FIRE FROM THE SKY
The Story of the Rise and Fall of the Sioux Nation
as Told Through the Eyes of a Sioux Medicine Man
1800-1908

by Michael Held

EXCERPT

Chapter 1

Fire From The Sky’s body was badly scarred by many injuries he had suffered in wars against his enemies, his face deeply etched with furrows that told the story of his very long and difficult existence.

He said to all who asked, “Each of the wrinkles on my face reveals the story of one person’s fate that I kept in my care. They are also the product of the many families that were destroyed by alcohol, gunpowder, and diseases brought to the Indian Nations by the White Man, the Washieu, who cared nothing about Mother Earth, Father Sky, the Four Winds, and the most powerful Spirit of them all, Wankan Tanka. But who can blame my people for what befell them? At the time, none of us understood the dangers we faced from the men who came from the East.”

The ancient one’s spine was twisted by arthritis, caused by the many years of riding on horseback into battle against his enemies. He suffered from many wounds earned by defending his people, and with his recklessness in the face of sudden death as a Dog Soldier.

The Medicine Man’s body had many scars, both physical and mental, for age brings such anguish to older human beings. But with all his afflictions, a flame still burned fiercely in his soul. The Seer had always remained steadfast in his beliefs, had placed his fate in the hands of the Grandfathers who had played with his mind -- as They do with each of us in our own turn. What can a mortal do, but do as a mortal must -- obey!

But was he truly blessed? It was the Grandfathers who came to him in his Visions and Dreams seen so vividly in his mind. He had been coerced by the Grandfathers to live such an eccentric life as he led, and influenced to be so out of balance with the Universe. The Medicine Man heard voices in his brain that no one else could hear. They were the utterances of the Grandfathers that tormented the Holy Man every day of his long life, teasing him with the means of rescuing his people from their own destruction, but never granting him the wisdom to complete his journey.

In his mind, he thought back to the splendid Sacred Valley that the Grandfathers had shown to him in his Visions and Dreams. To Fire From The Sky, the Holy place did exist. It was as real as he envisioned it to be. It had solidity, it could be touched by his hand, and it had concreteness, as he had traveled there himself and seen its majestic beauty with his own eyes. If only he had understood the instructions given to him by Grandfathers and brought the many Nations of the Plains there, how different their lives could have been. Certainly, if he would have led his people there, the many Nations would not be suffering still.

The Medicine Man had never surrendered his purpose, but always maintained his courage and remained hopeful all his days.

Even in the worst of times -- at Wounded Knee, in the dead of winter, when more than two hundred defenseless and unarmed Sioux people were slaughtered, shot dead by the United States horse soldiers on orders of the President of the United States -- he had remained stoic. And for what purpose had the many been murdered? A crazed man, a Paiute Indian named Wovoka, came to the Sioux and told them a wondrous story of his ability to transport them to safety in another plane of existence -- a place where their ancestors, long dead, lived again, where the buffalo roamed free, and where the White Man could never follow, for the Washieu would fall off the edge of the Earth and would disappear forever. And how grateful the many Nations of the Plains would be if the White Man fell off the edge of the Earth and were never to be seen again!

Wovoka told the Sioux how to paint special designs on Ghost Shirts, and promised that such designs would protect the Human Beings from the United States soldiers’ bullets.

But Fire From The Sky did not believe in such fantasies as Wovoka's, for he knew that only Dreams and Visions were the true connection to the World of the Grandfathers -- the World of the Spirits.

Still, the Sioux danced the Ghost Dance taught to them by Wovoka. In their frenzied imaginations they saw their dead relatives and the buffalo roaming free as they had in times past. They all wanted to believe that Wovoka was the Messiah.

It was a bitterly cold morning in 1890 when the United States Army opened fire on the Sioux until the barrels of their Gatling guns glowed. The Ghost Shirt Designs did not protect the Sioux, and the spirits of the Indian peoples were finally extinguished on that day.

Soon after Wounded Knee, the United States Army, under a flag of truce, came to seize Crazy Horse, Sitting Bull, Chief Joseph, and other leaders who had resisted the will of the President, or the Great White Father as he was known with derision by the many Nations.

They murdered Crazy Horse. They assassinated Sitting Bull. They pursued Chief Joseph until his people could no longer run from the White Man. It was then that the Sioux had no more stomach for war.

The Government of the Great White Father provided the proud Sioux with pickled meats, potatoes, and corn to eat. They allowed the proud hunters to ride only in fenced-off fields, to kill domesticated beef with loud whoops and shouts, as they had once ridden free on the prairie to hunt the wild buffalo. But what could the Sioux have done against the Washieu who were as numerous as there were leaves on the trees?

Every Sioux man and woman had a special purpose in life developed over the centuries for self-preservation. There were hunters, warriors, scouts, caretakers and givers, but now all their freedoms were taken from them in order to “civilize” them. The Washieu told them that they must be civilized or suffer the consequences, and the consequences were even worse then the people could have imagined.

The Missionaries seized the Sioux children from their parents. They put them in boarding schools -- Protestant and Catholics battling for supremacy -- a Christian contest to collect souls. The youngsters were told that their own religions were devil worship, that it must stop, and that henceforth they must worship the only true God -- Jesus Christ.

The teenagers were forced to wear high starched collars, tight uncomfortable shoes, and were never allowed to speak their own native languages. Those who disobeyed the rigid standards were beaten into submission. Many Sioux children ran away only to be recaptured and their lives made even more miserable.

And what about the brave men, the Sioux -- the Human Beings, as they called themselves when they were the most powerful Nation on the Plains, and were as free as the hawks and eagles? Now they drank the Menne Wankan -- the Fire Water -- and the Sioux no longer sought Visions by purification in the Sweat Lodges or by sitting in Vision Pits high above the valley below, but found them easily in alcohol. Men did not have to suffer the agony of cutting pieces of flesh from their bodies and offering them to the Grandfathers. Warriors did not have to be suspended by rawhide ropes attached to the top of the Sacred Pole, the Axis Mundi, by loupes clawed into their chests during a Sun Dance to pay in blood and suffering, as women do during birth and menstruation. Now the Grandfathers came easily to the warriors in their drunken stupors without the payment of surrender and humility. The men were no longer men, and the women could do little more than watch. And so the women took up drinking the Menne Wankan with their men to ease their boredom.

* * * *

It was the year 1909. A cold wind blew from the west shaking the thin grasses of the Dakotas, warning the Human Beings to prepare for the fierce cold winter approaching.

Fire From The Sky pulled his tattered white buffalo robe tighter around himself for warmth, “Hoka Hey! It is a good day to die!” he shouted, as he unsteadily left his log cabin on the dusty and dirty reservation. He had uttered the same words every day, for nearly one hundred and nine winters of his life. Old men wait patiently for death to find them, but with great age comes wisdom, and Fire From The Sky came to understand that living is always harder than dying. In his mind, there was no doubt about that fact. Even when the old man was about to die, the Grandfathers always interceded on his behalf and protected him from his own death. Yes, the Grandfathers would not allow the Holy Man his death until he completed what They assigned for him to accomplish.

“See this black raised mark on my chest?” he would ask anyone who showed any interest, pointing to the blackened and raised spot. “I foolishly challenged Thunder to do battle with me. This was His answer to my folly. It was Thunder who struck me with a bolt of Lightning -- here, over my heart. It reminds me, every day, of the awful deeds I did when I was younger.”

Yes, Fire From The Sky suffered from his many wounds, both physical and emotional -- but he had survived them all, and had remained stoic. How could he not maintain his beliefs when he was blessed by the closeness of the Grandfathers that lived all around him and inside of him?

Yet men know when they are about to die. There is some unknown force within each of us that whispers to all humans, “Hoka Hey! It is a good day to die!”

It was not that he was afraid of his own death, as he knew that dying was only the passing from one reality to another. In the Other World, he believed, his wives and his children -- all long deceased -- would again have existence, just as they existed more than a lifetime ago. He would be able to play with them; make love to his wives again; even teach his children to catch birds and to fish again. Even his dead relatives, the enemies he had killed in battle, and the buffalo he had hunted -- all would be alive again, as they had been before.

So he would go to Sparrow Woman, and ask her to prepare a Sweat Lodge for him. Then he would ask his great-great-grandson, Man Who Likes War, to drive him to the Sacred Mountain in the Black Hills, the most Holy of locations of his people. There he would pray, cut pieces of flesh from his body, and make offerings of the Red Willow Bark Tobacco, the c’anshasha. In this way, he prayed, the Grandfathers would take pity on a frail old man and grant him his only wish, forever.

As he neared the cabin of Sparrow Woman, he paused. The strange voices of the Spirits’ were speaking with him again. The words were trying to communicate something important to him, but he could not fathom what they meant. Each of the Grandfathers spoke with a distinct voice, and he could often distinguish one from the other. Sometimes they overlapped, one over the other, and were not coherent. The Seer shrugged his shoulders and knocked heavily on the rough pine door of the cabin. He heard shuffling sounds coming from within. He waited patiently.

Sparrow Woman was not young anymore. When he spoke to her about the old days, she remembered what it was to live free before the Washieu’s bitter influences took hold of his people. He liked her very much, but at his age, he was not sure if he could make love anymore, and to deny such pleasure to a woman caused him a terrible discomfort. However, when he was young, he remembered making love under the buffalo robes with both Dove That Flies and Plenty Feathers, his dead wives, and both on the same night. It was a good thing to be young, but bothersome to be old. That is why he never asked Sparrow Woman to be his wife. However, there was still another reason he did not ask her to wife, and that was his horrific crime of long ago, and the misery he inflicted on both his deceased wives. Although Dove That Flies and Plenty Feathers eventually forgave him, he could never forgive himself, and he carried his guilt all of his days. When they died, he wept for all his failures. Courageous as he was, he could never bring himself to say, “I am forgiven. I can now release my pain.”

The door creaked open and a friendly face appeared, partially hidden by the dimness from within the cabin. When Sparrow Woman recognized her dear friend, she opened the door wide, a smile across her face, and bid him to enter. She wore an old floral housecoat, torn and frayed, partially exposing her full breasts. The stale odors of last night’s cooking filled the small, weathered log cabin.

“Would you like some coffee?” she asked cheerfully.

"Aye, thank you,” he responded.

“It will take only a few moments. How are you today?” she asked absently as she moved about measuring the coffee and putting the pot on the old wood burning stove.

The Holy Man had little time for small talk. “Today I must go to the mountain and pray. I have a good feeling that the Spirits will take me this day. I would only ask if you could assist me with a Sweat Lodge. When I have cleansed myself, I shall go to the Sacred Mountain, the Paha Sapa, and maybe I will be proven right.”

The old woman sighed. How many times had she heard the same nonsensical ideas being spoken to her by her friend of so many years? Annoyed, she grumbled, “First we will have our coffee! Then we speak to one another. After that, I will help you construct your Sweat Lodge. Only when we are finished may you go to your Sacred Mountain and communicate with the Grandfathers. But, Fire From The Sky, only when the Spirits decide that They are ready to take you will They do so. You must remember, the Grandfathers have not found fit to afford you your death in one hundred and nine winters. What makes you think that They will not grant you another hundred years!” She smiled, trying to hide her laughter.

“I am very old, Sparrow Woman,” he snapped. “Don’t make fun at this old man's expense. Time is running away. If I am right, I shall not return from the mountain this day.”

Taking his rough hands in hers, she peered into his eyes and said, “I have known you for many, many years. You are a very good man. I can only imagine the sorrow that you bear. Maybe it is only your pain that still keeps you alive. I truly believe that you are frightened at having to cross to the Other World, and there meet those you have injured in this world. But you have proven yourself to your people. They cannot expect anything more from you. Death is for a very long time.”

“Aye,” the Seer reluctantly agreed.

“So, now we will have our coffee, yes?” As she poured the steaming dark brew into a large white mug, said added, “You take milk in yours, don’t you?” Not waiting for a response, she got up and removed a small bottle from an ice chest and placed it on a linoleum covered table, “What is really bothering you today, Fire From The Sky?” she asked as she sat down near him again.

“You remember what it was like in the old days? We were free to hunt the buffalo, count coup on our adversaries, and went where we wanted to go. Now the Washieu commands us to where we can hunt, orders that we do not fight with our neighbors, and demands that we stay on this bleak reservation. Our souls are quickly being devoured by the strange men who came from the east. I want no more of this life! Long ago, I had the power of Sight. I had Visions and Dreams that gave me the ability to See wondrous things. In the Sweat Lodges, I communicated with the Grandfathers, spoke with Them, and They spoke back with me. Then, on the mountain top, when I cut pieces of my flesh from my body, offered tobacco, and prayed to Thunder, He would visit with me. Thunder would guide me and give me direction and balance. I do not hear Thunder’s voice any longer. All I hear is the wind that whistles over the prairie and shakes the dry grasses. What kind of life is that for a man who was bequeathed a mission in life? The Grandfathers gave me the necessary Visions and Dreams, but never the ability to solve Their riddles. I want to go to the mountain, this very last time, and speak with Thunder. I want to hear His voice again. I want to understand why I have been punished so, and during my entire lifetime. Somewhere in this world there is that Sacred Valley, the one shown to me in my many Dreams and Visions, where I have visited many times in human form, flying as hawks and eagles fly. I must find the beauteous place before I die. Because if I do not, the many Nations of the Plains will never understand what it is like to live free. Do you understand why my quest is so important?”

“Yes, I understand the anguish that fills your heart,” she said, exasperated, “But what more can you do that you have not done? You have been deluded by the Grandfathers. They tell you untruths. The Sacred Valley does not exist. Give up your Visions and Dreams, as they mean nothing.”

The old man’s face flushed, and he spat, “I know the Sacred Valley exists! I have been there many times, but I keep forgetting where it is placed. I must find it. For the sake of all the Nations, of all the Indian peoples, I must find it!”

* * * *

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