08-11-2016, 10:07 PM
Continued from Paperwork
Jon stepped out from the Albuquerque Sunport and greeted the familiar sunny, tan New Mexico landscape. The warm air bore the pleasant reassuring smell of wet creosote that typically heralded the coming of an afternoon thunderstorm. Warm, but not too warm. April could be unpredictable but today was cooperative. This was a good thing because Jon had dressed to hold an audience upon touchdown in case his luggage had gotten misplaced. A turquoise and silver bolo accented the stiff white collar of the silk shirt, turquoise and silver threads accenting his almost black suit jacket and pants among vertical lines. Silver-tooled black boots and a black felt hat with stiff brim and a studded hatband. It was important to present himself as a native son who made good, well enough to overdress with confidence, but none of that outfit would have done for him in triple-digit heat.
Traditionally the Gathering of Nations, held the fourth weekend of April, met in Albuquerque proper, but the official representatives of the Council of Native Americans met separately on tribal land for a longer duration of time, choosing one of the nearby Pueblos for the conference. Isleta Pueblo just a few miles south of the airport graciously accepted the request to play host to what Jon could only term a pre-Gathering powwow. The taxicab ride was thankfully short, less than ten minutes. Albuquerque had become even more crowded than when Jon had attended school here. The south valley of Albuquerque had grown right up to the edge of the reservation, where suddenly development gave way to yellowed grass and mesquite brush. During the summer months the desert greenery would come to life, and closer to the Rio Grande there was always lush trees and farmland, but after a dry winter the landscape was in a dusty stasis.
The taxicab pulled up to the multistory conference center and casino. Jon checked his Wallet and saw he still had an hour before the scheduled time to start. He checked in at the concierge and had his luggage sent up to the room minus one small package which he kept on himself, a wrapped bundle the size of his palm. Jon tucked it into his inside jacket pocket.
Other Council delegates were already present in the lobby. Jon made small talk with Ysadora Chino, daughter of the Mescalero Apache president. They’d sort of briefly dated in high school but nothing serious had ever developed, Jon suspected mostly because her father had disliked Jon’s foster parents. It was just as well, from the sound of it she had done nothing over the recent years but develop a deep sense of entitlement and self-importance.
There were four ballrooms on the main floor. Jon made his way to the last one, which had a sign that simply said “Reserved for private use.” Once inside, he saw a podium and several tables set upon a platform, wired with microphones, and facing several rows of chairs. There wouldn’t be room for all of the tribal representatives, but it was already known that some wouldn’t make it. Neither Noah Crow’s Eye nor Bear-Who-Runs-on-Ice would be present. As a matter of fact none of the other walkers of the Spirit World would be in attendance. That was acceptable; Jon could see to them and some of them already had some knowledge of the events to take place.
Jon took a seat at one of the tables upon the platform. He reached out for the power of the Great Spirit. As it filled him, he cast a net around the room to prevent anyone from listening in. He looped off the flow so that it would maintain itself. Jon wondered how long a weave tied off like that would sustain itself. He’d have to experiment sometime. A cursory probe with fingers of the essence of Spirit did not yield any bugs or recording devices. Satisfied, Jon sat back in his chair, but he did not release the power.
The room filled up within the next few moments, and when the appointed time came the chairman of the Council, Red Kickinghorn of the Pawnee, approached the podium gave it a sharp rap with his gavel. “Take your seats ladies and gentlemen,” he intoned. “I call before the Council our legal advocate Jon Little Bird of the Mescalero Apache tribe, who has called this emergency conference to make a report of recent events.”
Jon leaned towards the microphone at his table. “Honorable chairman, I request before I begin that we invoke article 6 of the Council Charter.”
Chairman Kickinghorn nodded to Jon. “Are there any objections to invoking article 6?” he called out. With no responses, he continued. “Therefore article 6, the pledge to internal secrecy, is invoked. Let anyone not known to be a delegate be expunged from the Chamber, the chamber doors sealed, and all recording devices strictly prohibited. Violation of the absolute secrecy of any proceedings while the chamber is sealed beyond what is later determined as permitted to share will be treated as a treasonous offense and will result in expulsion of the delegate and his tribe from the Council of Native Americans.”
That would have to do for now, though the old saying “Three can keep a secret if two of them are dead” came to mind. Jon stood and made his way to the podium.
“Brothers and sisters,”
he began. “There have been longstanding traditions of story, dance and lore among our peoples. Chief among these is the concept of the medicine man as a spiritual guide, an honored sage who possesses the medicines of the Gods and is in tune with the Great Spirit, called Wakan Tanka by the Sioux, that flows through all things, dwells in all things and gives life to all things.
"We have, at least as a tradition, believed in the power of nature and the ability of our own spirits to tap into this force. These beliefs and stories came from somewhere, and even in recent memory tribes of the native peoples of this land believed that a medicine man could alter the physical world, a belief that had disastrous results during Pontiac’s Rebellion and at Tipeecanoe. The braves were not, in fact, bulletproof. But studies conducted by pre-Columbian scholars show these beliefs appear to come from a sort of collective consciousness of the time before memory that appears in our myths of gods who walked among men.
“These stories may very well not have been made up. In recent years, no few of our youth have come under the affliction of the sickness, seemingly at random. Some recovered with no complications, and some died without apparent cause. At the same time I have witnessed in Moscow and elsewhere, as numerous others have, of the emergence of people with supernatural abilities. Indeed, the ability to tap into this power is awakening in individuals around the world and the Sickness is a manifestation of that power coming to life.”
The chamber erupted in chatter. Jon banged the gavel. “I will take questions one at a time.”
He gestured to a raised hand in the front row.
The man stood. “Are you saying that magic is real, then? How is this to be believed?”
Jon nodded to him. “I am confirming that the reports from the US and CCD governments are true and accurate, though I would not term it to be ‘magic’ as magic implies the miraculous, without explanation. This power appears to follow certain metaphysical laws and its nature appears consistent with Wakan Tanka, the Great Mystery or the Great Spirit. I can also confirm that there are efforts underway to better understand this in working with our sons and daughters that have manifested the symptoms. Once they are able to learn sufficient control they are no longer any danger to themselves or others.”
Unless one was mentally unstable, of course. Best not to bring that up.
Someone else did instead: “What about those who want to use this power for criminal actions?”
Jon shrugged. “Policies will have to be developed for certain,”
he said. “I’m not at liberty to speculate. It very well may be that people with these powers will be the most effective policemen. If we provide these individuals with resources to run Spiritual Development centers, they may be able to train themselves into Spirit Warriors for tribal protection.”
That earned another question, this time from Chairman Kickinghorn. “You mean to train them in use of force? Like an army? We would be prohibited from doing that by treaty and forced to rely on federal policing through the Bureau of Indian Affairs. That would devastate us, we would be at the mercy of the federal bureaucracy. If they did not just roll over us. What if the federal government forces registration -- ”
Jon raised a finger to stop the shotgun blast of questions-turned-fearmongering. “Not so fast. See, our peoples have long been at the mercy of forces who have not hesitated to use the government against us. And while it is good to cooperate with the US efforts on this issue, we should also insulate ourselves from their missteps. On the legal side this was anticipated.
“The Native American Medical Privacy Protection Act was recently signed into law as a result of a year of lobbying efforts. While this was written with the Sickness in mind, it accomplishes several things. It prevents registration of Native Americans, it allows us to freely treat our own members on our own reservations…and it allows us to operate our own treatment facilities on reservation land free from government interference which may be utilized by tribal and nontribal members at our discretion. And in the case of the Sickness, the way to treat it is to teach control. Training.”
That set off more murmurs, and rightly so. It was a bulletproof piece of legislation that gave the tribes tremendous power. Jon was so fortunate to have gotten it through before the Ascendancy’s announcement, else it may have tipped his hand what he was going to accomplish. But they now had legal authority – insulting to say that sovereign peoples needed authority, but nevertheless – to gather people who could use this power and train them free from interference. He grinned despite himself. It was okay to gloat every now and then when you did something clever. Spirit Warrior -- it had a good ring to it.
But finally, the question that Jon didn’t want to answer asked: “Why can we believe what you’re saying is true?”
Jon sighed. Three can keep a secret if two of them are dead, right?
How many people were in the room? Two hundred? “Because I am one of these people. I can wield the power of the Great Spirit.”
His heightened senses caught a sudden movement in the back of the room. Someone was reaching for a gun.
Jon stepped out from the Albuquerque Sunport and greeted the familiar sunny, tan New Mexico landscape. The warm air bore the pleasant reassuring smell of wet creosote that typically heralded the coming of an afternoon thunderstorm. Warm, but not too warm. April could be unpredictable but today was cooperative. This was a good thing because Jon had dressed to hold an audience upon touchdown in case his luggage had gotten misplaced. A turquoise and silver bolo accented the stiff white collar of the silk shirt, turquoise and silver threads accenting his almost black suit jacket and pants among vertical lines. Silver-tooled black boots and a black felt hat with stiff brim and a studded hatband. It was important to present himself as a native son who made good, well enough to overdress with confidence, but none of that outfit would have done for him in triple-digit heat.
Traditionally the Gathering of Nations, held the fourth weekend of April, met in Albuquerque proper, but the official representatives of the Council of Native Americans met separately on tribal land for a longer duration of time, choosing one of the nearby Pueblos for the conference. Isleta Pueblo just a few miles south of the airport graciously accepted the request to play host to what Jon could only term a pre-Gathering powwow. The taxicab ride was thankfully short, less than ten minutes. Albuquerque had become even more crowded than when Jon had attended school here. The south valley of Albuquerque had grown right up to the edge of the reservation, where suddenly development gave way to yellowed grass and mesquite brush. During the summer months the desert greenery would come to life, and closer to the Rio Grande there was always lush trees and farmland, but after a dry winter the landscape was in a dusty stasis.
The taxicab pulled up to the multistory conference center and casino. Jon checked his Wallet and saw he still had an hour before the scheduled time to start. He checked in at the concierge and had his luggage sent up to the room minus one small package which he kept on himself, a wrapped bundle the size of his palm. Jon tucked it into his inside jacket pocket.
Other Council delegates were already present in the lobby. Jon made small talk with Ysadora Chino, daughter of the Mescalero Apache president. They’d sort of briefly dated in high school but nothing serious had ever developed, Jon suspected mostly because her father had disliked Jon’s foster parents. It was just as well, from the sound of it she had done nothing over the recent years but develop a deep sense of entitlement and self-importance.
There were four ballrooms on the main floor. Jon made his way to the last one, which had a sign that simply said “Reserved for private use.” Once inside, he saw a podium and several tables set upon a platform, wired with microphones, and facing several rows of chairs. There wouldn’t be room for all of the tribal representatives, but it was already known that some wouldn’t make it. Neither Noah Crow’s Eye nor Bear-Who-Runs-on-Ice would be present. As a matter of fact none of the other walkers of the Spirit World would be in attendance. That was acceptable; Jon could see to them and some of them already had some knowledge of the events to take place.
Jon took a seat at one of the tables upon the platform. He reached out for the power of the Great Spirit. As it filled him, he cast a net around the room to prevent anyone from listening in. He looped off the flow so that it would maintain itself. Jon wondered how long a weave tied off like that would sustain itself. He’d have to experiment sometime. A cursory probe with fingers of the essence of Spirit did not yield any bugs or recording devices. Satisfied, Jon sat back in his chair, but he did not release the power.
The room filled up within the next few moments, and when the appointed time came the chairman of the Council, Red Kickinghorn of the Pawnee, approached the podium gave it a sharp rap with his gavel. “Take your seats ladies and gentlemen,” he intoned. “I call before the Council our legal advocate Jon Little Bird of the Mescalero Apache tribe, who has called this emergency conference to make a report of recent events.”
Jon leaned towards the microphone at his table. “Honorable chairman, I request before I begin that we invoke article 6 of the Council Charter.”
Chairman Kickinghorn nodded to Jon. “Are there any objections to invoking article 6?” he called out. With no responses, he continued. “Therefore article 6, the pledge to internal secrecy, is invoked. Let anyone not known to be a delegate be expunged from the Chamber, the chamber doors sealed, and all recording devices strictly prohibited. Violation of the absolute secrecy of any proceedings while the chamber is sealed beyond what is later determined as permitted to share will be treated as a treasonous offense and will result in expulsion of the delegate and his tribe from the Council of Native Americans.”
That would have to do for now, though the old saying “Three can keep a secret if two of them are dead” came to mind. Jon stood and made his way to the podium.
“Brothers and sisters,”
he began. “There have been longstanding traditions of story, dance and lore among our peoples. Chief among these is the concept of the medicine man as a spiritual guide, an honored sage who possesses the medicines of the Gods and is in tune with the Great Spirit, called Wakan Tanka by the Sioux, that flows through all things, dwells in all things and gives life to all things.
"We have, at least as a tradition, believed in the power of nature and the ability of our own spirits to tap into this force. These beliefs and stories came from somewhere, and even in recent memory tribes of the native peoples of this land believed that a medicine man could alter the physical world, a belief that had disastrous results during Pontiac’s Rebellion and at Tipeecanoe. The braves were not, in fact, bulletproof. But studies conducted by pre-Columbian scholars show these beliefs appear to come from a sort of collective consciousness of the time before memory that appears in our myths of gods who walked among men.
“These stories may very well not have been made up. In recent years, no few of our youth have come under the affliction of the sickness, seemingly at random. Some recovered with no complications, and some died without apparent cause. At the same time I have witnessed in Moscow and elsewhere, as numerous others have, of the emergence of people with supernatural abilities. Indeed, the ability to tap into this power is awakening in individuals around the world and the Sickness is a manifestation of that power coming to life.”
The chamber erupted in chatter. Jon banged the gavel. “I will take questions one at a time.”
He gestured to a raised hand in the front row.
The man stood. “Are you saying that magic is real, then? How is this to be believed?”
Jon nodded to him. “I am confirming that the reports from the US and CCD governments are true and accurate, though I would not term it to be ‘magic’ as magic implies the miraculous, without explanation. This power appears to follow certain metaphysical laws and its nature appears consistent with Wakan Tanka, the Great Mystery or the Great Spirit. I can also confirm that there are efforts underway to better understand this in working with our sons and daughters that have manifested the symptoms. Once they are able to learn sufficient control they are no longer any danger to themselves or others.”
Unless one was mentally unstable, of course. Best not to bring that up.
Someone else did instead: “What about those who want to use this power for criminal actions?”
Jon shrugged. “Policies will have to be developed for certain,”
he said. “I’m not at liberty to speculate. It very well may be that people with these powers will be the most effective policemen. If we provide these individuals with resources to run Spiritual Development centers, they may be able to train themselves into Spirit Warriors for tribal protection.”
That earned another question, this time from Chairman Kickinghorn. “You mean to train them in use of force? Like an army? We would be prohibited from doing that by treaty and forced to rely on federal policing through the Bureau of Indian Affairs. That would devastate us, we would be at the mercy of the federal bureaucracy. If they did not just roll over us. What if the federal government forces registration -- ”
Jon raised a finger to stop the shotgun blast of questions-turned-fearmongering. “Not so fast. See, our peoples have long been at the mercy of forces who have not hesitated to use the government against us. And while it is good to cooperate with the US efforts on this issue, we should also insulate ourselves from their missteps. On the legal side this was anticipated.
“The Native American Medical Privacy Protection Act was recently signed into law as a result of a year of lobbying efforts. While this was written with the Sickness in mind, it accomplishes several things. It prevents registration of Native Americans, it allows us to freely treat our own members on our own reservations…and it allows us to operate our own treatment facilities on reservation land free from government interference which may be utilized by tribal and nontribal members at our discretion. And in the case of the Sickness, the way to treat it is to teach control. Training.”
That set off more murmurs, and rightly so. It was a bulletproof piece of legislation that gave the tribes tremendous power. Jon was so fortunate to have gotten it through before the Ascendancy’s announcement, else it may have tipped his hand what he was going to accomplish. But they now had legal authority – insulting to say that sovereign peoples needed authority, but nevertheless – to gather people who could use this power and train them free from interference. He grinned despite himself. It was okay to gloat every now and then when you did something clever. Spirit Warrior -- it had a good ring to it.
But finally, the question that Jon didn’t want to answer asked: “Why can we believe what you’re saying is true?”
Jon sighed. Three can keep a secret if two of them are dead, right?
How many people were in the room? Two hundred? “Because I am one of these people. I can wield the power of the Great Spirit.”
His heightened senses caught a sudden movement in the back of the room. Someone was reaching for a gun.