The Spirit of Power

The young chief sits alone in his lodge. It is night and the moon is full in the sky. The air is cool. He hears the odd chirrup of a grasshopper. The stories of his people are carried on the wind. They sit at a fire nearby, laughing with each other. He is grateful they can laugh. He cannot, nor can he hear their stories.

He can see the lake from his small lodge. They found it nearly four seasons ago, hidden in a small but fertile valley in the mountains. It reminds him of all that was lost.

The young chief succeeded his father after their village was raided. They lost many family members that day. He has led his people through this time of crisis and to a place where they can laugh again.

He sits alone in his lodge, the young chief, and gazes out towards the mountain lake. He falls into a waking sleep. The night passes. The fire burns out and the stories of his people turn into the soft lull of wind passing through trees. The moon begins its descent.

The young chief, Nimkii, still gazes at the mountain lake, unmoving and entranced in a waking sleep.

A branch breaks in the bushes behind his lodge. Its loud snap jolts Nimkii out of his stupor. The wind rises, pushing against the side of his home.

Nimkii cannot move. He sits cross legged, eyes fastened on the mountain lake. He is numb, feeling his body buzz softly beneath the skin. He steels himself against his rising fear. The waking sleep calms him and dulls his senses.

He can hear the sound of footsteps approaching. They come from behind his home. The footsteps walk slowly around the side of his lodge, stopping in front of the entrance.

An orange orb stands between Nimkii and the mountain lake. There is a barely visible figure within the orange glow. It stands much taller than any man the young chief had ever met. He hears a rattle shake four times.

The figure moves to enter the lodge. As it crosses the threshold the lodge lights up as though a small fire had been lit in its center. The figure gains form.

It moves quickly to sit cross legged in front of the young chief, between him and the mountain lake. Nimkii looks at the figure, frozen in place.

*The spirit is old and with deep wisdom dancing behind their eyes. Their face is old wood, carved into the image of an elder. Their long hair is made of sweetgrass and straw. Bells and beads are sewn in. A dress of sweetgrass and straw covers their shoulders. They are tall and slender, and their body looks as though dressed in shadows.*

The spirit looks at Nimkii, sitting cross legged in front of the young chief. They tilt their head to the left as though confused to see a human in this place. Bells jingle in their hair. The spirit shakes their rattle once. The wind stops and the night falls silent.

Nimkii watches, calmed by a sense of peace that hangs in the air around the spirit.

The old one, with his head tilted to the left, smiles. The old wood creaks as it moves. They shake their rattle four times, calmly, then speak.

“I have come to see you, Nimkii,” speaks the spirit. Their voice resonates within them, mouth unmoving. Its sound is deep and soothing.

The spirit leans in close, opening their eyes wide to get a good look at the young chief. Energy swims over the old wood within them, seeming to focus on Nimkii.

He is frozen in place, watching.

“I see you!” the spirit exclaims gently, and with joy. “You are good.” The spirit lowers their head, giving thanks. The bells in their hair jingle. They shake their rattle four times.

The young chief feels the control of his body return to him. The paralysis fades. He sits back slightly and prays the prayers of his people softly. He feels a deep, dream-like Silence with him. He wonders if his ancestors are near.

Nimkii is calm, remembering the stories of his people. The young chief’s visitor is a grandfather to his community. The stories tell of him teaching their wise people. “I see you Gekendaasod, grandfather. We have stories about you.” He speaks with peace. “Thank you for your gifts.”

The grandfather sits up straight quickly and tilts his head to the right. The bells in his hair jingle. He looks at Nimkii as though confused.

“You will inherit a great power, young chief.” The spirit speaks, tilting his head the other way. The bells jingle in his hair. His voice resonates from a mouth unmoving. ”I will teach you the ways of power,”

The grandfather leans over himself and reaches one hand into the dress that covers his shoulders. He withdraws an obsidian dagger and holds it out to Nimkii with both hands. He straightens his back as he holds out the dagger and looks down at the young chief.

The blade of the obsidian dagger glints in the moonlight. A deep power thrums within it. Nimkii sees the air surrounding the dagger wave and ripple as though it cuts through the wind itself.

“This is the nature of Power. What do you see?” Asks the spirit, gazing intently at Nimkii.

Nimkii feels his eyes catch on the symbol inscribed on the haft. It calls to him. He sees it shine and spark. It lights up with a warm red glow and steals his mind into a dream-like space. His eyes enter a tunnel, focusing on the symbol. It becomes all he can see.

The dagger comes to life. Two stars awaken on either side of the dagger’s haft. They shine into existence, rising off the dagger’s body. They begin to spin in a circle opposite to each other. The obsidian blade comes to life, swimming within itself and rising off the dagger’s body. It becomes a vortex underneath the two stars. The stars circle around this vortex, lifted off the dagger.

Nimkii enters a trance, watching the vision move slowly above the dagger. “I see two stars encircling a vortex, Gekendaasod. They are bright and the blade seems an endless abyss. They spin around the blade.” He speaks from that deep dream-like Silence, feeling the words move through him.

Strings of light manifest from both stars. They spiral inwards, towards the center of the vortex.

“I see strings of light coming from the stars and meeting in the center of the vortex.” Nimkii speaks, entranced.

Where the strings of light meet a brilliant rainbow appears. It shines with a vibrancy unlike any the young chief had ever seen.

“A rainbow shines from where they come together. It is beautiful, grandfather.” Nimkii feels a peace rise in his heart, expanding within his innermost truth.

Laughter and a whisper of his people’s stories echo out from within the rainbow.

“I can hear joy and the laughter of my people.” The young chief listens briefly, comforted and feeling the weight of his burdens leave him.

“That is where abundance lives,” speaks the grandfather, watching Nimkii intently.

The strings of light disconnect from each other. The rainbow fades. Nimkii feels the joy of that place of abundance leave him. It is a deep loss. The strings of light slowly recede into the stars, still circling the vortex.

“ I see the strings of light returning into the stars. The rainbow is gone.” Nimkii speaks.

One of the stars falls out of place and is slowly drawn into the depths of the vortex. It disappears, swallowed by the darkness at its bottom. The second star dims slowly and disappears.

“I see a star falling into the depths of the vortex. The other has gone out.” A dark chill crawls upon Nimkii’s skin.

He can hear horrible screams echoing out of that darkness. The sound wrenches his heart and strikes fear into his innermost truth. He remembers the screams of his people when their village was raided.

“I can hear screams coming from the darkness of the blade.” Nimkii feels a need to draw away. He does not. He keeps his gaze poised on the vision and calms himself.

“That is where suffering lives,” speaks Gekendaasod, watching Nimkii’s eyes.

The spirit shakes his rattle once.

Nimkii snaps back to himself. The screams stop and the vision fades back into the dagger.

“This will be your reminder,” speaks the spirit, gesturing that the young chief should take the dagger.

Nimkii feels tired. He takes the dagger into his hands and holds it on his lap. He bows his head to look down at it.

The grandfather speaks, watching the young chief look at the dagger. “Obsidian is a sacred stone, as power is a sacred force.” His voice is soft and powerful. It seems to fill the space of the night.

Nimkii sees the stars on the haft shine and spark.

“Power has two faces.” Gekendaasod continues. “With power there is wisdom, and with power there is force.”

Nimkii listens, watching the stars on the dagger’s haft dance. Streaks of brilliant light shoot out of them, as though the dagger is overflowing with power.

“Power is forceful, and its force cannot go without notice. This is why power needs wisdom. When power is left without wisdom it becomes suffering”. Gekendaasod speaks calmly, inhumanly still.

Nimkii sees darkness shine from the tip of the obsidian blade. He hears the whisper of a scream.

“When power does not know its force with wisdom it becomes suffering.” The grandfather continues. “When a person upholds power, understanding its force with wisdom they create abundance.”

Nimkii sees a rainbow shine in the center of the dagger’s haft. He hears the whisper of laughter echo from it.

“When power is used as a tool to take from life it is a gate into that suffering abyss. The powerful enter into a hunger that can never be satisfied.” The grandfather mourns silently as he speaks these words, then continues. “When the powerful uphold their force with wisdom the world enters into a place of abundance.”

Nimkii is entranced by the dagger, watching its light dance. He feels power in it. It is a deep resonance that calls to him.

Gekendaasod stops speaking. He watches the dagger’s spirit attempt to draw in the young chief.

After a brief moment Nimkii notices that the words of Gekendaasod no longer fill the silence of the night. He raises his head, turning his eyes away from the dagger. He looks at his visitor. The lights stop dancing on the dagger when he turns his eyes away.

Gekendaasod nods his head happily. The bells in his hair jingle. He shakes his rattle four times and gives thanks.

He speaks softly, “If you ever use this dagger, my child, who is called Mashkawiziiwin, to hurt another, many will enter that suffering abyss. Just because the blade is sharp does not mean it is a weapon. Just because the lights are beautiful does not mean they are more than life.”

The young chief nods, listening intently. The dagger grows heavy in his hands. He feels his burdens weigh upon him. “I will do my best grandfather, but my heart is cold… I cannot feel the warmth of the sun on my skin, nor do the stories of my people soothe me anymore.” Nimkii speaks from his innermost truth. Sadness wells up within him. He feels it pushing against his heart. He offers his sorrow room within him yet it does not move. It rests in his heart, that sharp darkness, and reminds him, always, of his sorrows.

Gekendaasod sees him. He reaches out and pokes Nimkii in his heart. “I see you,” the grandfather speaks. “Ask for help, child, and I will walk with you a while.”

There is a pain in the young chief’s chest. It pushes against him and makes him feel empty. “Thank you Gekendaasod.” He speaks softly, turning his eyes towards the ground. “I was not ready for this burden.”

Nimkii sees the dagger in his hands. It weighs upon him.

“I will see you soon.” speaks Gekendaasod, that grandfather, seeing the young leader’s spirit contorted by sorrow.

“The morning comes, child. Prepare for the day.” Gekendaasod quickly exits the lodge. He stands at the entrance. The first signs of morning can be seen in the sky.

He shakes his rattle four times and the soft lull of the wind running through the trees returns to the mountain valley. Gekendaasod walks off into the bushes behind Nimkii’s home.

Nimkii stands up, body aching from the night. He looks at the obsidian dagger in his hands and places it with the things he holds most sacred.

The young chief hears the sound of his people waking up. The birds have started singing and the first rays of light reflect themself against the mountain lake. The young chief lifts himself up and starts his day.