Sweat beads at my forehead. My breath comes out in slow strangled puffs. I am on fire one minute and the next I feel as if I have been buried deep in snow. I keep my eyes shut tightly because the light of day or the light of a fire sends a searing pain that radiates throughout my entire body. I hear the muffled voices of the chiefs and the cries of my wives and children. I think I lift a hand up to hold someone, anyone, as I make my trip to leave this world. But before my fingers can snake around the flesh they skimmed; I am taken. 

At first, everything is black and topsy turvy. I feel as if I am rolling down an endless hill at top speed and it takes all my strength to keep my nausea at bay. After some time, the queasiness abates, and I dare to open my eyes. I am at the bottom of a canyon in some type of village. Tipis stand in straight lines down both sides of the gorge, creating a large path between them. It is quiet. There is not a person or animal in sight. Nor is there the song of a bird or a wisp of wind. An eerie feeling settles in my heart. I want to turn away and run, but my body won’t listen to my command. I use all my strength and willpower to force it to listen, but it is no use. I let out a frustrated cry that normally would echo in such a grand canyon as this, but the sound dies as soon as it leaves my lips. 

My feet begin to move without my command, pulling me towards the deserted village. I dig my heels into the hard dirt, but to no avail. It is as if a force stronger than I am takes control of my facilities. Reluctantly, I give up and begin to move with the invisible force towards the village. I see decorative pots with fresh clay and paint sitting outside to dry. I see strips of meat, baskets of sand plums, piles of dyed feathers wrapped in buffalo skins, and I swear I smell something delicious cooking on a fire, but I do not see a soul, living or dead. My feet lead me into a tipi that looks strangely familiar. The flap has paintings of large owl eyes on either side. Beneath the eyes is a beautiful decorative owl beak, so that when I lift the flap and enter, it looks as if I am walking into the mouth of the great owl. As entranced with the detailed artistry of the owl as I am, it is nothing compared to what I see inside the tipi. 

Inside I see myself lying on a bed of skins and furs. My eyes are wide open and unblinking. My hands are gently folded atop my chest. I can’t tell if I am staring at something in horror or in awe, perhaps both, but it is unnerving to see myself in this state. I walk towards myself and kneel. I study the slow and steady rise and fall of my chest. I lean over and check my left elbow for the scar I acquired as a young reckless boy. It is there. What’s strange is that as I run my fingers over the scar and the bump of my elbow, it feels as if I am still alive. My skin is warm, the scar is raised and bumpy. 

I suddenly feel as if I am being watched. I turn around and see an owl perched on nothing. There is no branch for it to sit on, yet it sits in the air at the entrance of the tipi as if there is an invisible tree. It stares at me with large yellow unblinking eyes. I stare back at it for a while, my mind a whirlwind of fear and confusion. I am not sure how long we look at one another, but finally I break the silence. “Where am I?” There is no response from the owl. Why should I have expected otherwise? But I will try again. “Why am I here?” Frustrated, I let out a scream, but once again, it is like it dies before it leaves my lips. For some time, I sit down next to my body and stare at it. The owl eventually flies next to me and perches on my leg. Its large eyes are still fixed on mine. Suddenly, I hear a loud screech. It startles me so much that I jump, but the owl remains unphased on my leg. I don’t know how I know what to do, but I do. I screech back at the owl. I reach a finger out to stroke its feathers and our minds connect. 

“Where am I?” I ask the owl. 

“You are in the entrance of dead man’s village. You are dead, yet you are alive.”

The owl’s voice is soft and soothing. It sounds like the cooing of a morning swallow. I am astonished by its tenderness. 

The owl continues, “Maman-Ti, you must choose. You may die once right now or you may die twice later. If you die now, you will feel a peace and happiness that you have never known. But if you return to the land of the living, you will attain glory. Immortality. But, it will come at great cost. Choose.” At the last word, the owl bowed its head and closed his eyes. 

I am yanked from my thoughts at the sound of a hissing snake.

Kicking Bird stands dressed in white men finery. His braids hang softly on either side of his face. A face I wish to rip off. A face that has given up, that has betrayed me. And that’s when it hits me. ALL of the anger I have held at bay bubbles up to the surface as memories of his treason flashes through my mind. His long dark slender finger holds my gaze as he seals my fate. I stifle the angry laugh in the back of my throat. I will accompany White Horse and Lone Wolf to St. Augustine for imprisonment for my “crimes.” They say that St. Augustine is surrounded by the water. If they think a cage surrounded by water can stop me, then they have a hell of a surprise in store for them.

The officer pokes me with his rifle, urging me to stand.  I walk past Kicking Bird. The defiant thing has the audacity to look me directly in the eyes as I pass him. Abruptly, I stop, a sinister smile ticks up in the corners of my mouth. “You think you have done well, Kicking Bird! You remain free, a big man for the whites. But you will not live long.”

The butt of the rifle punches the air from my gut, forcing me to continue my trek to the wagon waiting for us outside. A flick of the reins to urge the horses on is really the first nail in coffin.

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It was a bold declaration. It was not only signing Kicking Bird’s death warrant, but mine as well. I sit alone with my back against the cold stone wall in my prison cell. The walls are high and the bars are made of the strongest metal, but there is no roof, so I gaze at the moon and stars and think of the journey ahead. I gave up trying to sleep long ago. My dreams are haunted by white men and my failures. The screams of the canyon always seem to find me and echo every time I close my eyes. How did it happen?  

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The owl skin feels rough and crinkly, but slides right on as if it is part of my hand. I close my eyes and whisper to it and then I wait. The silence stretches as I hear the sound of mud squishing underneath the chiefs sitting around me. A soft wind blows the tall grass above us as if asking for forgiveness for the torrent of rain that plagued us earlier. The cicadas emerge from their hiding spots to sing and I hear the scuttles of a few brave small animals. The chiefs begin to mumble to one another that turns into quiet chatter. I pay them no mind. I keep my eyes closed, my heart open and focused. I know I will hear an answer. It strikes as fast as lightning and as loud as a clap of thunder. The owl screech is so loud and high pitched that I know others on the far side of the camp can hear it. Visions dance flash across my tightly shut eyes and I inhale sharply. Blurred images of tall canyons, women with babies, and antelope meat roasting over an open fire are so vivid that my mouth begins to water and smile simultaneously. Suddenly, the vision is gone. My breath comes out ragged as my eyes snap open. I steady myself with my free hand until I can feel my trembling body relax. There is not a sound to be heard. Even nature has been silenced by this vision. I regain my composure and address the chiefs. “It is safe to head for the canyons.” I pause, my face searching each one of theirs for their answer, “We leave in the morning.” 

“Are you sure it is safe?” Satanta asks, his brows furrowed in worry. “They are hunting us. They want revenge,” he adds.

I nod my head. “I saw prosperity and safety in the canyons. We will be safe there. The white men will not hunt for us as the cold approaches. Winter is coming.” 

The other chiefs voice their agreement, and it is decided. We will continue the journey to the canyons, to our hideout. Satanta purses his lips and nods his assent. We depart in unity. In hope for peace and rest. What a false hope it was. 

Days later, we reach the canyon and set up camp. Men tend to the horses while the women cut down trees and make additional poles for the tepees. In my dream, I see little children running through the camp laughing. I see my son, Tehan, trailing behind me like a puppy, desperate to become a warrior. I see the young braves wrestle and challenge one another. The sun streams down, warming the canyon with her rays, taking the chill from the fall air. I inhale a crisp breath, and everything feels right. Which of course is when it all falls apart. 

I hear the booms and pops of guns. The screams of women and children. The thundering hoofbeats of horses. Panic ensues. In the dream, I am stuck watching as women and children run to the bluffs and attempt to climb them with babies strapped to their backs, while the men run into tepees and don war paint. I see courageous men fight the whites on the ground because our horses were taken from us just before the attack. I am transported behind a large rock where I see Poor Buffalo singing the Blackfoot Society song for K’ya-been who was “asleep.” That’s when I smell the smoke. 

Sometimes I wake up choking and gagging. Other times, I am forced to relive the smell of our lives consumed by flames. Each tepee, a home, becomes fuel for the most vicious fire my eyes have ever beheld. It greedily licks every roll of hide, every pole, every scrap of food and water we have. And behind the fire, watching, praising it, are the ones who created and fed it. The military. The ones who claim to be our salvation to a new life, a new path, a new god of love and mercy. 

I never dream about the victories we gained that fateful day. I don’t dream of the smiles of my warriors faces as they recount the excitement of battle. I don’t dream of the horses we recaptured and the supplies we took from the whites. I only dream of death. 

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Dawn finally comes and rouses me from a light slumber. I see a dark sky with purple and navy streaks and I take this as an ominous sign. The door to the cell hall is kicked open and in walks a guard carrying a plate of food. Without breaking his stride, he tosses a piece of bread and some dried meat onto the dirty stone cell floor as he continues down the corridor. I pick up the food and try to wipe the dirt and grime from it. I am surprised to find the bread is relatively fresh. Normally it would stale or riddled with mold. His boots thud on the floor as he makes his way back to the main door. He informs us that we are to leave for St. Augustine this morning. A feeling of dread forms in the pit of stomach. I toss the bread to the side. I’ve lost my appetite. 

Lone Wolf walks to the bars that separate us. He grasps them with his old, worn hands and leans his head against them. “Revenge.” He murmurs. “This is revenge for killing Texans. Revenge for our way of life.” I walk to him and cover his fingers in mine with a gentle touch. “I told them that I would kill Texans. They should not be surprised.” This earns a chuckle from Lone Wolf. He slowly exhales and something light and distant seems to replace the sadness in his eyes. “Do you remember how it used to be? The raids? The great escapes?” I smile at him and turn my back to the bars and slide down to the floor. “Which was your favorite one?” Lone Wolf asks. He pauses for a moment and then adds, “They’ll never know all you did, Do-hat-te. So much glory that should be attributed to you, stolen by Satanta.” I give a low chuckle before responding. “I rather liked the white men didn’t know who I was because,” I thump the bars with my thumb. Now it is Lone Wolf’s turn to laugh. “No, my friend, they will never know.” I continue, “But it’s not about that. It’s about doing what’s best for our people. Our way of life. Fighting for what is ours.” I pause and think about the raids I constructed. The attack on Lyman’s Wagon, the Wrinkled Hand Chase, the revenge of Lone Wolf, Anandarko, there are so many.

I clear my throat to begin the tale when the door clangs open and footsteps sound in the hall. Gruff voices bark and weaponized hands seize me. It’s time to head to my cage by the sea. 

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I am helped into a wagon because the chains weigh me down so that I cannot climb up. I adjust myself as comfortably as I can on the hard wooden wagon bed next to Lone Wolf. White Horse sits across from us. He is stony-faced and silent. I want to say something to comfort him. But I don’t want all these white men to hear it, so I keep it to myself for now. Once the wagon is packed with food and provisions, I await the pull of the horses to take us away, but I see Kicking Bird riding towards us on a beautiful gray mare, no doubt a present from his new white brothers. All the anger resurfaces and I hope he can see it in my eyes. I already said my piece to him, and I will never speak to him again. I can see why the whites like him, though. His features are soft, his short and willowy, not built like a warrior for battle. His eyes hold a coldness to them today, and perhaps a hint of guilt. 

“Brothers, the time has come to say goodbye. I am sorry for you.” He pauses for a moment before continuing his speech. “But because of your stubbornness, I have failed to keep you out of trouble. You will have to be punished by the government.” He looks at me and his eyes harden. “Take your medicine. It will not be for long. I love you and will work for your release.” I roll my eyes at his declaration of love. Luckily, I don’t have to listen to him justify his treason any longer, the wagoner shakes the reins and we roll away. I know Kicking Bird watches us until we are out of sight, but I don’t spare him a final glance. 

The sun beats down as the horses slowly trudge forward. The ride is hot and bumpy. By the end of the first day my whole body is sore, and my brain has melted from the treacherous sun. Its long hours filled with silence or soft whispers. Finally, by the second night we feel more comfortable speaking freely amongst our white captors. Eagle Chief, Lone Wolf, and White Horse sit in a circle with me a few yards away from the white men. Eagle Chief digs in his satchel and pulls out his pipe. He lights it with an inhale and a thick cloud of white smoke swirls in the air as he exhales. “Now,” he says with authority, “what are we to do with Kicking Bird when we are released?” 

“Let him take his people to the whites and we go our own way.” White Horse responds. “He has tricked us, bargained against us with the whites because he wants to be one. We should exile him. He will no longer be Kiowa.” The other chiefs murmur their assent to this, but I stayed silent. My fury rose again. When I can rein it in, I speak. “Exile!” My voice soft, but full of emotion. “Do you remember what he did to us?” I challenge. “He used Big Bow to trick us into surrender. They said we would be treated well and what did they do? They shackled us, killed our horses and mules, burned all of our belongings,” my voice is a whisper, but the anger, the rage I feel is palpable. I continue my tirade against Kicking Bird. “They threw us into cells, but our people were treated worse. Women and children tossed into a stone house with no roof, no tepees to keep the wind, rain, and brutal sun from their backs. The white men tossed meat to them over the high walls like a pack of wild dogs and watched them fight for it as such. And before that they burned, and took, took, took,” my whole body shook with rage. “And he helped them do it. He led them to us. He led us to them knowing what they would do. He aided the white men in destroying our people. Every death at the hand of a white man has stained Kicking Bird’s hands with blood.” I exhale a long hot breath in the black silence. I don’t need to see their faces to know what they feel. To know what I have stirred up. I extend my hand to eagle Chief and tap him for the pipe. I close my fingers around the smooth wood and wonder if this will be the last time I smoke. “Do-ha-te, pray that Kicking Bird may die right away.” I take a few puffs from the pipe before continuing. “In four days, a little after sunup, Kicking Bird will die. I will pay for it.” No one speaks for a long time. It is a declaration with a magnitude that spills from this world into the spirit world. It is a violation of my oath as a medicine man to curse someone as such, but I don’t care. This is the only way to avenge my people. 

The rest of the night passes in quiet. There is nothing else to be said. It was done, I’d hexed Kicking Bird and doomed myself in the process. All we could do now was wait for the inevitable.

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“My best raid was avenging my son.” Lone Wolf’s voice broke through the darkness. “Putting his spirit to rest was the third best thing I could do.”

By now it was just the two of us. The rest of the council dispersed shortly after my hex.

“What was the second?” I ask knowing full well the first thing would be preventing his death. 

“Killing the white who killed him. Slowly.” Lone Wolf’s voice is laced with anger and hurt. Revenge is fuel to our people, part of our religion, and I shuddered at the thought of being on the receiving end of his revenge. I knew all too well how the loss of a son feels. The anger, pain, the gnawing emptiness that never ceases. 

“That was a good raid.” I smile at the memory. “Very fulfilling and profitable in many ways.” In the darkness I heard Lone Wolf stand up, groan, and shuffle towards me. He sits down next to me. I pull a cigarette from my pocket I rolled a day earlier and light it from a smoldering coal in the dying campfire in front of us. I inhale and savor the sweet and spicy flavor of the tobacco before passing it to Lone Wolf. 

“And which was your favorite raid? It must be hard to choose since you instigated so many.” 

I pause a beat before answering. I thought about this question many times. Lone Wolf passes the cigarette back to me. I took a long drag before answering. 

“The wagon train where Or-dlee died is my favorite. Not because of his death, but because we really showed our strength. We showed the whites they had something to fear. And we made them fear that day.” A pleasant shudder runs down my spine as I recount the memory. It was a raid that required planning, patience, and daring. The owl, my spirit facilitator, had been correct. Many whites died and the raid was successful. We killed every white man, scalped, mutilated, and burned them. We took their horses, mules, and whatever else we could from the wagons and rode away without pursuit. I wish I could have witnessed the faces of the military and the Texas Rangers when they stumbled onto the scene. The horror they surely felt was fuel to the fire in my belly. Lone Wolf pulls me from the memory. 

“That was a great battle. Lots of death. Lots of plunder.” He takes the cigarette that dangles between my fingers. 

“I would have thought you’d choose the raid with the wagons where you were reunited with Tehan.” I catch a glimpse of a faint smile on his lips, his dark eyes look misted over, lost to memory. “What glory there was in that raid. We killed whites. Botalye’s four coups. We showed them the might of our forces. Hundreds of us in war paint, revenge on our lips and the tips of our guns and spears.” His voice trails off. His son had been alive then. So very much alive.

“It was a good battle.” I whisper. “When I saw Tehan alive...” I pause; a frog caught in my throat as I recall the memory. I swallow it down quickly. I cannot not talk of reuniting with my son when Lone Wolf will never see his son again. 

I take the last drag of the cigarette before flicking it into the simmering fire. “We should rest. Tomorrow is another long day of captivity.”

The morning comes too quickly. The sun is just peeking over the horizon when the soldiers rouse us with gruff voices and rough hands. We eat some dried meat, drink some water and are in the wagons pushing off within an hour. 

I don’t recall the rest of the journey because the days and nights blend together. I recall the first time I smelled the salty air of St. Augustine. I never saw an ocean and as I gazed at the rolling waters of the beaches and the vast expanse of blue, I was speechless. I wondered about the world beyond. Or perhaps that was it. We have reached the ends of the earth. 

The jail here is better than the old one. It’s newer. The stone floors aren’t covered in urine or feces. There is a full roof that does not leak. I am not excited, but I know I won’t be here long. A few days after our arrival, I am given news of Kicking Bird’s death. He died from a reaction in his head and at the very end he kept his faith in the white people. 

I sink down on my cot, stunned, but not surprised by the news. I knew this would happen. I caused it to happen. A mixture of sadness, guilt, and satisfaction washes over me, and for the next few days I barely eat or converse with anyone. It is as if I am trapped inside my head, unable to find a way out. I wonder if I will be stuck here forever.

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Last night I had a dream of my death. It was physically painless, but full of mental anguish. I summon Lone Wolf and White Horse to my cot. I can see the grief in their eyes, but they do not speak of it and I am glad. 

“Lone Wolf and White Horse,” I begin hoarsely. It is a great effort for me to speak. It feels as if the spirit world has a tight grip on my throat and is slowly squeezing life from it. “You have been good to me, to my family, to our tribe. You are great chiefs and warriors. I am honored by you.” I try to take a deep breath, but I only end up coughing lots of blood. White Horse wipes the blood from my mouth while Lone Wolf raises my head up for a sip of water. He lays my head gently down on the pillow with the tenderness of the gentle father he always was. I swallow and try to finish my speech. 

“I will be dead by the morning. My death shall not be avenged because my own death avenges it. I killed Kicking Bird and so the spirits have taken my life in payment. Do not give up, do not stop fighting for our people. Birds and beasts can escape cages at the end of the world. Do not let this be your fate. That is all I need to say. Go now, and let me die thinking of my life.” Before they leave, they lay hands on me and chant the song of our order. I want their faces to be the last ones I see before my departure. 

I close my eyes and concentrate on my breathing. I remember every raid, every death I had a hand in. I remember the shape of my wife’s face, the way her eyes danced. I remember the first time I held my daughter, Hoodle-Tau-Goodle (Red Dress). I remember the way she screamed her way into the world, red faced and angry. I remember the moment her dark brown eyes found mine for the first time, how she stared into my soul as if she knew every truth and lie that hid there. I remember the feeling of her whole hand wrapping around one of my fingers, the softness of her skin, the firmness of her grip. I wonder what she thought of me in that moment. Was my finger too rough and calloused, my hands too stained with blood? Now, she is almost a grown woman. Tall, dark hair, sharp features, a white smile. The image of her mother the first time I saw her all those years ago and fell in love. Something I’ve never admitted out loud to a living soul, but now I wish I would have. 

And I find that I focus on love more than hate and revenge in my last moments. It’s a funny thing, love. I understand now that it was not revenge that drove me to become a great warrior or chief, even though those are the principles we espouse, but rather it is the love behind the anger. The love for my people, our way of life, my wife, my daughter, my sons. It’s all about love. 

I know this next breath will be my last. I feel the last of my life draining from me and I see the blue, white, and yellow of the spirit world opening up. I suck in this last breath of life and hold it in, savoring it, savoring the taste of peace, of love.