Men
From The Stars
Standing-Rock’s anxiety climbed with
the upward thrust of the cliff. Although
his quest had brought him safely this far, the thought of going any further now
filled him with dread. The
cave was located halfway up the cliff. The
unseen base of the mesa was hidden by a forest of dark, foreboding trees. To dwell upon what was inside the cave
would have stopped him cold. It
was enough just to concentrate upon the forest ahead: its gnarled trunks and
the rocky ground below.
For his tribe, who lived in the
desert, the forest was a scary place to be. It was filled with ghosts, who
inhabited old trees. Since
he was a truth seeker, he saw more than the average mind. The tangled woods were not simply
filled with wild animals—bears, wolves, and cougars; they might also contain
evil spirits and ghosts from the land of the dead. Appearing in his conscious mind were all the superstitions buried
in his past. The monsters
and fiends he had warned about as a child, also flooded his overwrought
mind. One by one they
appeared, from both his religious training and tribal lore, mingling in various
shapes and forms. Trees, bushes,
and even rocks hid them. They
lingered in shadows and appeared furtively at the corner of his eyes. Lurking deliberately to catch the
unwary, they were always just out of view. Faintly heard but always sensed, they
could imitate nature while riding the wind.
Always creeping into his thoughts were
those specters from the past. Evil
spirits and a countless array of supernatural beasts and unfriendly
ghosts were just waiting to come out. Tiptoeing
in back of him or flying askance, they skirted the darkness and poured out from
land of the dead. Together, combining with the sights and sounds of the night,
they distracted him from his quest. He
was not even in the woods yet, and his urge to turn back was already strong.
As he approached the forest, he felt
the presence of evil as he had never felt it before. Was it behind him, or was it in front
of him? Had it been
following him across the desert ever since his quest began? Or was it there now waiting ahead in
the shadows of the woods? Who
was the presence he felt now: Night Trapper, Shadow Creeper, or Soul
Catcher—the devil, himself. Was
he being taunted by evil spirits, as the elders warned him, or merely his own
fears? If the rumors and
legends about this journey were true, he was in for the greatest nightmare of
his life and a great test of his faith.
There was something wrong about this
trip. He had felt it from the very
beginning of is quest. Although
he tried to shed his doubts and fears, they remained fixed in his mind. He therefore remained ready for
retreat. Almost
immediately, in fact, after reaching the first gnarled trunk, the presence he
had only suspected before seemed to reach out to him. Soon, he felt beset by both a warning
and a lure. Although the
forest was, as he expected, a dark and unfriendly place, it was part of a
mystery he had to solve. Each
unexplained shadow in the moonlight seemed to be lurking in wait. Each snapping twig and crunching leaf
jarred his mind. After
stumbling over rocks and stepping into chuckholes awhile, he cursed himself for
his cowardice. Why had become a truthseeker?
His brothers and sisters, as did most of his tribe, had ordinary lives. Why not he?
While they slept soundly tonight in their hogans, with no care for
tomorrow, here he was risking his life to fulfill a vision quest—a fool’s
errand to prove his worthiness to become a priest.
Slipping and sliding finally down an unseen hill, he found himself
momentarily out of control. As
his moccasins eventually found a foothold in the soft dirt, he realized he had
stumbled onto the lip of a great crater that stretched for hundreds of feet
into the woods.
Raising his torch forward as far as it
would go, he shuddered at the thought of what had caused such a hole. Unknown to Standing Rock was the fact that a
meteorite had struck this spot many centuries ago. There were trees growing continuously
around its periphery, and yet there was nothing but barren rock and dirt
evident on its concave slopes. Standing-Rock’s
natural curiosity, which rankled some members of his tribe, was momentarily
aroused, as he gauged its size. There
was a legend about this spot. He remembered hearing it around the
campfire at night. In fact, the
elders believed that Spirit Dancer, the chief god, sent fire down from the sky
to punish the Old Ones, who once inhabited this land. Reflecting upon this legend, Standing Rock, realized how close it
had come to Forbidden Mesa—his goal. He
could envision the great fiery orb from the sky exploding upon impact, after
barely missing the mesa nearby. If
it had been just a little bit closer, it would have smashed the rock to
smithereens. There would
have been no mesa to climb then, only a pile of rocks beside a great black
hole. The Old Ones would
never have built their strange houses on its face. Shines-In-The-Dark, the great sage,
would not have used it for his retreat. It
would never have been chosen as a holy place by the priests, which had made
this pilgrimage mandatory for truth seekers to make. Perhaps the priests of his people
would have found a less hazardous journey for the vision quest.… If only the
fiery rock had landed a little lower and a little further west, he would never
had to make this dangerous quest!
But he was a truth seeker, soon to be
tested by Spirit Dancer, himself. If
he failed now, he could never become a priest. It might seem, by its importance and the
dangers involved, that his tribe was holding its collective breath,
praying that there would be a vision in his quest. More likely, he thought grimly, they were, except for a few
drowsy sentries, sound asleep around the hogan fire, complacent in their
expectations—most of them not caring at all.
******
While he stood on the crater’s rim,
Standing-Rock contemplated upon his task, realizing that he was not even
halfway done. A warm breeze
blew his way. As if Spirit
Dancer, himself, approved of his quest, it blew steadily awhile upon his check,
caressing away his fears as he had done to Whispers-In-The-Wind, grandfather,
and Shines-In-The-Dark, the great sage, long, long ago.
That the crater was caused by Spirit
Dancer’s anger against the people who originally inhabited this land meant
nothing to most of his people. Who
these people where no one knows, but grandfather said that some of their bones
are found in the mesa above. It
was seemed obvious that the cliff dwellings and the crumbling villages nearby
belonged to Old Ones of legend. Shines-In-The-Dark,
himself, found some of their bones in one of the mesa’s caves. A more important landmark for the
people was the mesa, itself, which had, because of Shines-In-The-Dark, become a
part of tribal tradition. In
spite of his misgivings, Standing- Rock was still proud of what it
symbolized. It was up there
on top of Forbidden Mesa that Shines-In-The-Dark received his visions from
Spirit Dancer about their religion. In
one of its caves the sage’s mummy is said to reside, although he has never been
found.
As Standing Rock wearily set up his
camp, he wondered fleetingly if he would find anything at all on the
mesa. A rush of dread
returned to him as his doubts returned. Although
the honor would give him prestige, he had no desire to find the sage’s
remains. What if some of
his people were right and his discovery would bring him a curse instead of the
blessing promised by the priests. Not
everyone in his tribe agreed with Shines-In-The-Dark’s vision. It would make him perfectly happy to
bring back only potsherds to prove that he was there. He could, with a clear conscious,
gather his evidence, spend the required night, make his obeisance to Spirit
Dancer, and then make the treacherous journey back down.
But he sensed, with nagging
foreboding, that something momentous was going to take place during his
quest. How he knew this was a
mystery to him. Yet the
questions plaguing him now were basic: when,
where, and what? Was something going to happen
tonight? Would it be right
here during his sleep? Or
was it waiting for him on the mesa as he suspected all along? If so, was it danger or illumination
he would find? Was it an evil event or
something very good? He
could not be sure, but he knew that for him it would be either extreme; there
would be no moderations for his soul this time. Spirit Dancer as well as Soul Catcher
and his minions all dwelled in the desert tonight. He was, in fact, being tested this very hour by his two halves:
dark and light—the two warring sides of all the people. He must not fail Spirit Dancer by
giving way to his doubts.
While gathering twigs and branches to
build his fire, Standing Rock continued praying to himself, the words becoming
a mantra—counter spells rather than actual prayer. Glancing expectantly around the darkness, he tried concentrating
upon the crackling flames. More
than any time in his life, he realized how important a fire could
be. Though lacking knowledge of the White Man’s wisdom, he understood its
power, remembering the legend of Fire-Starter, the first man. All men, the Old Ones had taught, became
truly human—a word difficult to convey in the their tongue. From its discovery, after a mountain spewed
fire, they learned how to make it from the Old Ones from sparks and kindling, a
difficult task for a truth seeker in the dark. The pitch-laced club he carried
from his village would have to be relit continually. Its life-saving light and
heat, now transferred to circle of sticks and dry brush, gave him great
comfort. Not only were animals afraid
to approach a traveler’s camps, it gave them warmth and allowed them to cook
their food. Now, Standing
Rock reflected, as he stared into the flames, it also protected him from
animals, who were fearful of fire. As
he watched it rise from the dried brush and logs, sending sparks into the
moonlit sky, he felt protected against the creatures of the desert. A mountain lion or bear would not
bother a man sitting by a fire. But
a man or a spirit would.
Fingering the hilt of his knife awhile,
Standing Rock also remembered that the fire was also a lure. Men were attracted by campfires, often
to the detriment of the camper. Spirits,
on the other hand, cared not whether it was dark or light or warm or
cold. These recollections
caused him to begin praying to himself again, as he drew out his knife, his
face set in a methodical frown.
For several moments he just sat there
by the fire, his face glowing and dark eyes blazing with inner turmoil. The first discomforting pangs of hunger
were a welcome distraction, though they reminded him that he could eat only
enough raisins and beef jerky to sustain him through his quest. As he began munching on the prescribed
snacks grandmother had packed for him, he listened to the sound of the fire
crackling and managed to tune out the surrounding night. Inwardly his thoughts traveled as he
stared vacantly at the fire.
He was, he realized, a mere mote in
Spirit Dancer’s gaze. And
yet he was certain that he had a purpose in his plan. He had been singled out at birth by a
priest, who read in his tiny palm, his destiny in the tribe. From childhood on, he had been treated with
deference by his people, with an element of resentment from other young
men. According to his grandfather, his
selection was both a blessing and a curse.
Always there was a duality in their lives, especially for the priests,
such as dark and light, good and bad, and blessing and curse. In their tradition, grandparents, not
parents, controlled the religious life of children. His mother and father, like most parents, weren’t happy with his
selection by the elders. It meant that
he would never have a normal life. His grandparents, however, who shared his
odyssey, were proud of him. They felt
special, knowing full well they shared the blessing and curse too.
******
Atop, around, and beyond the mesa,
there was an epoch tale of a nomadic people who had been transformed into
agriculturists and builders, whose ancient religion was only dimly felt by
Standing Rock’s people. According to
Whispers-In-The-Wind and Shines-In-The-Dark, their ancestors, the Old Ones,
built the cliff dwelling scattered in the desert. On Forbidden Mesa, which his people considered most sacred, the
pictures had been scratched into the rock, recording their magic and
religion. The Old Ones seemed too
remote now. Despite evidence found in
ruins near their villages and on Forbidden Mesa, itself—pottery, jewelry, and
the custom of burying the dead in a fetal position, many of the elders
disagreed with the priests. The Old
Ones had been an accursed race, destroyed by Spirit Dancer. The legend of Fire-Starter and Earth Mother,
who gave birth to Spirit Dancer, whom they called Spirit Dancer, could not
possibly have been marred by such an event.
Despite his own doubts, Standing Rock
fondly recalled the great leaders of his tribe. He could remember his grandfather telling him about the
first great sage, Whispers-In-The-Wind, who had led his people out of the
wilderness in order to escape starvation. Against enemy tribes, including peoples, who
built dwellings similar to the Old Ones, they prevailed and were able, because
of Whisper-In-The-Wind and Shines-In-The-Dark efforts, to make peace with their
neighbors. And yet for a long time the
peace was occasionally broken. Northern
nomads invaded their land as well and worst of all the arrival of White
Settlers, who forced them to retreat to driest portion of the desert, a sector
of land on which the Old Ones lived, where Forbidden Mesa loomed now. No one knew what the future held for them,
and yet, with the exception of encroaching White Man’s towns and pervasive
threat of renegades from the south, Standing Rock couldn’t remember feeling
threatened in is own lifetime. The
great sages and priests had held them together and made them proud of whom they
were. They were a poor people; in
many ways pride was all they had left. Before
Shines-In-The-Dark, the last great sage, died, he had a dream. In his dream Spirit Dancer told him he must
travel to the top of Forbidden Mesa for a vision. Why Spirit Dancer couldn’t have told the old man what was on his
mind during the dream rankled Standing Rock now. Perhaps there was something he wanted to show Shines-In-The-Dark
too sacred for non-priests and ordinary folk or maybe it was like all of the
mysterious ritual and ceremonies of his tribe whose origin had been lost in the
mist of time.
Before Whispers-In-The-Wind, there had been
many sages, stretching back for centuries, as they traveled south. After him, there were many lesser men, who
maintained balance in the tribe but left little imprint in oral tradition,
until Shines-In-The-Dark became a sage.
His medicine was even greater than Whispers-In-The-Wind. Though grandfather and the other elders of
his tribe hadn’t seen it themselves, it was said that Shines-In-The-Dark had
performed miracles and cures. He was
able to cause various objects to suspend in the air. He could allegedly vanish and reappear like a phantom, and, with
his medicine bag, brought several people back from the brink of death. Standing Rock cared little for miracles and
magic right now. Were it not for the
oath he had taken and the great expectations of his grandparents and elders of
the tribe, he would exchange his destiny with the lowest member of the
tribe. It was
Whispers-In-The-Wind, who first practiced the vision quest, but it had been
much simpler than what Shines-In-The-Dark turned it into. A young man was given a meager supply of
water and food and sent into the wilderness to wander around until he had a
vision. Through lack of sleep,
suffering hunger, and, at times, under the influence of peyote or White Man’s
liquor, he would have a dream or hallucination, in which he would see an animal
or other apparition and thereby, after interpretation by priests, would be
given a new name. During the last
century, however, because of Shines-In-The-Dark’s influence, there was a
separate quest for priests and common folk.
All other young men of the tribe simply hiked a ways into the desert
with raisins and jerky and, after suffering lack of sleep with little food,
hopefully had some sort of vision. Such
a trek, Standing Rock recalled, carried much less threat than his current
odyssey. Many of the initiates, he
suspected, especially those who relied on drugs or alcohol, had questionable
even counterfeit visions. Names, such
Laughing Ghost, Shaking Fist, Walks-On-The-Wind, and even his own name,
Standing Rock, were based upon the first apparent or significant impression
coming to him—his own vision being his discovery of a large stone balanced
precariously on another rock. After tonight, he thought grimly, if he lived, he
would, unlike most men of his tribe, carry three names: Little Toad (his birth
name), Standing Rock (his vision quest name), and the name he would take after
his quest tonight.
What was his third name be? He wondered, as he stared into the
flames. His uncle, whose quest had
taken him to Third Mesa, a much smaller mesa closer to their village, claimed
to have seen Spirit Dancer in a dream as he slept. His grandiose title after that was Spirit-Dreamer, and yet
grandfather once told Standing Rock that his uncle had probably been drunk. Spirit-Dreamer (a.k.a. Jumping Bird), in
fact, had become a drunkard and very poor priest, wandering off one morning
under the influence of cactus wine, never to return. Shines-In-The-Dark, who first climbed Forbidden Mesa, had been
merely called small horse before this.
His claim to have seen a ghostly cloud of glowing matter was the source
of his third name. When he returned,
according to grandfather, he had turned completely gray. The horrors he had seen—Shadow Creeper, Night
Trapper, and Soul Catcher, himself—were later doubted by several elders. Even now, many of his people believe he had
been slightly mad; that he went back up to the top, based upon a dream, seemed
to have proven them right. Now here he
was, Standing Rock, the latest truth seeker, doing the very same thing.
******
As he sat by his fire scanning the
darkness beyond, he saw a light in the sky.
Unlike the twinkling starlight or steady glow of the crescent moon, it
was moving, not standing still. Unlike
meteorites, which his people viewed superstitiously as bad omens, it continued
on a deliberate path until reaching the top of Forbidden Mesa, itself. What more terrible omen could there be than
this? Suddenly Forbidden Mesa’s dark
silhouette added a dimension of terror to Standing Rock’s mind more frightening
than evil spirits and the mere dread of the unknown.
He cried out hoarsely now, “Oh, Spirit
Dancer, I can’t do this. It’s a
sign—very bad, very bad in deed. Death
waits for me on that mesa. I’m not
meant to be a priest!” Recoiling
immediately at his foolishness, he looked around self-consciously at the
darkness, regretting his outburst yet convinced of its truth. Once more, filled with misgivings, he
cursed himself for agreeing to such a quest.
Something inexplicable
had come out of the sky, . . . something that had nothing to do with his
mission tonight.
******
Fire had come out of the sky. Drawn to this specter but afraid to
leave the security of his own fire, Standing Rock rose slowly from the ground
and remained frozen on his feet.
Blinking steadily a moment, the strange light lifted off the mesa, and,
with obvious purpose, zoomed straight out into space and then descended
gradually to the desert floor below.
Standing Rock wanted to believe that it was Spirit Dancer and not an
evil spirit, such as Shadow Creeper or Night Trapper—especially not the
archfiend Soul Catcher, himself, and yet he was filled with doubts. As a prickling at the back of his neck was a
foreboding about the light, which was unrelated to the normal superstitions of
his people. His mission and quest was
to scale Forbidden Mesa in the morning and then return with a special vision,
as had Shines-In-The-Dark. The vision,
if that’s what it was, wasn’t supposed to come to him, and yet here it was
coming closer and closer—a shape resembling a threshing basket or plate.
Once again, Standing Rock began to
pray, this time in total panic, as he scrambled to relight his torch and
flee. Where could he hide against such
a force? Where would he go? There was darkness all around him. He was a long way from his village and, if
the apparition was heading his way, would overtake him no matter which
direction he turned. As before his plea
to Spirit Dancer degenerated into rambling magical words to ward off evil. He gripped his knife tightly with one hand,
while reaching into the medicine pouch his grandfather had given him to find
the sacred articles: a clay pipe that once belonged to Shines-In-The-Dark, a
bag of magical herbs from grandmother’s garden, and various bones, shells, and polished
stones, which a priest had blessed.
Right now, as far as Standing Rock was concerned, they were useless
against the advancing force. The knife
he clutched and the bow and quiver in his pack were likewise useless if it
wanted to do him harm.
“Hi-ya, hi-ya, hi-yo,” he chanted,
shutting his eyes tightly to blot out the light.
The age-old formula sounded foolish as he tossed out a pinch of
herbs. As he had as a small child to
prevent Night Stalker from entering his dreams, he kept his eyes shut so as to
avoid his hideous face. But it wasn’t
Night Stalker, Shadow Creeper, Soul Catcher or any of the evil spirits sent by
Hoteh, Spirit Dancer’s wicked twin.
Unable to contain his suspense, his eyes popped wide as it
approached. Closer and closer the
specter came, as he remained frozen beside the fire. Around the rim of the saucer, small radiant points of light
twinkled continually. A faint hum came
from the vessel as it set down on the desert.
As it hovered over the ground, only a short distance away, a beam of
light shot out suddenly, causing Standing Rock’s to almost stumble into the
fire. Regaining his balance to prevent
falling into the flames, he screamed hoarsely, dropped his knife and pouch and
shielded his face from the blinding light.
Behind the beam, the
twinkling lights snapped off simultaneously.
As a backdrop to the radiance, the black silhouette of the vessel was
barely discernable against the night. As
a hatch slowly opened, a ladder dropped onto the sand, and a dark silhouette stood
framed momentarily in the exit.
Petrified, numb with fear, and mumbling incoherently to himself,
Standing Rock, wanted to call out to the advancing specter, “Who are you? What do you want?”, but all he could do was
hold out his arms beseechingly and continue a mute, intelligible chant.
A second, third, and fourth visitor emerged behind the oncoming
specter. In the glow of the campfire,
the first alien, a tall, willowy, bipedal form, in a tight-fitting shimmering
suit paused briefly, as the others caught up.
Inside the specter’s helmet, Standing Rock could see an earless,
noseless head, with cat-like eyes and a mere slash for a mouth—features far too
alien for his untutored mind. Mentally,
he managed a prayer to Spirit Dancer and the Shades of the Underworld to either
save him or give him passage to the land of the dead. Gently yet firmly, as the first alien’s mouth moved excitedly
spouting gibberish, two of his cohorts took each of Standing Rock’s arms and began
leading him toward their ship. The first
alien touched his forehead, as if to calm him, while one in back, gave him a
nudge, as if to say, “All right, let’s get going!”
“Oh no you don’t!” Standing Rock managed to shout. “I’ve led a
good life. I walked the right path,
avoiding evil. Soul Catcher, Shadow
Trapper, Night Stalker—what do you want with me?”
An eerie voice, speaking his tongue, echoed in his mind: “Calm
down. We aren’t spirits or ghosts. You
won’t understand, but we come from the stars.
This won’t take long. We’ve
searched the universe for centuries to find intelligent life. You’re the
first. We’ll do you no harm!”
That they could speak his language, let alone inside his head,
seemed impossible to Standing Rock, and yet, in a matter of moments, the
stranger was chatting away in his own inexplicable language to his friend in
what sounded like cricket chirps, as he was drawn quickly and helplessly into a
place that, like its inhabitants, had no word in their language. Obviously, the first alien was their leader
and was giving instructions to them.
The interior of the vessel, which had no reference point or counterpart
in their religion or tradition, was a bizarre maze of strange equipment and
peculiar objects that made little sense to Standing Rock, until they reached a
standing slab that triggered an alarm in his mind. Recalling the table, which the elders had created for sacrifice
in the olden days, he shrieked and thrashed feebly as the aliens strapped him
to the table then stood around him, mere shadows against the cascading light.
Convinced that he would be sacrificed, like a deer or goat in the
old way, he wept bitterly now. As they
went about studying their specimen, he cursed them impotently, expecting any
moment to be stabbed an eviscerated to placate Hoteh, their god. Half convinced at this point that they were
the evil twin’s minions, he began chanting the death-chant, but the thrust of
the knife never came. Instead of a
quick, ghastly end, he felt the prick of a needle, much like a nettle or porky
pine quill. Swiftly, reminiscent of
the time he was knocked unconscious after slamming into an overhanging limb, he
tumbled down a long, dark corridor in which time didn’t exist. Though he would remember what came before
and after his examination, what transpired in the eerie room would forever be
lost in his mind. When he awakened, it
was morning—the first breath of dawn, lying by a smoldering campfire. His head hammered like a shaman’s drum. Several parts of his anatomy—his arms,
stomach, and legs, stung and ached as if they had been prickled and poked,
though he couldn’t fathom why. In fact,
he could scarcely recall anything tangible for those moments as the sun brimmed
the horizon and he regained his wits.
Then, after he rose shakily to his legs, and he studied the dying embers
and meager backpack and pouch laying on the ground it came back to him in one
startling burst…. He had been on a special vision quest as a truth seeker…Last
night something came out of the night sky—a strange light that landed on
Forbidden Mesa, then came like a phantom toward him…Several creatures, who
walked like men but had cat-like eyes and almost no human features, abducted
him and taken him into a place shaped like a threshing basket or plate…. From
there, though, he drew a blank. Try as he may, as he sat by the embers, nothing
came. Hunger and thirst overcame his
trance. After chewing a mouthful of the
raisin and jerky mix grandmother gave him, he brought up the skin filled with
water, took a long drink, then remained motionless awhile, staring at the
rising sun. How long he sat there
trying to make sense out of his experience, he didn’t know. When the temperature rose, and the sun sat a
significant distance above the horizon, he was awakened from his muddled
thoughts.
Had it been a dream? What
had happened last night? How could he
explain this to his people, especially those prying priests? He had not intention of climbing up the mesa
now. What could possibly top this? For the first time on his path as a truth
seeker, Standing Rock must tell a lie.
His body was weak. The men from
the stars had done something to him, and he hadn’t the energy to make the
prescribed trek. Whatever
Shines-In-The-Dark had left on the mesa for him to find—a holy relic, sacred
bundle, or his own moldy bones—would have to wait for another truth
seeker. It occurred to him, as he
walked away, that Shines-In-The-Dark, with his strange name, might even be one
of them. He had been, grandfather once
told him, a strange, eccentric man. His
very name, Shines-In-The-Dark, was suspect.
After walking wearily over to his original destination and climbing up
its side a short ways, so that he could tell them back at the village that he
had climbed the mesa, Standing Rock began the day long trip back to his
people.
******
When he arrived late in the afternoon, the priests, elders, his
family, and friends rushed up to him eagerly and excitedly, muttering with
awe. According to Deer Rider, the
village sage, he had the same look Shines-In-The-Dark carried when he returned
from this third quest. Now, after being
picked clean by vultures and bugs, his bones lie scattered on top of the
mesa. I am alive, thought Standing
Rock. I will have a wife, sons and
daughters, raise corn, and die an old man before the final sleep.
“Are you all right, my son?” his mother asked, taking his arm.
“Yes, Standing Rock,” his father said, bracing his other side,
“you don’t look well. What happened out
there?
“Tell us, Little Toad,” grandmother called out his childhood name,
“what did you see?”
Grandfather shouted in the distance, “There’s our new priest!” and
his cousin, Looking Fox, exclaimed, “he’s been touched by Spirit Dancer. Look at his face!” But only his parents showed genuine concern.
Many more voices erupted—a curse to his aching head, but all he
could think of was a bowel of his mother’s corn gruel and her warm bread. Collapsing inside his parent’s hogan, as his
mother shooed them all away, he stared at the family hearth, watching the smoke
trail up through a hole in the ceiling, recalling the moment he first saw that
light in the sky. The strange
two-legged man-like beings with frightening faces and eerie speech, were so
alien to his mind, he still found them difficult to comprehend. That one of them spoke his own tongue in his
mind made it all the more unbelievable.
Breaking into his reverie was the voice of grandfather, who asked
bluntly, “Well, Standing Rock, the priests are waiting what did you find on the
mesa. What did you see?”
“…I saw men come out of the sky—from the stars,” he answered
dreamily. “They told me secrets in a speech I couldn’t understand…. It’s all a
blur after they took me into that place.
They did something to me in there; I no not what. Perhaps, in a dream, I will learn their
secret…. That’s all I know.”
“It’s enough for now, my son,” his mother said, handing him a
bowel of gruel. “Let him rest and
gather his strength.”
“Yes grandfather.” His sister appeared by his side. “I’ve never
seen my brother so tired.”
“Very well, we’ll go to the priests tomorrow.” The old man sighed
and rose up in a crotchety manner to his feet. “They will interpret your
dream,” he called over his shoulder, “and give you a new name.”
“It wasn’t a dream,” said Standing Rock, stifling a yawn, “the
Star men came to me in the flesh, and, like Shines-In-The-Dark, I will choose
my name.”
Grandfather looked back, as he stood in
the entrance, replying thoughtfully, “Yes, of course. What will you new name be?”
“It’s seems so obvious.” Standing Rock spoke with
illumination. “Those men came from the stars.
They were not from our world, and yet they were not spirits… Whatever
the call me now, must be special.”
“Little Toad,
Little Toad,” his sister asked playfully, “tell us. Don’t be so secretive.
What shall we call you now that you’re a priest?”
“Star Dancer,” his
father suggested, “and Star Climber has a good ring.”
“How about
‘He-Who-Touched-The-Stars,’” his mother offered, handing him more bread.
“Shines-In-The-Dark and Whispers-In-The-Wind had fancy names.
“No,” Standing Rock
said, shaking his head, “nothing fancy or too long. Those strange men came from the stars…Star Man shall be my name!”