Chapter 5: A Dance Too Far [This introduction to the character T.T. Redbone is not posted online due to extreme brutality and sexual violence.]

Three-Rivers woke with the pounding of thunder in his temples, a sign he thought that his powers now waited for him to come into the wild and recover them. He had decided to repeat the seven-day medicine dance of his youth, when he had become a man at the tender age of nine winters. He must now become a man all over again.

He dressed in his tuxedo next to Eddie in the mirror, while the tall brown man put on his suit-without-tie called casual. “Eddie, you must now take me into the wild, and leave me to dance for seven days and nights. I will summon you with your cell when my powers have returned.”

“Son I can’t be dumpin’ you off in da woods. You just a kid…”

“Yes Eddie, I am just a kid! This is why I must seek purification, so that my powers may return and I might once again stand as a medicine-man in the Eye of The Beginner. If I cannot speak with the animals, bind warriors, commune with the Seven Aspects of Beginning, or even walk with the dead, how do you expect me to defeat Mother when she comes hunting us? Furthermore, I have uncovered the secrets of the Thunderbirds and would travel between worlds. I hope for you to accompany me as my medicine-man—official trash-talker for the Magic Boy of Winter so-to-speak. It will not be possible for me to do these things until I have once again become possessed by the ghost of my father.”

Eddie was incredulous. “What you got in dat briefcase boy?”

Three-Rivers hobbled over to their bed and opened up the briefcase of Burnt Man. He first held up the book of Leonardo. “Holy Robinson has asked that God’s Picture Maker be sought in the way nice—like by you and me—rather than in the way of abduction by Randy and Jan and Burton-whoever.”

He then held the book high in his left hand with great difficulty and thrust his right hand into the air holding Thunderer’s stolen dream-catcher. “I have the means to leave this dug-up trench of a world in service to Burnt Man! But to bring the book back to its maker I need a companion, a fellow medicine-man who has ridden thunder—and I need my medicine back Eddie. Are you loyal called with me, or an enemy called against me?”

That is the way. Make him chose.

Eddie stood wide-eyed and open mouthed, “You stole a time-machine from…”

“With your help Eddie!”

“Shoot, I jus’ thought you raided Epson’s liquor cabinet or sometin’.”

“Mother will be mad. She probably hunts us as we speak! She will want to hurt somebody and that somebody won’t be her sweet Magic Boy from Mother Earth!”

“Son, how could you do this to me? I’m screwed!”

“In the way complete called ‘totally’ Eddie.”

Eddie fell to his knees with his head between his hands.

You have broken his resistance. The medicine returns! Comfort him. Instill confidence in your quest.

Three-Rivers slipped the hoop over his head and down around his waist, buttoning his vest over it. He then held the book of Leonardo before Eddie. “Eddie, I once journeyed from the Shellfish-water to the Sunset Hills through a war and across a battlefield to find my father. My companions were a damaged boy who sucked his thumb and a red-breasted bird with a broken wing. We succeeded where many fierce warriors failed. Be my companion Eddie. You are not damaged, have no broken parts, are far larger than a red-breasted bird, do not suck your thumb, and command an awesome thunderhorse. With you by my side I cannot fail. Please Eddie, place your hand upon the book of God’s Picture Maker and swear to this quest. This will be a great undertaking and we will have much success called kicking ass!”

Eddie looked into his eyes, and Three-Rivers did the double-smiling-wink-of-cute-children-that-must-be-indulged. This completed the spell and Eddie placed his hand on the book even as he shook his head. “Okay son… I do swear to help Three-Rivers help Doctor Robinson even dough I’ll be gettin’ kilt in da process. Here’s lookin’ out son.”

“Here’s lookin’ out too son! We are now questing! Take me to the wild. Leave me for seven days and nights while you go gather war things—and Eddie, you must compose a death song and sing it, so that if you are killed you will not be forgotten by your grandfathers, or at least not thought rude by them.”

Eddie shook his head. “Okay, while I’m getting strapped and doing the suicide rap, you’re what, starving under a tree somewhere?”

“Yes Eddie and dancing too!”

Eddie dropped him off in a mean little wilderness called park that was entirely surrounded by the town. At first he demeaned this place in his mind, as too dug-up and fussed over by White People to be sacred. But then It occurred to him that the animals who did live in this island of harmony, would be wise, having had the opportunity, however odious, of observing the doings of Sunset People.

Yes, you should be able to find a helpful totem here.

He walked down the black stone path in the early autumn morning with his gangster hat cocked, his gator-hide boots well shined, his tuxedo meticulously creased by the slit-eyed lady called Korean that disliked Eddie so much, and swinging his briefcase gently, like a much-desired-man. His pee coat did drag on the trail and was heavy. But he knew that it would come in handy for his daily naps, as he would have to conduct his rituals by the light of the moon to avoid the attention of the ever-nosy Sunset rule-makers called police. He passed a lady escorting her dog for approved defecation and smiled up at her.

By late morning he had explored the park thoroughly. It was bordered by two busy thundertrails at Sunrise and Sunset, and bordered by two house-piled ridgelines at Summer and Winter. A respectable though dirty stream drained the valley and there was plenty of brush and tree cover. He made a shelter in an out-of-the-way spot with his pee coat, before which he cleared a space for dancing. In the center of the dancing place he dug a fire pit and lined it with nice rocks. He also made a flat stone shrine for his turkey bead-melter with hanging bead pan and tea-light underneath. He then scattered his remaining bread around to attract minor birds, who might take the news of his coming to still greater birds.

As night fell he lit his fire—a small one that would not be seen at a distance—and his bead-melter, and began his dance. He danced all night chanting each and every song of WhiteSkyCanoe and the White Face Society. When he had repeated these he even made up songs for the ugly tailed squirrels called rats, and for the thunderbeasts that could be heard in the distance, particularly the buses. He remembered the Bus of Big Medicine fondly and composed a song specifically for that honorable beast.

By daybreak he was wet and weak with exhaustion, and stumbled down to the small river to wash his hands and inflict self-punishment by not taking a drink. He climbed out onto a rock to breathe in the cold air that poured down over the water. He was across from a sitting place for fat people called bench. A squirrel, most curiously, sat upon this bench. He remembered this bench from his scout. It was apparently a place of magic, as the outline of a fallen man had been chalked in yellow onto the black trail before the bench.

This is a sacred location. Call on Father’s ghost now. It is yet early in your quest.

To sing is to be heard.

He took note of the squirrel, glad to have his totem animal looking over him, stepped farther up on the flat slanted rock as the white water pooled around him into the rocky current below, closed his eyes, spun in a circle with up-stretched arms and feeling fingers, and then opened his eyes to look down stream into the rising sun. As his eyes opened wide and stars of falling spotted his vision a swoop of wings sounded above and a great egret—one of Father’s sacred totem birds—nearly brushed his fingertips as it pushed through the damp air above him!

Father you have returned to me. Do not leave Father!

But the great bird continued on its majestic course and there was nothing but silence within—no, their came the rushing of waters into his mind, and the river-stones were rising up to meet his falling face. He was holding onto a slippery rock as the icy waters shocked his body and stole its warmth.

He-Who-Makes-Rivers is bringing you to the Starlit Path my son.

He was swallowing dirty water and throwing up. The lightning in the mind then came.

My son, Thunderer is angered but admires you still. Come to me, or endure your purification and I shall come to you.

The sunrise turned red and then gray, and then black and he was floating down stream…

He awoke to the screech of the squirrel. He suddenly had the urge to live, to dance around his sacred fire and chant his many songs. He pulled at the dead brush stalks and hanging roots even as the squirrel chattered from the far bank. It was still just the chattering of squirrels to the human ear. But he could feel urgency in the chatter, knew the squirrel was encouraging him to climb, even scolding him.

A day of dancing should do it. Dance all through the day until these strange clothes dry.

Yes Father.

He climbed up the bank with renewed urgency and hiked uphill to his camp.

Keep going wrong-eyed boy! Get to camp and dance until dry.

Up he walked over the crisp ground, now freezing in his wet tuxedo. When he returned to camp he took off his boots and socks and set them to dry by the fire while he danced barefoot on the cold ground, chanting all the precious songs of Mother Earth; particularly of owls, end egrets and geese and eagles. He opened the briefcase and danced with the Book of Leonardo all morning. Then he laid aside the sacred book and danced with his hands on the dream-catcher worn like a belt around his tiny waist. While he did the dream-catcher dance he chanted the equations of Burned Man and sang his number and the numbers of his friends that he knew.

It came to him then that this was his purpose, to steal thunder, to become Thunder-Boy! On his trips back and forth to Dawn Time Thunderer had permitted him to see his number, and the numbers of the others, preventing him only from seeing the numbers of Thunderer himself.

I will win the right to see your number Thunderer.

He danced on and on, all day, and through the night, and into the next morning. By then the world was spinning and his feet felt nothing. He placed his last twigs on the fire and began melting his last bead, a bead of oak scent, in honor of his totem squirrel. Father’s ghost had spoken to him no more, but he felt the wings of WhiteSkyCanoe buffet this desolate world and he was happy.

He savored the scent of the melting oak bead as he straightened up as best he could and prepared for the rigorous ritual called getting-on-the-cowboy-boots-without-Mother’s-help. Just as he sat to re-sock his numb feet he heard a once familiar animal language although laced with irreverence and using words in the way of the elderly Burnt Men of Sunset, “Have you lost your mind boy? Does yo mamma know what you done ta dat Easter Sunday suit? Why, if I still had hands I’d tan yo hide fo ‘er!”

Three-Rivers turned on his butt, grinding more mud into the seat of his now much abused and once cloud-gray tuxedo. What he saw amazed even he. It was the squirrel from the sacred bench for fat people, a fat squirrel himself, all ready for winter nesting, with a nice gray coat and a patch of brown over his eyes in the shape of a crooked feather. He stopped open-mouthed for a moment, nearly afraid to attempt speaking squirrel once again and the squirrel, spoke in the way of squirrels and men, “Well loog at you. I’d say some White lady’s porcelain Indian fell out of ‘er cupboard; a sight you are boy!”