Heart of the Storm
Lifting her hand, Agnes gestured around the room. “Each of you carries a sacred ceremonial pipe from a time long ago that has come to you in the present. Each of you was specially chosen to represent your nation here, because you have a good heart and a good way of walking. Each pipe carried in this room represents Mother Earth, Father Sky, our sun and moon, in some way. Each is different. But each functions in harmony with the others to create a connection for all our relations.”
Agnes paused to wipe the corner of her thin mouth with a white cotton handkerchief. She patted her lips with a trembling hand and tucked the handkerchief away once more. “According to tradition, only women can be members of the Blue Heron Society. Each pipe created was to be cared for and used by a woman. Only one of the sister-hood may open up the pipe bag, look upon the medicine object within, hold it and connect it to the stem for use. We are charged with working with the pipe to inspire life and harmony upon our planet for the good of all beings.”
The breeze strengthened and the slanting sun brightened the shadowy space where they sat. Agnes welcomed the cooling breeze and silently said thank-you to Father Sky and the wind spirits. “Each of the pipes has tremendous power that has been gathered over time. That is why a pipe carrier is always chosen with the greatest of care. Each pipe is capable of positive deeds, or can be ordered by the carrier to wreak death and destruction.”
Pulling out her handkerchief once again, Agnes dabbed at her watering eyes. “The Storm Pipe was given to the Lakota people. Not only has Rogan Fast Horse stolen it, we now know what he’s going to do with it—kill others. A month ago, I heard gossip from a young woman from the Crow nation. She said she’d heard that Rogan had vowed to use the pipe to destroy the white man and his government.” Shrugging her bony shoulders, Agnes SpiderWoman said, “It was gossip, and I don’t like tattling about others. The woman who told me was a good person with a good heart, but it was still gossip. Yet looking back, I know I should have listened and not dismissed her claims so lightly. It was the Great Mystery’s way of warning me.” Agnes’s mouth turned downward. “And I did not listen.”
Silence hung heavy in the heated hogan. Finally, Sheila One Feather, of the Crow nation, spoke up. Her square face was deeply lined from eighty years in the mountains of Montana. “Rogan is a two-heart, Grandmother Agnes. None of us here likes gossip. We all know the danger of it. You cannot blame yourself for not listening. We’d all have done the same.”
There was a faint murmur of agreement from the group.
Kate Little Bird of the Iroquois nation spoke up. Her eyes flashed with fire. “Let’s face it—Rogan has stalked power all his miserable life! He’s bent on vengeance against anyone—red or white. Is that not so, my sister?”
Sadly, Agnes agreed. “Rogan killed one of us to steal the Storm Pipe. We all felt that, since he was a man, he could not use it. But he has found a way to do so.”
Kate scowled. “How could he use the pipe? It will only awaken and respond in the hands of a woman. I do not understand this. Do you?”
“Yes,” Agnes said wearily. “This same young Crow woman told me that Rogan had gathered twelve women to aid him. He taught one of the twelve how to awaken the pipe and use it. With these women willingly cooperating, he was able to control the pipe for his own evil ends. I am ashamed of these women, for they are no better than Rogan. They seek power that is not theirs to use. They are all two-hearts.”
“Power,” Kate Little Bird said, “is an aphrodisiac to those who have none. We all know that.”
“Power is earned through walking in balance and harmony,” Doris Red Turtle stated. “It cannot be stolen, nor can shortcuts be taken to work with such power.”
“Yet,” Agnes said, “that is exactly what has happened here. Rogan knew he couldn’t touch the Storm Pipe himself, or force it to work for him. So he’s spent the last two years seeking and finding twelve women who thirst after power like he does. Rogan assembled a team of medicine women to support his goals and vision. We all thought that the Storm Pipe would eventually resurface and we’d get it back. I didn’t dream that Rogan would devise something like this. None of us did.”
“Do not blame yourself,” Doris advised the older woman gently. “When the pipe was stolen, we all felt it would return to us sooner or later. Ceremonial objects are taken all the time by those who seek power that is not rightfully earned, or theirs by heritage or training.”
“Humph,” Agnes muttered. “We all thought since it was a woman’s pipe, it would be rendered impotent in Fast Horse’s hands. We underestimated him.”
“No one has ever done this before,” Kate said. “How were we to know? Or guess?”
Again, there was a murmur of agreement from the group. All shared in the blame.
Blotting her eyes, Agnes murmured, “Sometimes it is beyond whoever walks the Red Road with a good heart to plumb the depths of a two-heart, to discover what evil they carry or the plans they create. This is one of those times. We do not think like them and are incapable of such diabolical misuse of power. But we are all paying for it, and so is Mother Earth and all our relations. That is why we must act.”
CHAPTER THREE
AGNES SPIDER WOMAN RAISED her thin hand and looked around the hogan at her sisters. “The daughter of Cora was to become the next woman to carry the Storm Pipe. This is as it should be. Since she was nine years old, Dana Thunder Eagle was being trained by her mother to step into her shoes as a ceremonial pipe carrier when the time was right. When Cora was murdered, and Dana’s husband, Hal, was as well, the young woman went wild with grief.”
“That is only natural,” Doris said, shaking her head over the violent deed.
“Of course,” Agnes agreed. “Dana is like a granddaughter to me, as you all know. She is Lakota and Navajo, a beautiful young woman filled with such love and care for others, a true pipe carrier in every sense of the word. When she was twelve years old, I gave Dana a personal pipe to train with—the Nighthawk Pipe, in preparation for carrying the ceremonial Storm Pipe. Dana accepted the honor and responsibility, as I knew she would.” Smiling fondly, Agnes wiped the corners of her mouth once more. False teeth and old age made her mouth water constantly. “We need to contact Dana and ask her to come home and fulfill her destiny.”
“How?” Doris demanded, scowling. “How old is she? In her twenties?”
“Yes, twenty-nine.” Wiping her lips, then clutching the damp handkerchief in her thin hand, the elder added, “Dana left the Rosebud Reservation after the murders because both sets of her grandparents were dead. She was crazed with grief. I tried to convince her to come and live with me, but she refused, and disappeared. But I sent out the spirit of the pipe I carry to keep in touch with her. She lives in Ohio right now and teaches first graders at a school near Dayton. It is her way of dealing with her loss of the two people she loved most in the world. Children are nothing but love, and that is where Dana has found refuge…until now.”
“Of course,” Sparrow Hawk muttered, “the murders were a terrible blow to all of us. At first we didn’t know who did it. Over time, we were able to track down the culprits—Rogan and his lead woman, Blue Wolf.” She tightened her right hand into a fist. “I wish I could pray for their deaths. I’d do it.”
Doris gave her Apache friend a gentle smile. “As a ceremonial pipe carrier, you are charged with walking the Red Road with a good heart. None of us can use the pipes we carry for anything but good for all our relations.”
“I know,” Sparrow Hawk growled, opening her pudgy, callused hand. “But I will tell you that, in my heart of hearts, I have dreamed of taking their lives for what they took from the Blue Heron Society and from Dana. It is not right.”
Nodding, Agnes said, “No, it’s not right, and now it is time to right wrongs. But to right them in a way that the Great Mystery would approve of. We cannot lower ourselves to lies, deceit, theft or murder, as others choose to do. As pipe carriers, we are the symbols of all things good about those who walk the sacred Red Road. We are role models.”
“I see a gleam in your eyes, Agnes,” Doris noted, grinning. “What plan have you hatched under that messy hen’s nest of white hair?”
Chuckles echoed throughout the hogan. Indeed, Agnes’s white hair did resemble a tangled nest. With arthritis in her joints, she could no longer braid it, much less comb out all the snarls.
Raising her white eyebrows, Agnes gave a toothy smile. “Hens lay eggs. A nest is rich with ideas.” She blinked her watery eyes. “Besides, the dozen hens in my coop think I am one of them now. They come up to me, clucking in their language, and I talk back to them.”
More chuckles sounded.
Agnes felt the tension in the hogan begin to melt. She didn’t mind making a joke about herself to ease it, and shift attention momentarily from the awful reason why they were gathered here. Humor was most needed in the direst of times.
“We must get Dana to come home,” she stated. “Then I will ask her to retrieve the Storm Pipe from Rogan and his women. This is something she must do. She was in line to receive it.”
Shifting restlessly, Sparrow Hawk said, “But does Dana have the heart to do this, Agnes? Rogan is savage in battle and gives no quarter. If this woman has not been fully trained in the ancient ways, how can she combat him? Instead of facing the deaths of her loved ones, she ran away, and has remained out of touch with you. I don’t find that very courageous.”
“I hear your words, sister.” Agnes looked down at the knotted handkerchief in her hand. “But I helped deliver Dana. She was born on November 17.”
Sparrow Hawk grimaced. “So?”
Doris reached over and patted Sparrow Hawk’s arm. “In case you did not realize it, Rogan was born the exact same day and month as Dana.”
“Oh.” Sparrow Hawk gulped. “I did not know. Well, this changes things.”
“Oh, yes,” Doris said in agreement, “it changes everything.” She directed her attention back to Agnes. “They are twin souls.”
“Indeed, they are. Mirrors of one another. One has a good heart, the other is a two-heart—a person of darkness who’s chosen an evil path to fulfill his needs.” Agnes lifted her head and said proudly, “You should have been at Dana’s birth. Her grandparents were there as well. Everyone was so excited. Because I was there to help with the birth and had been adopted into the family, I assisted in the delivery. When Cora went into the final stages of labor, a thunderstorm came rolling out of the west. I watched from the window as the sky grew black with approaching thunder beings, the spirits who create these powerful storms. Each time Cora cried out, lightning would flash across the sky, followed by a clap of thunder that shook the house like a dog shaking off fleas. And when Dana slid into my hands and took her first breath, a bolt of lightning was hurled by a thunder being. It split the huge cottonwood that grew fifty feet away from their door. I stood with my adopted granddaughter in my hands as the blinding light filled the house, bathing all of us with his radiant presence. Dana did not cry. She did not whimper. As I looked out the window, I saw the cottonwood tree cleave in two and fall over.”
Rubbing her chin, which was sprinkled with white hairs, Sheila One Feather groused, “Well, there you go, Agnes. Even then, the thunder beings were telling you that as Dana was born, another of equal power was being born. It doesn’t matter that the year of birth is different. When two people are born on the same day and month, there is a connection between them. A sacred cottonwood splitting in two means two of something.” Her thick, bushy brows fell. “Now we know who the other one is. Rogan Fast Horse.”
“Yes, yes,” Agnes said, nodding her head. “As I stood there drying Dana off, before handing her to her mother, I didn’t realize what the thunder beings were trying to tell me. It didn’t dawn on me until recently.” She touched her head. “A little slow, this one.”
Laughter again permeated the hogan.
“Rogan was born in Kentucky. Dana was born at the Rosebud Reservation in South Dakota,” Kate Little Bird mused. “Otherwise, they are twin souls bound together in a spiral death dance.” Her full lips puckered and she looked around the circle. “Only one will survive their confrontation with one another. We all know that. I have seen other twin souls born, and every time, one of them dies early. Usually in a violent or tragic event. And it may or may not be due to the twin causing the death but they will meet and the Great Spirit will decide who lives and dies after that.”
“It is a battle between the light and darkness,” Doris reminded them. “And no one can foretell the outcome. Dana’s heart must be pure and powerful in faith in order to overcome Rogan’s dark ambitions.”
“She is the daughter of the Blue Heron Society,” Agnes declared. “It is in her blood, in her heart, to help Mother Earth and all her relations.”
“Well,” Sparrow Hawk grumped, “Rogan has plenty of power now. What’s to stop him from using the Storm Pipe again? A ceremonial object used for centuries accrues tremendous power. In the wrong hands, such a pipe could be directed to send a lethal blow. But even a ceremonial pipe must have time to recharge after such a feat. Most take six weeks, at least, after unleashing all their power.”
“True,” Agnes agreed. “I know the Storm Pipe. It will be that long before she can be used again by Rogan.”
“I hate the fact that one of our precious pipes is being misused like this,” Doris muttered. “They are our most powerful ceremonial tools, which is why the choosing of a pipe carrier takes so long. Years of watching a person, gauging their heart and intent, to ensure the pipe is used only for good, never for evil. Once the connection between carrier and pipe is established, the spirit within must obey the new owner. In this case, Rogan must have had Blue Wolf connect with the pipe, for he cannot.”
“That’s right.” Agnes sighed and wiped her mouth once more. “It is up to us to stop him and retrieve that pipe for our society. Dana is charged with doing this, whether she knows it or not.”
“And is she trained in the art of war in the other dimensions? Is she physically fit for such a mission?” Kate Little Bird inquired.
“Let me sing you a song that has always been with the Storm Pipe. Perhaps it may answer some of our questions.” Agnes cleared her voice and began to sing in a wobbling soprano.
“Come to me, pipe who works with the storms
I am your friend, I am your friend
Come to me, pipe of the storms
I am your friend, I am your friend
Wind mixes with fire, and Mother Earth cries
I am your friend, I am your friend
Pipe of storms, fire of the sky
Come to me, come to me
Thunder walks, the wind screams and blood flows
Come to me, come to me
Blue heron lies dead, iron hand moves, and the nighthawk rises
Thunder and iron hand join battle, fire holds the key
Come to me, come to me….”
The energy in the hogan throbbed as Agnes finished the sacred ceremonial song linked to the Storm Pipe.
“Fire holds the outcome,” Sparrow Hawk said. “That could easily mean nuclear annihilation for all of us!”
Patting the pipe bag she carried, Agnes said, “That is one possible way to interpret this song. I prefer to think that Dana Thunder Eagle will have the ability to work with the thunder beings, who bring fire in the form of lightning, in order to destroy Rogan and bring the Storm Pipe back to us.”
Sheila One Feather groaned. “Agnes, you live in a world of dreams. Few who have aspired to work with thunder beings are alive! For their power is as great as a nuclear blast. No human can physically withstand the surge in order to harness it for use.”
Shaking her head, Sparrow Hawk insisted, “No, fire means a nuclear war, not lightning, in this song.”
“What choice do we have, my sisters? Do we sit here deciding that the sacred song of the Storm Pipe makes us paralyzed with fear?” Agnes voice lowered with scorn. “I say we contact Dana and get her to help. You forget that if the thunder beings choose to work with and through her, they will protect her from their power and fury. She would become an open conduit for them to send their energy to Rogan and his followers, but she herself would remain unharmed.”
“Wait, wait!” Sparrow Hawk held up her palm. “What do you make of this ‘iron hand’ in the song? What does this have to do with the outcome?” She looked around at the group.
Doris cleared her throat and gave Agnes a significant look. When the older woman nodded, Doris told them, “I have the answer, my sisters. Agnes is aware that one of my grandsons, a Cheyenne Lakota, carries the name Iron Hand.” She held Agnes’s gaze. “I believe that my grandson, Chase Iron Hand, will work with Dana to secure the Storm Pipe from Rogan and his women. And Chase has strong ties with you, Agnes. You, as our leader, are charged with getting him to help us in our dilemma.”
“You are right,” Agnes said. “Chase is a member of the Blue Turtle Medicine Society, a group of men and women who are powerful psychic warriors and healers. He is not only trained in the art of warfare and protection on the energy level, but he’s also just recently left Delta Force and the U.S. Army.” She gave them a narrowed look. “Chase is the ‘iron hand’ referred to in the song. As I speak, he is up on a bluff on my reservation crying for a vision.” She lifted her head, her voice becoming strong and clear. “He came, unannounced, to my hogan a week ago. He asked me to prepare him for a vision quest. His time in the army has left him wanting. He came home to hear what the Yei, our gods and goddesses, have decreed that he become from this time onward. Chase Iron Hand is a man of honor, with a military education and training. I can ask him for his help. Who better to pair with Dana in this effort?”
Sheila One Feather snorted. “Indeed? Does Chase know what he’d be getting into?”
“No,” Agnes said pertly, “but he will soon enough. And so will Dana.”
CHAPTER FOUR
DANA MOANED IN HER SLEEP and tossed the sheet aside. Brow wrinkling, she shifted to her stomach, stretching her arm toward Hal’s side of the bed. The dream that gripped her was the same one she’d had two nights in a row. In it, thunderclouds smudged out the dusky light, looming closer and closer, like angry brooding faces. A chill moved down Dana’s spine and she rolled onto her back, dragging her eyes open.
Vaguely aware of the sweat trickling between her breasts, she pressed her hand against her cotton gown.
“Hal?” Her voice was thick with sleep. Husky with hope.
No…he’s dead. Two years ago, her mind whispered back to her. Tears formed in Dana’s eyes and she shut them tightly. How long was this cycle of grief and nightmares going to last?
The bedroom was silent. It was June in Ohio, and she purposely had kept the window near her bed open. The air cooled her overheated skin, and Dana focused on the crickets chirping happily outside the window. Now and then, frogs croaked. The natural sounds soothed her fractured state of confusion, grief and loss.
It was more than missing Hal. She missed her mother, too. Groaning, Dana tried to escape the questions that often haunted her. Had Cora and Hal suffered terribly after being attacked? Had they died slowly? What were their last thoughts? Panicky ones, probably. Rubbing her moist eyes, Dana flopped onto her back and stared up at the darkened ceiling, those questions like knives assailing her heart and gut.
As she rested her arm across her closed eyes, loneliness snaked through her. The only thing that helped assuage this overwhelming pain was the personal pipe she carried. Reaching out, she found the deerskin bag that lay on the pillow next to hers. Hal’s pillow. He was gone, but the Nighthawk Pipe had given her solace on nights like this. Pulling the pipe bag to her breast as she rolled to her side, Dana closed her eyes, tears matting her lashes.
“Nighthawk, help me. I hurt so much,” she whispered, pain making her voice hoarse. “My heart feels as if it’s going to burst with loneliness.”
Dana felt a warmth begin to emanate from the long, rectangular bag. From the spirit that lived within the pipe, she knew—the one she had bonded with when she was young. The spirit answered her plea and sent waves of healing warmth into her heart. Holding the pipe bag securely against her, Dana mentally gave thanks for this unconditional love.
Like rivulets, the warmth spread from the center of her chest outward, flowing throughout her body. With the healing energy washing through her, Dana felt an incredible sense of peace and wellbeing. Nighthawk’s love was dissolving her fear and her anguish.
Dana released a tremulous sigh. Sleep would come now, and with it, escape from the awful feelings that had inhabited her since the loss of her mother and Hal.
Cetan, the Lakota word for Nighthawk, had been her friend, teacher and companion since she was twelve years old. Twenty-nine now, Dana never took for granted the energy the pipe had, the power from the Great Spirit that flowed through it to her. It was always a miracle, and she felt humble and grateful to have such a comfort in times of great suffering. Her mother had taught her that the ancient ways would always sustain those who walked the Red Road of the heart. Now, Dana’s faith in those beliefs was healing her bit by bit from the terrible trauma that had occurred two years ago.
Cetan was her best friend, a spirit companion on the unseen levels, and had supported her through this tumultuous time. Dana gently squeezed the pipe bag where the head of the pipe rested in a white rabbit-fur pouch to protect it from being broken. I love you so much, Cetan. Thank you and the Great Spirit for sending me this healing energy. I don’t know what I’d have done without your help and love.
No less than I love you, Cetan replied telepathically.
Dana smiled tenderly as she snuggled into her goose down pillow. When the pipe spoke to her, it brought feelings of love and nurturance, plus a rich texture of other emotions. Over the years, Dana had come to realize that mental telepathy was more than a concept. When a pipe was given to a human being, an energetic umbilical cord of trust and love was forged between that individual and the spirit within the red, carved stone.
Cetan possessed marvelous powers of healing. It was a pipe of purpose; anything Dana had requested of it over the years had been granted. Sometimes, Dana had allowed an ailing person to hold the pipe bag, and miraculously, Cetan would send the healing energy of the Great Spirit to the patient. Dana had witnessed many beautiful moments of healing and cure with Cetan’s help.
A pipe carrier was there to serve her village. Since the White Man had come to Turtle Island—North America—the bands had been disbursed. But those who knew Dana was a personal pipe carrier sought her out and asked for help.
Dana understood the privilege and responsibility of being a pipe carrier, and she always smoked the pipe for each person who requested that she do so. Connecting through ceremony and prayer to the other worlds, she could help direct special energy to that person, place, animal or thing. Her clients were always grateful and would contact her afterward to tell her of the wondrous changes in their condition. All Dana asked of them in return was to share food, blankets or clothes with those who had less than they, as payment for the pipe’s services. Pipe carriers never took money for what they did; they were emissaries of the Great Spirit, and all requests were met with compassion and love. Dana needed no personal reward, for just being a pipe carrier was a reward in itself. She took that responsibility seriously.
Another sigh slipped from her lips as she spiraled down into oblivion. The wings of Cetan beckoned her…. Dana knew what would happen as she nestled in the soft, warm, downy feathers: sleep, blessed sleep without dreams or nightmares, would come. Just to sleep deeply, undisturbed, was a great gift.