Painted Post
Muncie had driven him past Tioga to Painted Post New York; once a sacred totem stand, now just another of the Whiteman’s mean little places to stop while hurrying elsewhere. This land had once been the Sunset Door to the lands of the Five-fire-council of the Longhouse-nation, to whom his father, the serene WhiteSkyCanoe, had been the One Prophet of He-Who-Makes-Rivers. Now, it was New York State, one of fifty pieces of land torn from the Natural People of Mother Earth and parceled out among the American Tribes of the Whiteman to be dug-up and traded and covered with unnatural rock. Furthermore, this—his land—had not even been given a proper name, but a used up name that had once belonged to a worn out English town on the miserable island of the miserable Angles, who mispronounce themselves as English!
I hate New York!
I hate the English!
I hate the Whiteman!
It feels like poison, but it is right. I shall set DeathSong, Bruco, T.T. Redbone and even Randy Bracken upon them—kill them all!
Hate not my Son. Where is the lovely boy I raised and sent to this evil future?
Father, I have changed Father. I never hated before, yet I do now.
No, it is your sorrow engulfing you. Do not let it turn to hate. Hate is not only wrong it is counter to your purpose. Even your wicked Sunset Mother, as depraved as she is, does not hate, for she knows it to have no useful end.
But Father, it hurts—I hurt. Since I joined with Burnt Man’s thunder-hoop and hence the One Divided Tree I see so much more. I perceive things through the bent light of The Sunken Star.
I loved all through ignorance. Now, through knowing, I hate.
No, my boy, you simply feel the full weight of The World’s sorrow. You must come to grips with the pain that washes over your spirit. Do not let the current drag you to the lake. Swim, swim with the current, downriver to the sunny goose glades…
He had become entranced and was sweating profusely. He felt a hand on his wrist; Muncie nudging him gently. His hearing was not yet returned, as if his mind was emerging from a long mist-shrouded river. Before him though, on the dashboard of Muncie’s wretched pickup truck, stood Gerald, claws balled on his haunches, and nose twitching in irritation as he regarded Three-Rivers over back-swept whiskers of disdain, “So, boy, we blowin’ Whitey Worl with dis dumb redneck’s dope, or we sittin’ ‘ere cryin’?”
He looked at Muncie who was worried, and saw that it was noon. “Dear Muncie, my helpful White friend—yes, everyone should have a Whiteman for a friend, even if just to keep up appearances—might you pull your fine truck over behind that building so that I can blow this joint with my squirrel?”
Muncie seemed elated. “Sure, dude, can’t wait to see the disappearin’ act!”
Within minutes Three-Rivers was standing before an amazed Muncie with Gerald wrapped around his neck—tail between teeth—and his hands beckoning Thunderer. He felt the world remove itself from beneath him even as he saw the crease in the Universe open to reveal the One Parted Tree, through which he was sucked by the reverse-energy of The Sunken Star.
Thank you for your counsel Father. I shall strive to be wise according to your example.
