The Bear Society Warrior
Some worried White men were running down into the dug-up grass trench out of which he had just climbed, to see to the needs of Jeffery, who was, despite being a cereal killa’, one of their tribe and obviously in need of aid. So they went to him as they should. Three-Rivers and Gerald were just happy to have escaped being duct-taped.
Good, it sounds as if he will live. He is talking—we must hurry up and acquire another ride soon!
Moments later, as Jeffery was being pulled out of the broken face of his injured beast—I hope it is not dead—a member of the warrior-tribe called police, who had so often been the enemies of DeathSong and his evil brother Randy of the White Hate Society, pulled over before Three-Rivers and climbed out of his swift looking beast. Seeing this, Gerald scampered up onto his head and under the hat.
“Oh shit, id da popo. What worse dis Smokey da Bear; da State Police—worses kine dey is.”
Oh no, this is a bad sign. Do you recall Three-Bear, fiercest warrior of Big-hill-town?
This is his White counterpart, with a thundercaster, mean looking medicine-hat and all. He is looking at you accusingly, particularly at the medicine-gourd. You have apparently violated a Bear Society taboo!
Oh no, I’m to be persecuted; a criminal again!
Gerald was shaking with fright beneath his hat as the man came to tower over Three-Rivers and snarled, “Did you have anything to do with that wreck?”
You must not lie. These White Sunset warriors revere the memory of their CherryTreeKiller Ancestor who never lied, not even about his slaying of the Sacred Tree. Tell only the truth.
“Yes, I did that, with my squirrel. That man is a cereal killa’—has a box of children’s cereal-corn for bait and painted duct-tape for sacrificial child-binding, torture and sacrifice.”
The man pointed his big finger at him and snatched away the medicine gourd. “Did you drink all of this!”
Gerald meanwhile hissed in anger, “Oh no he didn’!”
“No Bear Warrior, my squirrel drank two caps full.”
Gerald was now trembling, not with fear, but with anger, as the man dropped the gourd in the grass and demanded, “Let me see your I.D. kid!”
After a few attempts Three-Rivers managed to get to his wallet and eventually extracted the now shy I.D. card. He then handed it to the Bear Society Warrior who now kicked the bottle aside as he examined the I.D. to determine Three-Rivers’ tribal status.
Gerald hissed, “Oh dis shit is wrong. He ain’t takin’ us witout a fight—en wastin’ dat good liquor. He gonna have ta beat yo ass down boy!”
“What beat me, why?”
“‘Cause yo gonna resist arrest fool! He need ta know you a man.”
This does not sound like prudent advice.
The warrior was meanwhile becoming critical of his tribal status. “What did you get this out of a comic book? Do you really expect me to believe that you were born in Fifteen-twenty-three?”
“That does make me old enough to drink fire-spirits.”
Why is Gerald climbing down my back? Oh please don’t leave me my totem.
“Listen kid, even if you were four-hundred plus years old you would still be in violation of open container and public drunkenness ordinances; not to mention assault, and keeping a wild animal as a pet.”
“You know, you White People are no fun at all.”
“Alright kid, turn around and put your hands behind your back.”
As Three-Rivers meekly submitted to the menacing Bear Society Warrior who was even then taking steel cords of wrist-binding from his crowded belt. Mister Gerald Hicks, now a warrior above all squirrels—and without even a hit of cocaine powder to get him ‘stoked’ for battle—leaped through Three-Rivers’ legs in between the legs of the large White warrior, and bit him in the penis!
As Three-Rivers turned and looked on in shock and adulation, and the gathering people stood by in wide-eyed terror, the Bear Society Warrior rolled in the grass in agony. Gerald then jumped onto the man’s head, casting away the evil hat, and did, most authoritatively relieve himself on the injured warrior’s face.
That is very funny—despite being quite disgusting—Mister Hicks!
Even the gathered Whites—even the limping Jeffrey who had also felt Gerald’s wrath—laughed out loud at this. The laughter was short-lived though, because the warrior was coming to his feet in a blind rage, and Gerald, with a last burst of energy, leaped onto Three-Rivers’ shoulder and gasped.
“Oh, it’s on now! Run fool, run fo dat hill!”
This is most certainly the wise course.
Three-Rivers, now a youthful boy just over five feet tall, bounded off through the grass, into the van filled trench, and up the hillside as the people cheered—for him or for the pursuing warrior he could not know—and his drunken legs faltered. Gerald was alternately screeching at the pursuing warrior—who ran with one hand clutching his squirrel-bitten member—and encouraging and scolding Three-Rivers, “Dere you go boy. It yer deal now. My ole ass is beat…
…Are you kiddin’ me, is dat all da fasser you can run boy?
...Dat’s right pump dem skinny red legs boy…
Sheee, if ebry Redskin was as slow as yer ass no wonder Whitey took all yer shit!”
And on he ran into delirium, and eventually into a dreaming state, with visions of a big hairy Whiteman named Yukon Jack filling medicine-gourds in a snow-cave from a bottomless barrel of his magic fire-spirit that turns fat squirrels into fierce warriors and fast boys into wobbly runners…
…Obstructed Mobility Protocol activating.
…Oh thank you Mother. Am I floating across the land?
…Yes I hear them crunching the grass, my sneaking Sunset moccasins.
He had the sensation of cresting the rise of a hill and then his legs began to quicken as he bounded on through a ragged stand of trees where once a mighty forest grew at the command of Old Tree Mother, his patron aspect of The Beginner. On he went, down the wooded hill, toward more grass. Then he heard the pounding footsteps of the warrior behind him, and sensed Gerald screeching for him to gain speed, though he could no longer understand the squirrel.
Save me Old Tree Mother, for the Whiteman comes for me as WhiteSkyCanoe had predicted. Deliver me from my pursuer, if, somewhere in this terrible cut-down world you still push up your shoots to reach for the sun!
He pulled himself around a tree to run along the length of a deadfall, throwing caution away. As he did so the deadfall rolled as the shins of the big warrior crashed into it. Three-Rivers somehow kept his footing, scampering now like a chipmunk down the hillside. The pursuing warrior was not so lucky. The man fell forward down the wooded hillside and rolled end-over-end until his head smashed into the trunk of a stunted ash.
Oh no, I hope he is not dead.
He absently noted Gerald’s screeches of protest as he walked over to the fallen warrior to examine him. But he was now firmly in the realm of spirit, no longer conversant with people and totems.
If the man dies you will see his soul emerge, and you may escort him to the base of the Starlit Path.
I shall Father.
He knelt by the banged head of the man and saw that he breathed, and that he was even beginning to move.
Leave this evil place; a place where they waste such good warriors on such private concerns as your spirit-walking.
Yes Father. I should like to summon him someday, when I am in some kind of like Sunset place, and in like peril.
Three-Rivers was now, not conscious as a youth, but as the Oneness that informed him, the vast knowing entity powered by The Sunken Star beneath The Horizon Within. He had once joined with one of Thunderer’s dream-catchers, which the Sunset people known as time-travelers called event capacitators. Hence he was now not just a time-travelling prophet, but also the time-bending spirit itself.
The time-travel hoops had wires within, for matching travelers to their Oneness and making them subject to summoning. Three-Rivers had his hair; his thick, round, black, shoulder-length strands that the Sunset ladies so admired. He plucked one of these hairs from his head and wrapped it around the left wrist of the Bear Society Warrior and communed with the half-conscious man silently, with his piercing thoughts that tinkled like crystal clear water into the minds of those he touched and wished to enlighten…
I am Three-Rivers, and I am your friend.
I am WhiteSkyCanoe and I am sorry for your pain.
I am Tina Hesperia, the Sunset Lady, and you will love me.
I am Thunderboy, and you shall come when I call.
Three-Rivers stepped back and grabbed his totem before it could do anymore hurt to the fallen warrior, who now looked up at him in a daze, as if he had seen The Beginner himself. Three-Rivers looked down at the man, who now lifted his own head and widened his eyes.
He winked at the man and felt his eye twinkle.
He held out his hands to the man and felt the wisdom of WhiteSkyCanoe.
He pursed his lips and felt Mother’s irresistible grace.
He lifted his hands from this distant camp on the blue rock at the end of the cloud-tail to reach for The Sunken Star at the center of the spiral of star-sprinkled cloud-tails that spun through the Black Breath of Beginning. He felt it there, though it was unseen, and he became Thunderboy streaking through the crease in The Everything where it bent, with a cowering though unrepentant man disguised as a squirrel wrapped around his neck.
Father, the One Parted Tree is so beautiful. I’m so glad we can see it together, for its description lies beyond my power, expanded as it is.
