Whatsoever the Sacrifice

By KB Schaller

Christian convert Dina Youngblood's son was stillborn. So, why do disturbing dreams suggest otherwise?

Why does she keep her nightmares secret from her over-protective pastor husband, Aaron?

T

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trilogy Christian Publishing
• Release date: Nov 17, 2021
• ISBN: 9781637691397

Book preview

Acknowledgments

Heartfelt thanks to my wonderful, supportive husband, James, who is also my prayer partner who encourages me when the way seems dark.

***

My sincere thanks to the Trilogy/TBN publishing team for bringing Whatsoever the Sacrifice to fulfillment.

***

My sincere gratitude to Angela Irvin for her gracious assistance while fulfilling the requirements for her PsyD degree.

***

And in honor of Reverend Dr. Jerry Yellowhawk as he labors to translate the Bible into the Lakota (Sioux) language

Encounter

The bell alert jingles as I open the door. The proprietor—Old Morgan everybody calls him—appears immediately and tips the counter fan in my direction.

"Good afternoon, little Dina. Well, not so little anymore. Quite the young beauty now, Quik2Kleen’s patriarch says, eyeing me from beneath bristly eyebrows that overhang his bifocals. I’ll have the pastor’s suit for you in a jiff. And, as usual, with our ten-percent pastors’ discount!"

I smile stiffly. Thank you, sir.

A former marine, I hear, he jerks himself taller and all but salutes. No other cleaners in the area offer this! He fetches the black suit and lays it on the counter. "Heeere you are, pretty girl. Proud to have you as a customer. I’ve always treated you Indian folk and the coloreds same as I do us whites-even though our skins are the same color as God’s!"

Unaware of his insulting presumption, he smoothes the plastic cover and continues: Glad to hear your preacher Aaron took over y’alls little Indian church after the good Reverend Ward retired. Fine white brother he was. You married a Cherokee, too. Come outta Oklahoma, I hear. Fine Indian man of God. Bein’ a believer cancels all inequalities far as I’m concerned. Well, most, anyways.

Heat shoots to my face: Here we go again.

A little different, you people, but mostly as good-hearted and decent as the rest of us in spite of how the government treated you. Yep. Been taking care of Seminole and Miccosukee patchwork since ‘fore you were born. He glances up. "But you’re Seminole and Cherokee, no?"

My father’s Cherokee. I…don’t remember much about him.

"Ah, men sometimes come and go no matter what their race. Your mama raised a fine daughter, though. One who turned her life around and married a godly man. An Indian, too! Keeps the races pure. No matter he’s near twenty years older. If a man’s upright and a young gal’s willing—don’t matter at all."

Grinning now, Old Morgan places a heavily-veined hand upon mine. "Glad you didn’t get further tricked by that good-looking young buck, though. Wanted only one thing from a girl like you. And when he walks out, the pastor still does the righteous thing—forgives and marries you anyhow!"

I ease both hands into the pockets of my jeans. Even Old Morgan knows that Aaron forgave and married me? People talk too much!

"A rock star now, the young buck. Mighty good lookin’, too. Did a little witching on the side but hard for even a gal like you who got saved, baptized, and learned all the commandments to resist. Yep. I heard it all!"

Marty and I were in grade school together. When he came home that summer, we never intended...

"But when you showed him the door, he found his money, and fame couldn’t buy a sweet little princess like you. I brag on you to everybody who comes in here!"

Embarrassed—again—I sign the ledger next to Aaron’s name. The bell alert tinkles once more as I exit and hurry across concrete that burns through the thin soles of my sandals. Old Morgan hollers after me: Say ‘Hi’ to the preacher for me and tell him he can come pay any time’s fittin’!

I place the suit on the back seat of the Celica—pre-owned—and five years old when I bought it months earlier. I’m still in Broken Bow then, where Aaron is pastor of All Saints Independent Indian Church; and I, the target of senior church mother Rosa Lightfoot’s constant needling: Blazing red! Pastor oughta make you take that flashy thing right back to the dealer! she fires off at me..."

But it’s well-maintained and low mileage. The dealer knows Aaron and gives me a good deal on it. And a good deal I need after the Marty fiasco when I’m fired as The Voice for the church-connected rehab centers.

I start for home. There’s a red light ahead. I stop for it. Then a pickup truck—maroon—eases into the lane beside me. The boom of rap music shatters the quiet. The driver blasts his horn and lets down his window. Curious, I lower mine also. Oddly, he’s wearing a brown denim jacket and a knit cap pulled above his black glasses.

Dina…hey, good-lookin’! he yells over the bump-ditty-bump of his music. His grin reveals a not-quite dimple in each cheek.

I’m wondering, Do I know you?

He holds a package wrapped in brown paper and tied with a blue ribbon. He tosses it through my window. It lands on my front seat. Then, tires squealing and rappers rapping, he disappears into the shimmer of the afternoon’s heat mirage.

I stare at it. Poke and squeeze it. Soft. Baffled, I turn into a strip mall and park. I untie the ribbon and undo the wrapping. Scalding nausea rises. My hand shoots to my mouth. What kind of heartless joke is this? There’s a trash bin nearby. I pull beside it and let down the window. My hands tremble as I toss the bundle inside and sit there with my eyes shut until the sick horror subsides.

A tap of a horn jolts me aware. The black BMW eases beside me. The tinted window slides down, and the driver calls out: Dina! Is everything okay?

The cover girl face dates back to my stint as a nursing student at Community College on the Glades—Community College, everyone calls it.

Sheila Marston. You…um…caught me off guard. What brings you to the Root? I ask.

Sheila’s smile reflects the latest in teeth-whitening technology. I’m on my way to Clewiston to pitch Big Sugar’s black suits for contributions to my new foundation. Couldn’t pass up stopping in Bitterroot, though.

What’s your foundation for?

We dig wells for villages around the world where water is scarce. At last, I’ve found my cause!

I’m sure you’ll win them over.

How about coffee? So we can catch up on things?

I glance down at my faded blue Prayer is Power souvenir tee-shirt from some Bible conference or other. My jeans and sandals have also seen better days. Uh…let me take a rain check. For me, Saturdays are for errands.

Sunlight dances in strawberry hair and shimmers on Sheila’s fuchsia-lacquered nails. One cup—my treat? We haven’t seen each other since you left college—to help your mom and your Uncle Donnie, you said?

Sheila

"...and Daniel Hightower and I fall for each other on our first date," Sheila is saying as I—having run out of excuses—sit across from her in Sippys-N-DooDahs.

You’re not worried? I ask.

Hey. If something happened to the heir of Hightower Ventures, it would have headlined long before now. She holds my hand and eyes my wedding ring. So! The rumors are true. You married that hunky preacher who runs those summer crusades. Her eyes meet mine. I’m surprised it wasn’t Marty. There was enough firepower between you two to launch the Third World War!

I gently withdraw my hand and take a sip of my Café au lait. After our last blowup, he walked. And I was down for the count. Thanks for not being mad at me for missing your wedding. Couldn’t handle it right then.

Hey, I understand. She nibbles her DooDah—a slice of apple pie. Well, any kids?

"Not so far. And if you’re the last on earth to hear, I did have a son before Aaron and I married. I return here to plan my wedding, and Marty’s in town. He invites me to his place to…see some awards from his music. So, I…go with him. Later, when I tell him I have to leave, he asks me to dance. And…holds me close. He’s singing this…song he wrote for me. And things…happen.

I…learn a child is on the way. What will Aaron say? How will it affect his ministries? I even considered…I can’t even speak it, Sheila! The child—a little boy—was stillborn. My voice breaks. "It’s like I spoke a curse on him. And myself!"

Sheila pats my hand. "Hey. I’m so sorry!"

I blot my tears with a napkin. I was waiting at a stoplight today, and this guy pulls beside me. He signals me to let down my window. When I do, he tosses this package in brown paper through my window.

And inside?

"Receiving blankets. In soft blue. The color for baby boys. I had just thrown them in the trash when you pulled up. Whoever he is, he knows my name and said the gift was from a friend. Why would anyone do such a hurtful thing?"

Well, now, let’s find out! I’ll hire a detective and...

I couldn’t let you...

Hey. What’s money for except to spend? She hands me a card from her high-end leather purse. If you manage to miss me, leave a message. Any ole time."

On Step Number Two

I cradle AJ close in this strange sepia world as I flee through the trees and down the side of the bluff. Wrapped in gentle blue, my three-month-old squeals in alarm. Twigs crackle beneath heavy footsteps; the voice behind me growls:

Hand him over, Runner. We have big plans for him!

Never! I scream as my pursuer draws nearer. My legs burn. I’m gasping to breathe now. Unable to go on, I crumple to the ground. My relentless hunter kneels beside me.

His black claw-like nails curve over AJ’s tender head. He snarls, Let him go, Runner, or I will crush his soft skull like an eggshell!

I have no choice now but to release to him my precious son. I plead, Promise you won’t hurt him?

Dressed in tattered high water pants, a dingy white shirt, and scruffy boots, in the moonlight, my pursuer’s right eye is black like swamp water beneath a full moon; the other, bright gold, like an owl’s. His face parts in a toothless grin as he holds my AJ in his arms. Now the prophecy can be fulfilled—and the punishment carried out!

What…punishment? I ask between sobs.

My sons were snatched by a woman who ran with them! he says. "When this sturdy little fellow grows tall and strong, he will replace them both!

We had nothing to do with what happened to your sons!

But the women of your clan bear the curse of the one who did. So you will always be runners. Your children will be stolen. Danger and fear will stalk you. He points a finger at me. And some of you will be like dry trees, bearing nothing!

Then take us both! He needs me!

Eyes shut, he inhales AJ’s baby sweetness. Ahhh. Newness! But do not fear, young mother. Unlike the others, you have offered yourself. So this one will be yours again. But only after you run here and there to find him—and make the deal for him! He bolts away then.

No-ooo! I cry as he fades into the thickets, and AJ’s piteous wails echo after him. In pleading with outstretched arms, I push through the ethereal wall that separates dreams from the now. I spring upright—and breathe a sigh of relief. I’m in my bed, where my Aaron sleeps soundly beside me.

I ease to the floor and pad to the kitchen. The linoleum still holds the day’s heat and feels good under icy feet. I fill a glass with water from the refrigerator and take long swallows. Glass in hand, I creep to the front door and release the deadbolt. The squealing hinges of my late Uncle Donnie’s old screen door disrupt the quiet.

Outside, the air is fragrant with rain-damp earth and early-ripened mangos. Where—I wonder as I stand on the moonlit porch—is this DreamLocus, this bluff that haunts me in the night? Someplace I’ve visited? or heard of? And is now suspended within the cavern of my subconscious?

If so, what does it mean? My premature son was stillborn after all. From my hospital bed, I hold him only once. And he is cold. And wrapped in a blue flannel blanket that can give him no warmth. No doubt Mr. Maroon Pickup also knows that even though he was named Aaron Jr., nicknamed AJ and reared by Aaron as his own, he was really Marty Osceola’s son.

I sit on Step Number Two and trail my fingers over the wood. Grayed and smoothed by countless footsteps from a bygone time, they contrast with the porch beams that are bright in their newness and, like Aaron himself, tall and strong.

Also a master carpenter, my pastor-husband works in his infrequent spare time to upgrade the house. Yet part of me does not want any of the steps repaired; they link to innocence of days when we kids run them up and down, believe that children remain children, that grandmothers, cherished pets, and beloved uncles last forever; and years later, that first love would never break your heart…

***

We sit on the bank of the pond, cane poles in hand, lines in the clear waters of Panther Creek. Scores of small fish meander beneath but not one as much as nibbles. Uncle Donnie, my to-che—uncle on my mother’s side—and my older cousins sit patiently watching their corks. But my six-year-old attention span reaches its limit.

I wanna go back, Uncle Donnie. The fish aren’t biting like you promised! As I speak, my line goes taut. The cork bobs, jerks, and then sinks beneath the water. I scramble to dusty bare feet. "Something’s pulling. I got a fish!"

Uncle Donnie nearly knocks over our can of earthworms as he leaps to assist. Hold the pole tight—easy, now—you got ‘im! With his guidance, I land my first catch ever! A bit larger than my hand, the hard-fighting little fellow wriggles and thrashes about on the Everglades summer’s hot, dry ground.

I dance about, squealing in triumph while my cousins watch with envy: "I caught one. I caught a fish!"

Over time, my to-che also teaches us safety in using the efche esh fa yee kee; we children shorten the name of his hunting rifle to efche and learn to shoot four-legged and winged fellows. But never more than we can eat, Uncle Donnie instructs.

From him, we learn skills with the bow and arrow: Remember the old ways. Learn to hunt, take from the land, the air, and the waters, and you will never know hunger.

In time, Panther Creek will also hold memories of a different kind. And so will Step Number Two….

The screen door squeaks. You’re out here on the steps again. Another nightmare? Aaron asks from the doorway.

I didn’t want to wake you. You have a long day tomorrow.

He sits beside me. If you don’t sleep, I don’t sleep. And I’ve said before: I don’t like you sitting out here alone at night. Come back to bed where I can hold you, calm you to sleep.

I finish the water and set the glass beside me. The Root is my home. There’s no safer place in the world for me than right here. On Step Number Two. I glance up and smile. "Where you first kissed me. And then repented because ‘a real kiss shouldn’t happen till after marriage.’"

True. But you were a not-quite-eighteen-year-old, and I was nearly twice your age. He tweaks the tip of my nose and smiles. But I certainly don’t need to repent for kissing you now. Which he does, softly and sweetly. Ready to come back to bed now? He asks with a mischievous grin.

Sitting out here settles me. Just a while longer, okay?

He eyes the shadows again. All right, but not too much longer. Bitterroot isn’t the safe little haven it was when you were a kid. Not that long ago, but things change.

I trail my fingers through the heavy silk of his hair. And you, my Oklahoma love, are becoming a male version of Mama Hat. She thinks I’ll run off with the mailman. You figure the mailman will snatch me in the dead of night.

This is serious, Dina. And about these nightmares of yours —why won’t you tell me about them? Are they about…him?

I sigh. Marty, you mean. I dream about a lot of things. Most make no sense. My tone lightens. "But you, Reverend Burning Rain, have to drive to Immokalee to host the conference in a few hours, and it’s way past your bedtime."

"You have obligations tomorrow too, you know. And since the word Immokalee is translated from Seminole meaning ‘my home,’ I think it’s a clue for you to come inside yours."

My duties aren’t nearly as important as yours.

In God’s work, every contribution is important, so make it short. There’ll be Jesus Way people from all over Indian country and even from Canada this year. We’ll want everyone there for the introductions. Aaron takes my empty glass now and shuts the door behind him.

Night Stalker

I’m about to return inside when a movement in the direction of the heavily-laden mango tree catches my eye. One of the Root boys, no doubt, helping himself to the fragrant fruits under cover of night. Then there’s a faint maiow—not that of my beloved Eddie Was, though. Jack Turner takes him in while I’m in chaos, and kitty obviously finds it comfortable there in the hummocks.

I creep across a ground still cool and damp from an earlier rain and call softly: Here, kitty, kitty. You hurt?

An alligator—halpatee—a male sounds his love serenade from a nearby waterway. Frogs croak. Crickets chirp. An owl—for Traditionals, a harbinger of sickness and death—hoots from close by. Coowah chobee—as panthers do—yowls in the distance. Ordinary Everglades night sounds. I’m about to return inside when a shadow that seemed part of the mango tree detaches itself. Tall and swift, it charges after me.

I sprint for the porch. Too late. Hands reach out, grab the back of my nightshirt and yank me backward; before I can think or scream, fingers clamp so firmly over my mouth I can barely breathe. Reeking of sage and cedar used in certain Native Indian rites, my attacker forces me up the steps.

I kick with bare feet—useless against the reptile hide of his boots. I rake my nails across that smothering hand. He twists my wrist behind me. The other hand stifles my scream. I’m face-forward against the porch beam now.

His warm breath smells of peppermint. I’m parked right down the road, Dina. Keep fighting me, and you and I will go for a ride. Got it? I nod.

Good. I’m not here to hurt you. Do what I tell you, and we’ll give you what you want.

What I want is to breathe! I scream inwardly: God…Aaron…help me! A greater darkness closes in. The floor seems to rush up at me, and bits of my attacker’s words drift from somewhere far away: Mention this to anyone…be sorry…come against everyone you love…

The blackness deepens then and draws me into itself.

***

I’m up and dressed earlier than usual the following morning to avoid Aaron’s seeing the bruises on my cheeks and wrist; while he showers, I hurry to finish recording the last of the previous night’s porch episode in my journal: Who is this man? What does he think I want that I do not already have…?

The shower shuts off down the hallway. I toss the spiral notebook back inside my drawer. Nearly 5:15 a.m. now by the bedside clock; in spite of my early start, I’m running on what Native folks jokingly call Indian time.

To hide bruises that will later deepen, I adjust a scarf over my head and high on my cheeks. I tie it under my chin. It’s sure to attract attention on a day predicted to be a scorcher, but it’ll have to do for now. I hurry down the hallway and poke my head inside the bathroom to say goodbye. My words freeze.

Still glistening from his shower, Aaron stands before the mirror in a small pool of water, a towel draped low on his work-hardened torso. A six-foot-four example of athletic Indian manhood, he briskly towel-dries that cascade of pitch-colored slightly wavy hair with the added interest of a few strands of silver.

He cuts me a glance and grins, showcasing a set of square-cut pearls that gleam against the bronze of his skin. You’re staring at me. Must see something you like, he teases.

You bet. And I apologize for keeping you up last night. Forgive me?

I don’t have a choice. I’m your husband. But are you sure you’re up to this conference? I come back to check on you last night and find you sitting there on the porch looking…dazed? Then you run inside, jump into bed, cover up, and refuse to talk to me. I think it’s time to consider counseling for you.

I was still upset from the nightmare. I’m fine now. But remembering last night’s threats, my heartbeat skyrockets again.

Aaron turns and glances at the scarf but says nothing. Instead, he turns his back to me and, with hands on his hips, says, Okay, then, do your job, young lady. And don’t spare the pain.

At your service, Reverend Burning Rain, I reply to his term for a brisk rubdown and massage vigorous circles over the broad expanse of his back. But I have to pick up Mama Hat, who’s always late, so I’ll have to hurry to make it to Immokalee by the opening ceremony.

Rubdown delivered, I plant a kiss between his shoulder blades and deliver a playful swat to his seat. There. Hope you enjoyed it as much as I did. Oh. I also made fresh decaf and laid your suit across the bed. I signed for it at the cleaners. See you at the conference.

I’m quickly down the hallway and out of the door. My long-sleeved blouse and beadwork bracelets take care of the bruised wrist, but the scarf will have to go. I own little makeup, so it’s a quick trip down the cosmetics aisle at Meds and More Drug Store for concealer.

A few blocks ahead, I turn into a parking space. Cash is always tight, so I check my wallet: ten dollars and change. Things would be easier if Aaron were not so unyielding about the husband as the sole provider.

Because he donates his Center salary for indigent clients, his sole income is Hope for Tomorrow Independent Indian Church’s inconsistent tithes and offerings and occasional carpentry projects; so he sits at the dining table each month, calculator in hand and checkbook next to a yellow legal pad as he accounts for every cent:

I plead on several occasions, "What’s wrong with adding my stipend to our budget, Aaron? Didn’t we agree that marriage is a partnership?"

"Your tithes, offerings, and commuting take most of that. What’s left, use it for the little things I can’t get for you right now."

"But…"

"Enough, Dina," he responds distractedly….

The store’s automatic door swings open as I approach. A uniformed security guard paces about, scanning around with practiced eyes. I hurry down the cosmetics aisle, make my selection and queue up to pay for the concealer. There’s only one cashier on duty, and most of the customers’ carts are piled with goods. One of those increasingly popular cellular phones would sure come in handy right now. But the fellow ahead, in blue denim, I note, has only two small items; so if Mama Hat’s ready, for once, we might make it to Immokalee before lunch after all!

Next! the cashier calls out.

Denim Guy tosses a roll of peppermints and a small box, maybe eye drops or something, onto the counter. I inch forward—close enough to identify the redolence of cedar and sage!

The cashier scans the peppermints. When he picks up the next item, he glances up at Denim Guy and grins. I remember this stuff as a kid. Burned like fire!

Blue Denim Guy replies, It burns some, but iodine is a great healer.

Well, let’s hope it heals that hand of yours pretty quick. Looks like you tried to bathe a cat in cold water, the cashier jokes.

As Denim Guy reaches for his change, what I see nearly sends me into a dead faint: fresh gouges—deep scratches—on his right hand. And half-obscured by the hem of his jacket, something—a knit cap?—peeks from his hip pocket.

Cashier bags the items and hands over the receipt: Have a great day, sir, and come again. Next!

I hear him, but the previous night on the porch is reeling through my head like a film on Rewind. When the guy in the jeans and jacket approaches the door, he reaches into his pocket, pulls that knit cap over his tumble of raven hair, and adjusts it above his dark glasses. He stiff-arms the door then and strides outside …to the clicking heels of alligator boots….

Cashier grins and loud-talks me. I know he was good-looking, young lady, but step forward. You’re next! Giggles from all over the store.

Mama Hat

Careful to avoid thorns on a bougainvillea bush that grows too close, I rap lightly on the door. It’s me, Mama Hat.

There is a rasp of metal on metal. The door opens a bit, and Hannah Glory Cypress lifts the safety chain. Rheumy eyes meet mine. Her mouth, a thin hard line, never smiles. Only her eyes do that—if you know what to look for. She is dressed in the traditional ankle-length Seminole patchwork skirt with its circular tiers enhanced with rows of rickrack.

Quickly passing into history also and worn largely by Rez Grandmas of the Seminole Tribe where she was born are the many strands of colored beads stacked about her neck: Beads show that we earn enough from our labors to buy and string them, she explains to us children. Forget that white folks’ tale that each strand is for a year of life, she says—as she has many times before.

Actually, most of our family was born and resided on the Seminole reservation— the Rez—until gossip from Mama’s Jack Turner scandal propels her to the Root. Little by little, other family members follow. I adjust my scarf and bracelets again—they keep shifting—and hope my great-grandmother thinks I’m only sporting a new style.

Ready? I ask. We’re running late, and I have to introduce the speakers this year.

There’s coffee on the stove. Pour yourself a cup, she replies. She owns a pair of frayed Minnetonka moccasins that squish and squeak when she walks, but she pads down the hallway barefoot—another custom of her generation; shoes are for when she leaves the Root. A new pair from two Christmases ago remains in their box beneath her bed.

I pour a cup of coffee from the stovetop percolator, stir in cream and sugar and sip, pace, glance at my watch off-and-on, and, now-and-then, peek through the curtains behind Mama Hat’s writing table. What if CPD-Cap Pulled Down—the alias I dub my attacker—followed me here? The ticking wind-up clock on the table reminds that nearly twenty more minutes have passed. I call the Immokalee events planner from the kitchen wall phone:

Shoshanna, this is Dina. Would you tell Aaron when he arrives that I’m running late?

Count it done. Mama Hat again?

I smile. The word gets around, I see. I hang up and continue pacing. Nearly three years since my great-grandmother moved back to Bitterroot from Broken Bow, where she comes for my wedding yet unpacked boxes and crates still line the walls of her hallway and living room: "When I’m ready, I’ll let you know," she says to all offers to reorganize for her.

The photographs, though—dates largely unrecorded—are a different story. Those she unpacks and bookcases, walls, and shelves are all but obscured by these silent testimonies to the endurance of family. Others keep a vigil on her writing table where she keeps the wind-up clock, the journal notebook she carries everywhere and a cache of sharpened Number 2 HB yellow pencils.

One photograph, in particular, captivates me; with a defiant pipe in the corner of her mouth, Hannah Glory Cypress peers from beneath the rim of a black Undertaker hat—bestowed her, the story goes, by a white gentleman tourist during one of the crafts shows and powwows after she admires it. Now covered in a thin film of dust, it hangs from a peg by the front door. The pipe, too, she gives up after becoming Jesus Way.

The Board or Bonnet hairstyle seen in even earlier photographs is also a rarity now: The women of her day would fan the hair over a tilted cardboard disk to stabilize it and further hold it in place with pins and hairnets. Enchanted by the exotic and with cameras ever ready, tourists of the day loved it; and while recording what is mere novelty to them, they also immortalize a blink in time, for, generations later, I too, stare into steel-bright eyes that reconstruct my concept of the one mostly known now as Mama Hat.

Another photograph is of a man in ankle-length high water pants and a rumpled shirt who stands clutching a rifle. Larger than the other pictures, it reveals more clarity of the eyes; but unlike Mama Hat’s, his are cold. Fierce. One black. The other pale. Blind in one eye? Mismatched? Like the pitiless fiend’s in the dream? I