Before I tell my story, I need to warn you that the same fate that visited my people, can visit you or anyone, anywhere. It is an illusion to feel safe in your home from mankind’s unkindness toward his fellow human being. The Oconoluftee tribe to which I belong inhabited a place white man named North Carolina. My people never called these ‘mountains that mingle with clouds’ anything other than Home.
My mother called me Degotoga at my birth. The children receive names from their maternal side of clan. I am a member of the Paint clan of the Oconoluftee tribe of Cherokee Indians. The Paint clan notably sends forth medicine healers into the tribe to treat all clans. I was chosen to be a medicine healer, called to invite visions and comfort to those who are dying. I prepared sacred medicine from various plants and earth to treat the sick. I recorded what plants were used, how I prepared them and administered them.
I felt change in the air. This sense of change began as a sign. At the end of the day as I approached a cave where I lived and meditated, I saw an agugu – owl – calling out to me. He watched me from a nearby pine tree, flashing yellow eyes like flames. Cherokee people believe owls possess connection to the spirit world, and give medicine to the sick. Being visited by agugu means impending death.
I am an old man. Look at my hair. It looks more like moonlight than the color of the night sky of my youth. The Little Rock People who dwelled as spirit beings in my cave mentored every healer that entered to learn their wisdom. If I lazily dozed off in my bed, saying, “I’m very tired. Let me sleep,” The Little Rock People would uncover me, and prop me up like a giant fallen oak tree to my feet. Then we all danced and sang around the fire until my head felt stuck in the clouds. Afterward, I would sing while grinding various rocks, berries and burnt wood chips into different colored pigments. I mixed pigments in wooden bowls with animal fat or water to create my palette of colors. Creating paint borne picture stories in my mind. Frayed twigs brushed painted shapes on the cave walls. The Little Rock People encouraged me as I designed my nightly murals by the glow of a torch.
When the sun rose above the morning mist, I picked medicine plants in the meadow among deer as they grazed. Young son of First to Dance needed Yellow Doc for a paste to treat ringworm. I also sought Yarrow to make a tea for old White Squirrel who continually reminded me of her stomach wind exiting from the north or south. After gathering the Yellow Doc and Yarrow to prepare the medicines, I headed into our settlement. My thoughts seemed to line up with the rhythm of my steps pondering a chilling realization. Those recently wounded and needing my medicine came by it more often from white men’s guns. These wounds appeared very deep and messy, with much torn flesh surrounding the holes. My medicine seemed to bring little or no relief. Many died from fever. Cherokee people were no longer safe outside their settlement.
As I approached, a cold cloud encompassed the village. White men’s horses waited outside the seven sided log meeting lodge. Both of our chiefs, Noble Water, peace time chief of the Long Hair and Strangers Clan, and Black Wolf, war time chief of the Wolf Clan, sat in a circle with government Army white men, headed by Major Boyd. A Cherokee interpreter explained to our people of the white men’s plans for us to be removed from our land. Surrounding the circle of our council leaders and Army staff, our people listened with stunned expressions on their faces.
“It is in the best interest of this tribe to move to a government assigned reservation west of the Mississippi River,” said Major Boyd. “After signing the Echota Treaty, the government has appropriated a vast area of land for tribal settlers. President Andrew Jackson sees it as a way to protect Indians from harassment by white settlers as they move east to west. It will be safer for your tribe to move to this controlled area. The government will pay you to take your land, supply you with livestock, food and seed to settle in your new homeland.”
“Your treaty is a treaty of lies,” barked Black Wolf. “It was signed by Cherokees who took money from you for the land that does not belong to them. Once we find them, they will pay for their betrayal of our people. We are not part of Cherokee tribal land. We are independent and want none of white men’s empty promises. Your government means death to the Cherokee Nation, as well as any other tribes that make a pact with you evil dogs!”
Major Boyd bristled with the insult. “You do not understand, Black Wolf, we are not offering the choice of whether your tribe will or will not accept the relocation. We are advising you that according to the Echota Treaty and President Andrew Jackson’s directive to the U.S. Army, you must comply to relocate within the next 60 days, with our assistance. Or, the U.S. Army will remove you forcibly – against your will – which will likely mean death to many who choose to defy these orders. Tell me, how do we proceed?”
All that could be heard was the crackling of burning wood in the center fire, and weeping by some of the women and children. My blood ran cold through my body, feeling the wind from the wings of agugu over our heads in the lodge. I prayed silently, “Creator, we need your wisdom now to save our people.”
Noble Water cleared his throat to speak his peace talk. “Major Boyd, it is evident that we have a wide canyon of divide with what your government demands and what we struggle to understand. Give us time to discuss your government’s plan for relocation to best determine how we can safely move to the new destination. Come back here in seven suns to hear our plan. That is all I ask.”
“Very well,” chimed Major Boyd, “I will grant you one week from today when we will meet here again in the morning.” With that Boyd stood, tall frame casting a pall over the tribe. He moved swiftly out the door with his interpreter and soldiers hustling behind him. Upon their exit, outrage in the form of loud banter overtook the meeting as members of our tribe objected to the white men’s plans to order them to leave their homes. Once we heard their horses no more, I moved forward, asking permission to speak.
The chiefs’ signals quieted the unruly crowd. I stood slowly, looking around the room at the confused, angry faces glaring back at me. “Last night, agugu visited me with a warning of impending death. I understand that Black Wolf is ready to lead our people into war with the white men’s Army. My friends, I have been through war. But this war will be waged here on our settlement. The Army will impose many casualties and death not only to our men who fight, but also on defenseless children and women. After it’s over, the Army will take anyone who survives to where the sun sets orange. Their tears will cover the trail they walk. Many of them will die on that trail from broken spirits.”
Black Wolf stood up angrily, “Degotoga, fear and resignation does not become us. Especially when spoken by a man with your name meaning Standing Together. We have strength in spirit! Our braves can fight to protect our tribe and land!” Cheers of whoops came from the crowd.
I raised my arms in defense, “We have no way to defend ourselves from the Army’s guns and swords, and the many soldiers on strong horses. What will be left of our village once they burn it down to the ground? They will kill everything that gets in the way of their mission, which is to rid us from our land. They will strip away our peaceful lives as we know it. We will lose everything. There’s one thing we know well, better than white men or the Army, these mountains. The Great Spirit calls us to go higher into the mountains where we can hunt, build shelters, and survive the onslaught of white men. It is where we can all survive…standing together.”
I stayed behind waiting, invisible in the tree line high above the settlement. I watched Major Boyd and his men approach on horseback at the appointed time expecting to hear our decision. My heart sang as he dismounted at the lodge. All he heard were the calls of crows in the distance…and the whistling wind behind the backs of our entire tribe.
Becoming Writer 2016 Anniversary Contest 