He appeared before the time-honored scalp post, lifetimes past painted for visions by Father and the departed grandfathers, and hung with the trophies of sorrowful war. This is where his sacred white elk hide had been consecrated, blessed to prevent his vision sickness to come on in response to the repulsion he felt when animal flesh was butchered and roasted and men killed. The White Faces would shield him from the profane needs and mundane end of ordinary men with the blessed hide so that his visions would only come when desired for prophecy and the escorting of worthy souls.

Your people were not all-so-noble. They never let you escort the souls of departing tree-eater people did they?

Now, as he was merged with the Thunder-hoop and in communion with the One Parted Tree, as well as being haunted by the ghosts of WhiteSkyCanoe and the Sunset Lady, he was not afflicted by those sacred illnesses that Healer called Doctor London had described as an ‘animal protein allergy’ and ‘stress induced epileptic seizures’. In his current state, the vision sickness only came on in extreme instances, such as those imbalances caused by his willfully improper use of the Oneness within him, which Angh called an ‘artificially intelligent singularity’.

His uncharacteristic anger, set at ease by Father’s wise counsel and the reordering of his mind brought about by his passage through the One Divided Tree, resulted in him appearing at the sacred spot of the Big-Hill-Town grandfathers in a state of serenity.

The scene before him—or rather the progress of events before the post prior to his shattering the concentration of all involved by his appearance at the base of a lightning bolt—appeared to have involved the sacrifice of certain unfortunate White men.

Oh well!

Reverence, My Son.

Yes, Father.

A fresh scalp adorned the pole and a Whiteman of Jesus in a black robe was sprawled before the post, his eyes seared by a brand and his genitals cut off before his throat was slit. The scalp had, of course, been taken first. More White men awaited their doom, kneeling before the elders and war-chiefs, as a medicine-man danced before the pole with the sacrificial knife.

So, My Son, we are so much better than the Whiteman?

Understood and internalized as a First Principal, Father. Rest now, I shall do the right thing while you sleep.

Gerald though, was of another mind. “You folks is alright boy! Dis is what I call affirmotive action! Only thing Whitey undastand is da hamma—or a two-by-fo soaked in mota oil fo twenny year. Did I tell ya I was a platform memba of da Black Panthas?”

“Well Gerald, now I can see more clearly your vexation over being reincarnated as a squirrel, since you had formerly been a member of a big cat society.”

“You tellin’ me boy. Bud adleast I gotz me some claws—badass fingernails adleast…”

His conversation with his totem drifted into disunity as the attention being paid to them by the assembled Natural People and their White captives seemed to develop a weight, a force of inquiry if you will, that necessitated a response.

The eyes of the medicine-man were wide as if with ecstasy, and the rest, White men and Red men before him, were struck dumb with fear at his sudden and thunderous appearance in their midst.

Their awing has already been accomplished. It is now left only to enlighten and guide.

He spoke in the Seneca dialect of the Longhouse tongue, and the words flowed like mountain water over polished river stones, “Friends, warriors, grandfathers, pitiful White men,

I am Three-Rivers, son of WhiteSkyCanoe, and I have returned.”

Gerald was now perched on his shoulder doing his usual supportive posing routine, alternately mimicking a pious chief and then the sweaty men of toil who strain against iron bars before the mirrors of bodily revelation back on Sunset. Oddly enough the medicine-man was so taken with his appearance he was unable to respond coherently, but continued with his dance powerless to pry his eyes from Three-Rivers, but equally powerless to communicate.

Instead, a frail shrunken elder turned his palms up and smiled before approaching Three-Rivers with his calumet couched in the crock of his arm. “The grandfathers told of your affinity with squirrels but it was difficult to believe. Also, you were said to be lame, but appear whole and well-formed. In any event it is a great thing to have you come in person to acknowledge our sacrifices. I am Feather Foot of the Snipe Clan. Howls-at-the Moon was father to my grandfather. Welcome.”

“A wonderful spring day it is, and wonderful to be among you and our people Feather Foot. On the other occasions of my return to Mother Earth I had pressing concerns elsewhere, involving the battle against the Whiteman. It is good to finally be home again among Father’s people. I have merged with one of Thunderer’s dream-catchers and am hence in a state of transformative growth. I have seen firsthand what the Whiteman did to Mother Earth on Sunset, I have returned to inquire into their encroachment here.”

Feather Foot explained, “The enemies across Raccoon Lake have embraced the filthy Black Robes and their weeping god-hung-on-the-tree.”

Three-Rivers added, “It is the expected thing. The Whites above the lake are ‘Catholic’: lazy, cultic, and despised by the more virulent Whites of protest over nuances concerning the worship of the God-upon-the-Tree-of-Woe. They are called French.”

Feather Foot smiled thankfully and continued as other elders gathered closer to hear their words, “The Tree Eaters down by the Big Salty have welcomed the White men who do not wear black blankets, but rather black head-coverings not unlike your colorful head covering. The Tree Eaters wish to acquire the long knives and thunder-sticks of the Whiteman for use against our Sunrise cousins. Our own war-chiefs consider a parley with these Whites against the Tree Eaters.”

So it has begun already, the turning of the Natural People upon each other in competition for the Whiteman’s things.