I
I was born thousands of
years ago. The water that rushes through
my veins turns red and vibrant as the life of my ancestors. My earthen body rises like a great tree in
the forest of men. My hair, tied in a
roach, gives me the look of a proud bird soaring and searching the skies,
dancing on the silky air.
For ages, I have roamed the earth. I have become the mightiest of hunters, the
bravest of warriors, and the greatest of the heroes. My arrow can penetrate the heart of the
darkest bear, the bear that dared tell Old Man Coyote that he had created
himself. As for me, I was created by the
great Coyote. It was he who gave me a
companion for my enjoyment. It was he
who gave me fire to keep me warm. It was
he who gave me weapons and taught me how to hunt. And it was he who gave me a tepee to shelter
me from the storm’s fury.
But
those many years ago, his brother, the wily Young Coyote, convinced him that
something was missing. He convinced him
to change our languages so that I could no longer talk to my brother. His fire grew cold towards me as our
understanding ceased. One day, long ago,
he disappeared, taking his family far away with him. Some time later we saw each other while out
hunting. Far off in the distance, I can
still see his hand move across his throat.
We named him and his people the Cutthroats, or Lakota. We no longer understood them or their ways.
It
wasn’t much longer before famine struck the land, the beasts disappeared. We could barely survive with what we had, and
the Lakota came seeking our aid, but we couldn’t help them. Unable to obtain help through peace, the
Lakota decided to take what we had by force.
They attacked us; they stole what little dried meat we had left. They took our second mothers as they took our
buffalo skins from our tepees.
Then
the bitter winter came. It took what
little we had left. Many spirits
returned to their ancestors before the winter released us from its icy
talons. The Lakota was no longer my
brother, he was my enemy.
And
I hated him.
Hate
led to war, war led to blood, blood led to honor. We fought with the Lakota until we washed the
plains with our blood. Many brave
warriors rose and fell as we fought for our honor, for our families, for our
lives, and for our hate. Of course, we
fought with other tribes as well. The
Great Coyote had given us war as a chance to prove ourselves, but we remembered
the treachery of the Cutthroats the most.
They were the bitter enemy, and they fought well. Honored was the man who received a wound
while fighting the Lakota, and revered was the family whose father perished
fighting the Lakota.
In
our hate was respect, in our respect a brother, in our brother compassion, and
a story from my youth.
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