The Valley of the Chiefs, the place our convoy was now headed for, was also known as Weatherman Draw. If that doesn’t ring a bell and you don’t keep a list of tourism sites in what used to be Montana in your memory banks, let me call it a name you will remember: The site of the Anchutz Mystery. Now do you know where I’m talking about?
2008. Anchutz Exploration Corp. bribes (lobbies? blackmails? strong-arms?) the USA’s old BLM (Bureau of Land Management) to give them the ok for test wells in the midst of an area that 4 native American tribes consider sacred land. (Four tribes that have used this one common area in peace for more than 1,000 years.) Billionaire Philip Anchutz himself leads the expedition to find the oil. Not only does he bring his pet geologists, seismologists and every other kinda ologist that you need to find oil, but he brings a crew of more than 100 workers along with 50 hand picked sec mercs for protection. March 15 he leads a convoy of heavy equipment off I 90 towards Weatherman Draw. Did they get a drop of the 10 million barrels of oil that were supposed to be underground? Did they even erect a test well? Drill sample cores? Nope.
They just disappeared.
March 16, totally and without a trace, the expedition is gone. Local, state, federal and an army of private/insurance investigators found nothing. Heavy equipment tracks just suddenly stopped. Vehicles, I'm talking cranes, dump trucks, tractors, gone. The investigators did density and magnetic scans to see if everything had been buried in some cave, reviewed satellite images to see if the equipment had been vaporized, even checked NORAD radar records to see if the stuff had been airlifted out. No joy. Shamantic and hermetic investigators found nothing, or were driven mad, or died screaming, when they tried to find the answers magically.
Freakin Bermuda triangle in Montana.
Of course, this is where we had to go to try to cure the boss
******
Because they were taking care of his wounds, the boss was travelling in the minibus with Sacred Raven. Somehow, this translated to half a dozen of the people riding in the Bear. I thought about objecting but after a few more of those shy smiles from the old folks and kids who were climbing into the SUV, I figured, "what the hell". (I later found out that as protective as the people are of their old and their young, it was a major honor for them to trust me with such valuable cargo.) I also ended up with the makeshift flatbed full of busted bikes hooked up to my bumper, but looking at the smokers and the minibus I can't say I was real surprised.
About an hour southwest of the ambush site we came to the valley.
You know how everybody drops their voice in a cathedral? There aren't any signs saying "No Loud Talking!" or "Whisper Please" but you just sort of know to keep your voice down. Now multiply that feeling about 10,000 times and you get the feeling of the Valley of the Chiefs. I ain't particularly magic sensitive ( some would say I ain't sensitive any other way either) but there was a very strong vibe here. I think spell worms call it background count or ley lines or something like that and it either makes slinging mana a snap or it makes it impossible. This place was a perfect example.
Like I said, I ain't magically sensitive, but all of a sudden the Anchutz Mystery became a whole lot more believable. I didn't even realize I was holding up the convoy until the nearly toothless bundle of wrinkles with the bun of white hair in the seat next to me mumbled, "Go, go, go" followed by that trademarked smile to snap me back to the world. I drove a little farther and pulled over so that the rest of the group could lead me to where I should park.
As soon as everybody stopped I got another look at efficiency in action. No shouting, no raised voices, just everybody knowing exactly what to do and quietly going about doing it. Tepees were set up, wood was gathered for cook fires, water was fetched, vehicles unloaded and in minutes a camp sprang up. Naturally, I was interested in how the boss was doing, but every time I approached a place where I thought he might be, something came up that required my attention. If it wasn't a pressing need for my opinion on whether a bike could be salvaged, it was some aspect of the people's history that I should hear about.
Again, I ain't the quickest, but even I recognize a snow job when it happens. I later learned that the boss was frustrating Sacred Raven's healing attempts (surprise) and the people had been told to give their shaman privacy. Eventually, this led to my being drafted into the sweat lodge construction crew.
The sweat lodge involves a tremendous amount of symbolism, from which way the door faces, to the way the ribs which support the structure are tied together, to the shape and size of the stones for the fire box, everything is significant. (Either that or the people, who have a tremendous sense of humor, decided to have a little fun at the expense of old Strong Hands Travels. I swear that if there was a badly shaped, too large or too small stone in the Missouri Valley that I didn't carry at least a mile uphill only to be told it wasn't good enough, I couldn't find it).Somewhere in the gazillion rejected rock retrieval missions, the sun started to go down and I heard, in counterpoint to the rhythm of the drums, the high hanging notes of the boss' bamboo flute. It was a reassuring sound, at least to me, because I knew when I heard it that Owen was using that healing trance he does to work his self repair magic. It eased a major worry for me as I continued carrying not-quite-good-enough stones up the steepening hill.
Over dinner I asked Small Buck about when we would begin the vision quest. I expected we would start that evening but he shook his head and pointed with his chin at Sacred Raven's tent.
"When the shaman says it is time," he said, "then we will start. We must wait for Red Sky, the shaman of the Sioux, to arrive. The fire beneath the stones must heat the rocks you brought and your brother must build his strength." He leaned in and confided, "the sweat lodge can kill the unprepared"
I smiled/grimaced as I nodded.
******
The sweat lodge ceremony is conducted in four rounds, Small Buck explained. In the first round a little water is sprinkled on the rocks, followed by pouring on four dippers of water, and then raising the door. The second round, seven dippers full are poured, and the door raised. The third round, ten are poured and the door is raised. "The number poured on the last round, Small Buck said, "depends on Sacred Raven. Any number can be poured and represents infinity, so the number ending the ceremony is uncounted."
I bit my lip to keep from telling him how little I wanted to know any of this. "Each time the door is raised a prayer or wish is spoken. It is common for the men in the sweat lodge to tell a dream and then finish the dream telling with words such as, 'May we progress to that day' or make a wish such as, 'May we see the next spring, the next season'"."When it is done, Sacred Raven will tell Red Sky that all is well and we will leave the lodge. If something goes wrong...."Small Buck trailed off with a shrug. He didn't have to remind me that if there was a problem, the Sioux Shaman would sanction all of us quicker than nuking a plague site.
*******
I have to say that the next three days were the longest in my life. I kept myself busy rebuilding the bikes or making other mechanical repairs for the people, but the sweat lodge, and the whole valley, was always on my mind. Now, don't get me wrong, it wasn't just that it might mean the end of us- sure, that was part of it, but it was mostly about not belonging in a holy place. Spirit world/religious stuff gives me the willies to begin with. Compound it with a chance at a dirt nap if something outta my control goes wrong and then put it in the hands of a racist misanthrope and you can kiss a sound night's sleep goodbye. Who's the racist, you ask? The spell worm that Sacred Raven wanted for backup. Red Sky. Charmer had only marginal use for the members of his own tribe, less for his nation, less than that for the "sharp people" (his name for the crow) none for non- native people and less than that for orks. I thought I couldn't get any lower on the list until he started bitching about those who "pollute their bodies with metal".
Spell slinger was about as cuddly as a maddened nest of sunburnt scorpions. I guess he knew his business, though. Everybody treated him with great respect, (which he ignored as if to say "what else could they do?"), but he showed the same deference to Sacred Raven, so I figured he'd hesitate to waste us while SR was around. Red Sky also showed some respect for Small Buck, which surprised me and hinted there was more than meets the eye to my easy-going beer buddy.
Maybe Red Sky gave me a point of comparison. Maybe "the people" just grew on me. I don't know exactly when it started, but it spite of my dread of the religious ceremony and even my tension at being in such a holy place, I found myself really admiring the tribe. Everyone worked hard and nobody had very much materially, but they had a sort of inner peace that I wished for myself. They weren't loud or brash, and they smiled more than they laughed, but the smiles were real genuine and... oh, hell, I don't know tolerant? Wise? Embracing?
I'm not getting it across properly but.... well, when I was a kid my mom used to smile that way. A smile that says "you matter, you are important, I like you. It was a smile that.....you know the last time I got that smile? The boss was wearing it. After he saved my ass from my old biker gang, I went to him and told him that I knew I owed him and that the debt was serious- that I'd lay down my life for him. Well, he got real grave at the end because it was not something to joke about, but when I first started talking he was wearing this smile that was reassuring and open and trusting. I guess I've seen him show Mouse that smile a dozen times as the kid was learning to work with the team. Anyway, it was a smile that the people shared a lot and I found myself thinking about having the kind of life that would let me share that smile.
Then, at the end of the third day, Small Buck came to me, looked at the sky and said, "In the morning"
This story is copyright of the author. Shadowrun was a Registered Trademark of FASA Corporation until they went busto foldo. Now Wizkids LLC owns it. Or possibly FanPro. Or some other dragon owned subsidiary. Whoever holds the trademark, they didn't call and tell me it was ok to write this, and anybody who says I said that is full of it. I'm not challenging any of the rights or trademarks of anybody who own's them, whoever they are. I'm just writing stories. Honest. Thank you for not litigating.
No comments:
Post a Comment