The Gates of Night

This will be my last time here, so listen closely.

Do you hear that beating drum? That is not just the sound of my old dying heart, that is the song of an entire world unraveled— that world, my world, this land you now call America. The heart of all that was and the heart of all that will be.

CHAPTER ONE: The Moon of Becoming

Oklahoma, 1911

In the tranquil days that followed my life as a seasoned warrior, I found solace upon the porch of Star House—built near the Wichita Mountains, it was a two-story ten-room clapboard dwelling that had witnessed the rise and fall of seasons much like the rise and fall of my people — the Comanche.

During the late of day, my wives, children, and guests gradually settled down, preparing for darkness like cooing prairie birds. This is when, alone on my favorite rocker, I’d find the sacred in my solitude.

With a fire in my heart to keep me warm and a mind moving as freely as the buffalo once did.

The exhausted sun, that radiant archer we call Taabe, bathed the land in evening colors and sent its shadows to dance with a skull full of lonely memories.

My thoughts were drawn to my mother, Cynthia Ann Parker, whose spirit was torn between two worlds—the White one of her birth and the Comanche one that claimed her heart. Her voice, like an autumn breeze rolling through the grasslands, never left me even if she did.

Above all good things, I wanted to see her one last time. Her strange and beautiful form at the mouth of my tipi; chanting a soft melody as she held my little sister Topsannah.

Both were stolen far too soon, first by the white man's hand and then by the hand of death.

My mother's life and death were a stark reminder of my own struggles in balancing two worlds.

Like a "Good Indian,” I devoted my remaining days to bridging and reconciling two ways of life that were completely unbridgeable and unreconcilable.

When my people could no longer run or fight — to ensure their desperate survival — I made peace with my enemy like no chief before me. I took on the Parker surname of my mother’s Texan kin. I united other tribes and served as their ambassador. I worked with ranchers and cattlemen and became something of a businessman myself. I created the “Native American Church” and fought to protect its sacred use of peyote when those in Washington desired to outlaw it like all other tribal rituals. Hell, President Theodore Roosevelt dined with me at Star House, and a month later I marched in his inauguration parade!

I, Quanah Parker, “last chief of the Comanches”, did all this, and still, and still, those two worlds could not be joined.

Such a task proved impossible.

I know that now.

I have seen it in my peyote visions.

As straight as a Comanche’s arrow to its target, I remained tethered to the timeless forces of this world, even as it transformed around me.

The land was partitioned and fenced, trains thundered through with mournful cries, electricity usurped fire, and automobiles supplanted horses. Yet, even as I accepted and adopted these novelties I remained the same — or at least I thought I did.

You see, the white man's greatest technology revolves around metal contraptions, but the Indian's greatest technology pertains to unseen forces, latent powers made intimate and familiar.

For what they call religion and spirituality, we call relations and connections, and nothing besides that is more important in our eyes.

To them, the word “spirit” is just that, a word — to us, it is everything: spirits are the ancestors who connect us to a spectacular abundance of life.

The Americans, by and large, are animated by the opposite of this — by disconnection, by the divisions of power and hierarchy and status.

Under the spell of division, they will gradually lose their connection to spirit, to nature, to society, and ultimately, to their own true selves. Such a catastrophe will cause a sickness like none other. A sickness that will devour the earth.

Their most sacred prayer shall become an infant’s cry for more… and more and more and more. But no amount of material possessions can satiate a bottomless hunger. Only a magnificent giving, a true and honorable sacrifice, can reconnect them to what they’ve lost. Such a truth resides in their Good Book, yet it's the part they choose to ignore.

And what is my sin? I fear that I’ve become too much like them. Even as I fought to maintain my traditions I knew I had to wear the mask of their “civilization” in order to salvage those ways.

Perhaps my grandfathers and grandmothers will be angry with me. Perhaps they will have to purge me of such white man’s manners and attire before I can walk the good road and join them at the campfire of stars.

All this knowledge scares me, for it did not come from me, it came from the other world. That infinite realm where the puha is most potent.

And now, with all this history-making and knowledge and power, my final vision quest is about to begin.

I am dying.

All things past become present.

With trembling hands, I reach into a weathered pouch and uncover a single button of dried peyote.

I consume this as my last holy sacrament. Its bitter taste dancing on my tongue.

I hear the peyote song and the drum and the rattle, and my life draws to a close, like all days do, with the coming of night.

With each passing moment, the boundaries between this world and the next grow thin. I see the spirits of my ancestors, fierce warriors and wise shamans, standing all and one on the precipice of eternity. They beckon me forward.

This will be the greatest challenge of my life — my afterlife.

The gates of night open before me and I must relive the story of America before it was America.

New visions flash before me. Visions across space and time -- of other tribes and individuals and genders -- and I become them.

* * *

Montana, 1786

Amidst the vast expanse of the Blackfeet Nation, a young maiden named Pi'tamaka embarks on a journey that will forever alter the course of her life.

The night casts its ethereal glow upon the land, painting everything in shades of silver and indigo. Stars glitter in the vast, ink-black canvas of the sky; a blanket of constellations that has guided Pi'tamaka's people for centuries.

Midnight comes to her village. She slips away from the campfires and tipis that stand like sentinels against the night and her moccasin-clad feet move silently into the wilderness.

The night has its own mystique. It is a time when the spirits and ancestors seem to draw closer, whispering their curious wisdom upon the wind.

As she ventures deeper into the wild she can feel a distant force pulling her. Her senses become more keen; attuned to the rustling leaves, the distant howl of a wolf, and the gentle lullaby of a prairie creek.

She is not alone in this solitude. She feels at one with every living creature that calls this land home. Such are the ways of her people.

But as the moon climbs higher into the sky, its light unveils an unfamiliar sight. Structures of wood and canvas appear in the distance, and they are huddled around their own campfires.

These are not the lodges of my people.

No. They are strange abodes, foreign in both form and meaning. Curiosity and caution battle within Pi’tamaka's heart.

What can these things be, and who are the ones who have erected them upon our ancestral lands?

Their presence unsettles her, a jarring dissonance in the regularity of the night, and just as she is about to retreat, a voice breaks through the silence.

It is a voice unlike any she has heard before; a growling yet otherworldly tone.

"Do not be afraid, young one," the voice speaks as she turns to see a coyote lurching from the shadows, eyes gleaming with human sensitivity.

Startled, she gawks at it as if a trick is being played on her. Its presence both mesmerizing and eerie.

"Who are you?" she asks.

"I am Coyote, a bridge between worlds," the creature replies. “You are a brave soul to venture into these wild nightlands, Pi’tamaka of the Blackfeet.”

Her heart races at the recognition of her name, a jolt running down her spine. "How do you know my name?”

Its otherwordly gaze holds a depth that seems to encompass the entire universe. "The spirits talk, and I listen. Your journey is more significant than you realize. These settlers bring change, and with it, challenges.”

Pi’tamaka regards the structures again, her heart heavy with uncertainty. "What should I do?”

The coyote's eyes flash with a hint of mischief. "Listen, observe, and remember. Your people are a story that cannot be erased, and from their lives and deaths there shall grow a mighty tree whose roots will remain even if the tree does not. You hold the power to forge a new path, one that honors both your past and the future that lies ahead.”

A million stars wheel above her and Pi’tamaka feels a greater sense of purpose rekindled in her heart.

The presence of the settlers is a riddle, a puzzling piece of thread in a grander tapestry.

At this moment the coyote dissolves into the night as mysteriously as it appeared and Pi’tamaka is left with a new revelation.

As if she encountered all of this before in another life.

As if this night conceals a dream of someone else's becoming, someone else's death.

Pi’tamaka turns her gaze back to the wheeled structures and a new fear grips her.

Where is this all going?

* * *

New Mexico, 1872

Moonlight spills over the Rio Grande like liquid silver, reflecting a world in the midst of terrible transformation.

Along this river, the land tells stories of battles lost and won, of a hardened people who have known the ebb and flow of conquest in its cruelest form.

Lozen stands on a mesa that overlooks the river and the desert. Her senses attuned to the rhythms of the night. She scans everything, up and down, for any possibility of surprise or danger.

A rustling in the underbrush draws her attention, and there, emerging like the ghost of a wild beast, is her brother, Victorio.

Victorio treads the Rio Grande's east bank and climbs the fissured mesa within seconds. He regards his sister with a mix of pride and reservation. She has always been an enigma, a female warrior with a prophet's foresight. He has been thinking of something he wishes to tell her, but he remains silent.

She already knows. "Brother, what do you wish to tell me?"

He looks out onto the black silhouettes of mountains and then back at her. "You stand for the strength of our people, sister, but I worry for your safety. These times are perilous, and our enemies are growing more numerous with each day.”

"Perilous times call for unwavering courage," Lozen replies, her eyes blazing in the moonlight. "The spirits of our ancestors guide us, and our bond with this land guides our steps. We have no choice but to keep fighting.”

Her solemn words echo in the night, a reminder to Victorio of the legacy he carries — a legacy of fierce independence and unyielding unity. “Yes, that is what scares me. How long must we keep fighting like this? When will it end?”

Her hard eyes soften at her brother's tired words. “We will fight for as long as we can. Our people depend on us. I will be your eyes, Victorio. We will walk this path together, as one.”

* * *

This will be my last time here, so listen closely.