He drifted off to sleep on the sacrificial platform to which offerings to the Great Hare were made. Gerald sat on his chest eating an ear of corn and Angh examined his belly hoop, dictating the memory commands of science called notes to Eddie, who wrote these things down on the nice pad of paper that Three-Rivers had stolen from the space-trade of young Chief Hyatt along with the Holy Bible for Chief King James. Eddie had also given his medicine-pouch called first aid kit to Angh, the small man being an accomplished healer’s disciple called medical technician on Sunset.

You now enjoy the good life of a true prophet. Be sure to earn this honor anew with every fresh day.

…He sat cross-legged and cross-armed floating on a roiling thundercloud behind Father as he paddled his great white canoe across the sky. In the distance the cloudbanks unfolded to reveal the Eye of Beginning. He smelled fresh leaves scorched by an ageless fire…

…He was being awakened by Angh as Eddie worried in the background and T.T. prepared his nine-millimeter thunder-caster. Angh placed a nervous hand upon his chest. “Three-Rivers I fear enemies approach, and most of the warriors are obviously gone. We must do something.”

He sprang off the platform as he had never moved upon waking before. His entire 17 years had been spent in suffering every time he returned to the waking world from his dreams and visions. It had sometimes taken a great deal of time just to straighten his legs and back. Now he sprang up like a youth after a bounding hare!

Slow down. Move with smooth repose; dignity—yes, and poised arrogance!

“Eddie, my hat, jacket and pimp-cane, and briefcase as well.”

“Gerald, perch upon my left shoulder so I might flourish my magic stick while you stand cross-armed with the dignity of an elder chief.”

“T.T. stay and protect the people. I will confront the enemy alone. Angh, ah…do whatever it is that scientists do at these times.”

Three-Rivers marched like the duck-stepping warriors of Hated Hair-Lip out among the people and through the gap in the wall where their few remaining warriors clustered with bows and arrows ready. When he emerged from the gap in the fence he was confronted by ten tens of Summer Mountain Cousins painted for war.

He sucked in a vast quantity of air until his eyes burned and his belly felt like a campfire, and spoke with the deepest voice he could imagine, “Cousins of the Summer Mountains, I am Three-Rivers-Thunder-Boy-WhiteSkyCanoe of the Winter Cousins. May I know if I address any of the grandsons of RedOak, Corn-Son, Father BlueSky or Bobcat?”

A tall thin warrior stepped forward, “I am Three-Arrow, grandson of Corn-Son. Who are you, and how is it that you stand between us and our defenseless enemies so foolishly?”

Express kinship and inclusion along with power drawn from the sky with your hands. Speak like Hated Hair-Lip and let the souls of your audience well up with hope.

“I am he who tamed the flesh-demon who slew your grandfather’s father, he who brought the picture-making called alphabet to your town houses, he who has come to bind together the People of Mother Earth against the Whites!”

He had felt his anger—he had not often experienced anger before—rise, and with it the burning in his eyes. He walked forward like a hate-filled duck-warrior with thunder-stick, and addressed all of the warriors who nervously backed away from him even as they leveled their bows, “Once, many winters ago, the Summer Mountain Cousins fought against the Whites with my flesh-demon at Crossing Rock.”

He spread his arms and paused for emphasis. He then sucked in air through his flaring nostrils to cool the burning pain behind his eyes and pulled down with his left hand as if he was bringing medicine from heaven even as he thrust his magic stick in the air, “Would you fight alongside my flesh-demon again, as did you grandfathers?”

A hard-faced elder, the only one that showed no fear; a man with the scar of the White Man’s thunderstone across his cheek, stepped forward, “What demon? You look like a Half-Whiteman yourself in these unnatural clothes. In any event, you are nothing more than a boy. What warrior fights for a boy? And who would rather fight the Whites tomorrow with their thunder-sticks when we could take our ancestral enemies by surprise today?”

He spread his arms and raised his voice, “You make the sensible case for war fearsome chief. I understand your fear of the Whites. Their medicine is powerful and I have only just escaped them myself. Would you agree, brave chief, to fight the Whites if I could prove my medicine was greater than theirs?”

The man roared with laughter. He was truly fearless, not even fearing Three-Rivers’ magic squirrel, thundering voice or radiant winter-sky and sun-fire eyes. “Boy, if you can truly summon demons I will hunt down and burn every trouble-making black-clothed Whiteman in the land. I will even sink one of their stinking canoe-houses with my tomahawk!”

He heard a voice echo across the land like thunder, “Than stand back you!”

“Gerald I’m firing up!”

Mister Hicks then screeched in very squirrel-like irritation, seized Three-Rivers’ hat and leaped to the ground, hiding within the hat like a person hiding in a house from a storm. Three-Rivers extended this ritual as he repeatedly invoked the number of Bruco in the 13 languages of the Mother Earth People that he knew. He completely ignored the assembled warriors and danced on tiptoe in elaborate ways, enjoying his new found vitality and rightness of body. After 17 winters he finally had the able body of a youth. He decided to enhance his ceremony with a dramatic act. He breathed in deeply until his belly burned and his eyes blazed. He then raised his pimp-cane on high and bellowed, “Bruco, come to me!”

The voice was that of the awesome prophet WhiteSkyCanoe and it echoed across the land. When he felt the world tilt, sensed the void unfold, and heard the thunderhead roil above he did what was in essence a cheap trick, by slamming the butt of his cane into the ground with such an effort that he went to one knee as the bolt came down. There was an earsplitting eruption of frozen earth and the fear-filled cry of many warriors. Blood splashed across the back of his mind’s eye and he tumbled within…

…His magic stick felt heavier than the world, unmovable in his hand as he made to rise from his one grounded knee. The cane he could not move for good reason; because the Human Bloodhound from Mother Earth Lost, a man with hands of stone and eyes like an autumn bear, was gripping his pimp-cane just above his own small hand. It was Bruco, gaunt, freshly scarred, naked, and hard as a carved oak plank.

“Welcome to Mother Earth Bruco.”

Bruco raised himself from his one knee and stretched like a great cat as he looked around, “Thank all of the whores in Hell Cacique—you have grown like grass on a spring battlefield. I am in your debt for releasing me from that wretched den of ass-pokers. Sorcery is not such a bad thing when it releases you from bondage. I am your warrior so long as I breathe Cacique.”

The man then glared violently at each of the awestruck warriors gathered around. “And which of these scrawny necks need snapped young Cacique?”

My, he does look demonic with that black face fur growing nearly to his soul-piercing eyes!

“These are my friends Bruco, as are those in the town behind us.”

Do not forget your parley.

He turned politely with feigned serenity to the elder war chief, “Brave chief, what is your name?”

The man retained his composure but barely. “RavenSong.”

He is frozen more with astonishment than fear. He fears nothing. Good!

“RavenSong, this is my flesh-demon Bruco. He has a particular dislike for the Whites called Spanish. Do you think you could spare him a spear?”

RavenSong turned to his men, “The Prophecy of Smokey Grandfather is proved. How many of you warriors would wet your knives in Spanish blood? It’s only two more days to the Town of their Burning Spirit’s Mother! Are you with me?”

Three-Rivers had never before been thrilled to hear men whoop and scream before. He was thrilled now, and he questioned his own piety.

Be warned of that which you invoke. The summoning of demons and stirring of hate is one thing. Putting these spirits to rest is another, graver matter.

People were coming out of the town with gifts of corn and Eddie with gifts of nuts and candies from Sunset. There was a great rejoicing, and the wives of the town even gave themselves to the visiting warriors for the night, knowing that they would be headed out on the next morning to aid their own husbands who were even then off to war against the Whiteman.

He felt invigorated, as if Bruco’s vitality had been poured into his own small body. He was soon set at ease by T.T.’s great hand on his shoulder, and Gerald’s return to his other shoulder as he placed the magic hat back on his head and disparaged Bruco, “Good Gawd boy, dat is da scariess loogin’ Porto Rican I eva seen! If ya aks me doe dats exacly da can a whoop-ass dat a bossy lille termite like you need. Done led ‘im near ma coke doe—he loog greedy like dat; kine’a dude ‘ill drink up yo liquor on Wenzday.”

“I appreciate your words of approval Mister Hicks. You are wise as ever.”