or the Human Beings. We are the people of the Onteoras. We were the first to come to these lands. We traveled over a glassy sea, through the realm of caves, across the land of the buffalo, to the great water where the tribes parted. Once, we stretched all along this land. It was rich in rivers, soaked by streams, luxuriant with lakes and towering trees, tall and wild.
“I am dust a long time now, a mix of memories, a synthesis of stories, a lingering of legends, a tragedy of tribes.
“I see the world wider now than I did when I was here and green on Earth. I know that many have called themselves the true, the only, the original people. But here on this land, we were the first. For over thirty thousand years our ancestors lived here.
“When the white men came in large sailing ships, we were over twenty thousand strong, and kind. There were three clans and twelve sub-clans. The Minsis, people of the stony country, whose totem was the wolf, lived in the rugged country along the upper river. The Unalachtigos, people who lived near the ocean, whose totem was the turkey, and the Unamis, people down the river, whose totem was the turtle. They were children of the Great Turtle, older than the earth itself, who stands deep in the primeval sea, bearing the world on his shell.
“But now the clans are few and scattered. Many died of diseases, numerous as stars, gifts brought by the white men to us, the people whose names they never troubled to learn.
“Yet we survive. We continue, though often unheard. There are Lenape nations in Wisconsin, Oklahoma, Canada, New Jersey, Delaware, and Pennsylvania.
“Even now, Pennsylvania does not recognize our people, although we work in Pennsylvania businesses, vote for Pennsylvania officials, protect Pennsylvania rivers and watersheds, and attend Pennsylvania schools, colleges, and universities.
“I have heard that a sign of progress is to cut down trees and name streets after them. The progress of your kind was marked by the cutting down of people, hundreds of thousands of people, my people, and others. But you did not even name the trees, or towns, or streams for us, the Lenni Lenape, whom you called the Delaware. You wiped even our name, from the land which we were part of—the land which was part of us.
“Those who remained were pushed from these mountains, by war, forced west to Ohio and north to Canada. Less than a handful remember our customs from a time long ago when the earth and air were pure, and the waters ran clean to the sea.
“The Lenape people have survived displacement and upheaval. The very fact that we are still here is significant. We are in a time of renewal, and a time of great change.
“We left many teachings for the people to learn by and to share with others. Those teachings focus on respect and commonality among all living things.
“We cannot know our future if we do not know our past. The history and continued presence of our people is a long and winding story that has faced much erasure. It needs to be re-told often and authentically.
“I, who am only dust and memory, have heard your heart call. You are here, in our place, making images of our animals, and so I am here too. To tell you how to walk. Your totems will lead you many places. They will follow you home and help you in the darkness.
“I see them, crows that circle your head, wolves that circle your heart. Grey rainbow birds that will guide you where you must go.
“Tonight, I will tell you a story. It is a tale for children, though you are grown. It is a legend of the Lenni Lenape, though you are white. It is not a true tale, but in it, you will find truth.
“It is the story Why the Crow is Black.
“Long, long ago, when the world was young, the crow had iridescent rainbow feathers, more colorful than a sunrise. His voice was lovelier than dawn, clearer than the waters that ran lucid to the sea.
“In those days, it was always summer. But one day, Kijilamuh ka’ong, The-Creator-Who-Creates-By-Thinking-What-Will-Be, thought of cold.
“Kijilamuh ka’ong pictured white powder falling from the sky. Kijilamuh ka’ong imagined a rain of crystal flowers. Thus, Snow Spirit was conceived.
“When Snow Spirit appeared, all the people and the animals began to freeze. They shivered and shook. Their bones beneath their skin froze. The skin beneath their fur turned blue. Their teeth clattered like rolling stones.
“It was decided that a messenger should be sent to Kijilamuh ka’ong to beg him to think of the World as warm again.
“It was a long way to the house of Kijilamuh ka’ong. Because of his true heart, clever head, and strong wings, the animals and people choose Rainbow Crow to be their messenger. Up, up, up into the sky he flew. He flew until his wings were sore. He flew until his muscles were stinging. He flew until each tendon cried in pain.
“Finally, after three days’ time, he reached the cloud outside of Kijilamuh ka’ong’s wigwam. It was dark and heavy with snow. Rainbow Crow was so tired he could hardly move. He was so hungry he could barely speak. He was too in awe of Kijilamuh ka’ong to peck on his wigwam.
“He warmed himself by fluffing up his feathers. He opened his beak, cleared his throat and began to sing. He trilled and he warbled. He vibrated and harmonized. Kijilamuh ka’ong left his wigwam to see who was singing so beautifully. When Rainbow Crow saw Kijilamuh ka’ong approach, he began to croon a ballad of the cold. He sang of the suffering of the people. He chanted of the anguish of the animals. He begged Kijilamuh ka’ong to make it warm again.
“But Kijilamuh ka’ong said He could not. Now that He had thought of cold, He could not unthink it.
“‘But I have another thought,’ said Kijilamuh ka’ong. His voice was as fresh as the first green leaf in spring, as deep as a roll of thunder, older than time, truer than memory.
“‘I am imagining an undulating flower that will keep you warm, even when nights are cold. I am picturing a red flaming blossom that will turn white Snow Spirit into clear water.’
“So saying, Kijilamuh ka’ong broke a twig from his wigwam and poked it into the sun until it was burning.
“‘Fly swiftly back to earth, Rainbow Crow. Speed fast as you can. Fly before the flame is consumed and you have only ash.’
“Rainbow Crow took the stick in his beak. He dove earthward as fast as he could. The burning stick flamed hot and red. It charred all of Rainbow Crow’s beautiful feathers until they were black as coal. As he plummeted toward earth, the smoke and heat scorched his throat until his voice was hoarse.
“That is why Rainbow Crow is black and has a harsh, rough voice. It is also the reason that Rainbow Crow is venerated by all who remember. They do not forget his sacrifice, and never kill crows for food. It is a helpful, and a constant, reminder to those who might forget, that due to his long eternal charring, his flesh is smoky and tough.
“And, from that day to this, if you look closely at Rainbow Crow’s feathers you can see the ghosts of many colors gleaming in the blackness.”
As the sun peeked its head above the Onteoras, Amimi began to fade, lightening into golden day.
What is the difference between a ghost, a dream, and a memory? Where is the divide between belief and hope? There is a reason spirits wander. As long as you are a nightmare in the dark, as long as someone knows your name, you are not gone. Doubtless, this is why Amimi shares her story. For her people to exist, she must be remembered. For her people to continue, her story must be known.
Jim awoke, opening his eyes, stretching, extending arms heavenward. He feels washed clean by the night’s dream.
It was so real. Outside in the new light, he hears doves cooing. He walks to his small stove and begins boiling water for coffee.
When I go to town, I’m going to go to the library and look up more about the natives who lived here. I have read of the Nez Perce, the Cherokee, the Navajo, and the Cheyenne… But here, I thought it was the Algonquin… careless not to investigate my own surroundings… Worse maybe, like the Europeans Amimi talked of, those who never learned their names…. I don’t want to be one of those… Still, it was just a dream… wasn’t it?
He walks into the new day, toward the barn. Overhead, a crow caws. On countertops lie metal scraps and welding tools. On a bench by the door, crows, wolves, and coyotes crouch, race, and fly.
Jim stares at the bench. His four coyotes lie as he has made them, two curled, head to tail in tight, safe balls, two more are arching triangles, mouths open in a silent howl. His twelve wolves run, crouch, and wail at an unseen moon. But of his ten roosting crows, who’d been calmly perching on branches of forks and nails, only three remain. The other seven are flying upward and plunging down, frozen in the still air of the barn. A stray beam of sun peeping around the corner catches their wings, making the once-black crows glisten and shimmer like oil on tranquil waters.
Jim gasps. He staggers slightly, clutching his chest, his heartbeat rapid as a hummingbird’s. He holds his breath and waits. Expecting them to fly to earth or break through the ceiling. But they remain still as scrap metal.
After what seems a very long time, Jim, fighting a tremendous desire to flee, creeps toward them. Moving close, he can see that there is nothing supernatural about their flight. They are dangling from the beams of the barn, held aloft by threads so thin and fine it is invisible unless turned into rainbows by the sun.
Watch the author read this week’s installment in the video below:
NEXT WEEK: They shivered constantly, even on the hottest days of summer. And when they read history, tears ran down their cheeks unchecked. The past can hit you that way when it becomes real. Our salvation is that it so rarely does.
Edited by Mitchelle Lumumba and Sophie Gorjance.
E.E. King is cohost of the MetaStellar YouTube channel's Long Lost Friends segment. She is also a painter, performer, writer, and naturalist. She’ll do anything that won’t pay the bills, especially if it involves animals. Ray Bradbury called her stories “marvelously inventive, wildly funny and deeply thought-provoking. I cannot recommend them highly enough.” She’s been published widely, including Clarkesworld and Flametree. She also co-hosts The Long Lost Friends Show on MetaStellar's YouTube channel. Check out paintings, writing, musings, and books at ElizabethEveKing.com and visit her author page on Amazon.