The Sun Dancer

By Mac Nicolson

Woqini dances to the Sun every time the ceremony is held. He dances for his own spiritual development, and for the magical powers that may help him drive the hated white men from the plains.

The Northern Cheyenne warrior finds his greatest allies with the Southern Cheyenne Dog Soldiers and a band of Lakota and together they set the plains

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alan Macdonald Nicolson
• Release date: Feb 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9789895328666

Mac Nicolson

Mac Nicolson was born and raised on a farm in the middle of Tasmania, was gratefully expelled from boarding school at fourteen and after a series of childhood mystical experiences and with the impending possibility of having to go into the army and kill people for whom he harbored no ill will, left for India when only nineteen. He passed the next five years travelling the long since separated lands of ancient Gondwana - India and South America - searching for answers to the mysteries of existence before returning to Australia to start a community. Mac's time in Australia included a stint as a City Councilor and political activist, a columnist for a local news journal, a snake catcher, a horse breeder and tamer and a forest regenerator but after fifteen years or more and after raising a few children he began to venture back to India and Brazil, until settling in Brazil with his then Brazilian wife. Mac never planned to be a novelist and claims no great ability - he simply had a desire to share the stories that flowed out from a past that had both inspired and haunted him, each of which had first appeared to him in dreams and visions to be then confirmed by chance meetings with shamans, witches, and random fellow travelers. In all of his writings, the author strives to adhere to historical authenticity and many of the characters in his books are based on real people and events, as in The King of The Lochlains and The Sun Dancer, and in the case of his first book, The Asva Sani of Khasi, based on the story of that great Indian epic, The Mahabharata. His fourth book, The Road to Ndawo, recounts a series of stories from the current dream that we call real life and includes the culmination of his inner search along with the karmic tale of his love of a woman. The Road to Ndawo, at times, touches subtly upon his past life memories as they are told within the first three books. His fifth book, Henne's List, is pure fiction that explores in-depth, Mac's life experiences and musings on the mysteries of existence, quantum physics and parallel universes - in a rambling tale that crosses continents and time where characters jump out from the pages of his other books. Mac currently resides in Portugal with his Argentinian partner of five years, Claudia Escobar, a textile artist, and is beginning work on his next book, 'The Secrets of Dona Eiliva', inspired by the story of Claudia's grandmother, a rural town doctor and healer and ardent Peronist who married five times.

Book preview

Prologue

Dreaming of the Cheyenne

Marcus hired the car at Denver airport from the line of phones at the counter, each with the name of a competing hire company. He chose one that was surprisingly cheap – and surprisingly small when he located it in the car park but what surprised him even more was that he knew only one thing – that he wished to drive straight into the mountains that loomed in the distance and he drove that little car to eleven thousand feet until the snow threatened to freeze him but that is when he saw them watching him from not far away behind a high fence – the Pté, the lifeblood of the Cheyenne.

sep

Marcus had dreamed of him more than once as a child and each time he dreamed of him it was the same – the Cheyenne would enter the battle resigned to his death, tired of the fighting, weary, defeated but unbowed. Needless to say, he eventually found the very brief and obscure biography that told him what he already knew, that matched his dream perfectly.

Anna, whom he had met years before in the Himalayas had told him about her dream too – of knowing him as a Cheyenne – and finally he had met Gina in the later chapters of his life and it had all made perfect sense.

Gina’s appearance hadn’t changed that much. She still had the dark olive skin, the high cheekbones and the steely resolve scarcely masking the love in her eyes.

Chapter 1

The Cheyenne Prophet

The prophet of the Tsitsistas, Sweet Medicine, had warned them a long time ago of the coming of the white men and the need to stay away from them.

The Tsitsistas, later known as The Cheyenne, a name given to them by their friends, The Lakota, did not fight for land for the land belonged to the great spirit, not to them and nor did they fight to kill women and children, nor even to kill many of their enemies.

They fought for honor and prestige amongst their kinsman and the greatest feat of bravery in a fight was not to kill but to count coup, to rush in and strike the enemies head - sometimes without killing him.

Mostly they fought for horses for they were the life’s blood in the hunt for the sacred buffalo. Sometimes warriors would die and in the big wars with the Pawnee and the Kiowa many died but they would die with great honor and return happy to the great spirit that was understood to live in all things, in the people, in the animals and birds and the fish and even in the rocks and trees.

sep

In his vision quest, the boy fasted for four days and nights and was blessed to meet with the serpent spirit and the solitary jaguar after which he recounted in part to Hotuawokomas, the young medicine man, his visions.

And when he had matured into a warrior, Hotuawokomas made a sacred war bonnet for him with a single buffalo horn curving upwards at the very front of the bonnet so it looked like a serpent and it had a long trail of black and red feathers that were tied to a single cord of buffalo hide that reached all the way to the ground.

Woqini was born in a time of peace but first bore the name of Saubita, which means Little Bat in the white man’s language, and life was good on the plains then and buffalo and horses were plentiful.

The white men came through their territory heading west over the mountains trapping for fur and looking for the gold metal they loved but they were few in those days and the Cheyenne left them alone and in peace unless they wanted to trade.

Trade was always welcomed within the peoples of the plains and in spite of the warnings and grumblings of some, the white men’s wares were often welcomed. Woqini would not be one of them.

But first it is time to tell a little of the story of their prophet whose name was Sweet Medicine so that you may understand why they first tried to avoid the white men. This is the story, or a short part of it, because the real story would take many days of telling.

The prophet appeared amongst the Tsitsistas bearing both gifts and warnings,

‘I have come bringing a wonderful gift from the Creator which the spirits inside the great medicine mountain have sent you - tell the people to set up a big lodge in the center of the camp circle and cover its floor with sage, and purify it with burning sweet grass - tell everyone to go inside the tipi and stay there, no one must see me approaching.’

When at last all was made ready, Sweet Medicine walked slowly toward the

village and four times called out,

‘People of the Cheyenne, with a great power I am approaching - be joyful for the sacred arrows I am bringing.’

He entered the tipi with the sacred arrow bundle and said,

‘You have not yet learned the right way to live - that is why the ones above were angry and the buffalo went into hiding.’

The two young hunters lit the fire, and Sweet Medicine filled a deer-bone pipe with sacred tobacco. All night through, he taught the people what the spirits inside the holy mountain had taught him. These teachings established the way of the Tsitsistas, the true Cheyenne nation. Toward the morning, Sweet Medicine sang four sacred songs. After each song he smoked the pipe, and its holy breath ascended through the smoke hole up into the sky, up to the great mystery.

‘I have seen in my mind that sometime after I am dead, and may the time be long, light-skinned bearded men will arrive with sticks spitting fire - they will conquer the land and drive you before them and they will kill the animals who give you their flesh that you may live, and they will bring strange animals for you to ride and eat and they will introduce war and evil, strange sickness and death - they will try, too, and make you forget Maheo, the One, the Great Spirit who lives within all of us, and the things I have taught you, and will impose their own alien, evil ways and they will take your land little by little, until there is nothing left for you - I do not like to tell you this, but you must know - you must be strong when that bad time comes, you men, and particularly you women, because much depends on you, because you are the perpetuators of life and if you weaken, the Cheyenne will cease to be - now I have said all there is to say’.

Then Sweet Medicine went into his hut to die."

Chapter 2

The Buffalo Hunt

There are people who have said that the beginning of the end came about because of Yellow Wolf’s meeting with Little Beaver (whose white man’s name was William Bent), but it is hard to blame one of the few white men who were our friends.

In the South there was a fort that William Bent had built and he was considered our true friend and traded with us and those Tsitsistas who stayed in that area in the South near the Arkansas River became known as the Sôwiniã while we in the North were called the O’mi’si’s which meant we ate a lot of buffalo. But visits between the groups were frequent because we were all the one people and we made ceremonies together and hunted together on those occasions.

I was about twelve years old when the first really bad thing happened in my life. The white man’s bad medicine came to our camps with the traders and my father and mother both became very sick and many people, especially the old and the small babies were dying and that is how I lost my father.

Mo’Takevoeha, one of the forty-four chiefs and the father of Hotuawokomas, became like my father then and Hotuawokomas, known also as White Bull, akin to my older brother and I spent much time in their lodge.

Even before our first real fight with the white men the second bad thing happened.

Buffalo, to us was our source of life. It was sacred, it was food, clothing and weapons. It provided the source for our utensils, our clothing and decoration and from its back, our lodges. Its guts provided our water bags and cooking pots and the meat of course, gave us our strength and sustenance. Even the tail was used to ward off insects and its dung to fuel our cooking fires.

It was when I was out scouting for buffalo with Hotuawokomas and the younger Hahkota and his friend Hatseske under the guidance of Chief Okomeha’ikaate - which means Little Coyote - that we came across a sight that would change our lives forever.

You see, we, the Tsitsistas, were allied with the Arapaho people and would often camp close to each other and hunt together and the two tribes fought wars against the Comanches and the Kiowa before making a big peace at about the time I was born and from that time we were allies with them too. Later on, we fought together in the wars against the Pawnee and the Whites. In the North we had made peace and befriended the Lakota too so then we Tsitsistas had almost the whole western plains from the Mexican border to the Black hills where we could hunt.

And so it was, when riding with a scouting party for the buffalo that my story really begins.

sep

Crossing a ridge within those vast rolling plains intercepted by rivers and stands of cottonwood, we saw them spread out in front of us for several miles and, in the distance, we could see the white men's camp where the tanning fires were burning.

It was marked by lazy columns of smoke curling into a clear blue sky and the carcasses lay scattered where they fell, the hide-less mounds covered with buzzards and flies and already putrid from the sun.

The darkness that rose in my heart at that moment was all consuming. It was as if the beautiful morning light and the clear sky itself cruelly mocked the foreground, painted as it was with this ugly atrocity.

I looked to Hotuawokomas and he had his eyes rolled back in his head and he was shaking as if possessed while the younger youths had theirs fixed on Okomeha’caaté waiting for his response. But Okomeha’caaté was silent and steadfast upon his pony while trying to make sense of the scene before him.

We should make them pay for this, I said looking over to our Chief who as yet had chosen to not react.

Okomeha’caaté was still young for a Chief of his high standing and was the leader of the warrior society called The Elk Horn Scrapers and held the rank of Chief and bearer of the incarnation of our prophet, Sweet Medicine. Okomeha’caaté had always been wise beyond his years and brave beyond his size but unlike myself he was not inclined to react without reason.

I looked over to Hotuawokomas and his eyes had rolled down and had become fixed firmly ahead, as if he too were trying to make sense of both the physical and spirit realms at once.

No, Saubita, answered Okomeha’caaté, a hasty response will not be of use in this moment - we are but lightly armed and we do not properly know their numbers - they are white men, he continued, and perhaps they do not understand well the ways of the Great Spirit and the natural laws of this land - we will speak with them.

We guided our ponies down the gentle slope, picking our way between the numerous carcasses and as we passed each one, the bull like and broad face of Hotuawokomas flickered and twitched as if he were passing through the realm of the unhappy buffalo spirits and as he passed, he mumbled prayers and recitations.

Okomeha’caaté remained calm and expressionless keeping his attention fixed firmly on the encampment in the distance while the other youths, Hahkota and Hatseske looked from one carcass to the other, bewildered and uncomprehending of what they were seeing. To us, it was an unnatural sight. My anger darkened further.

We will approach in peace Saubita, said Okomeha’caaté as if reading my inner rage with ease, and as we drew nearer, we could make out about five or six men at work while they went about their camp. There were five horses and two mules hobbled nearby and contently grazing on the tall grass, and a wagon that was being heaped with hides.

Still, they hadn’t seen us. I could make out some rifles leaning against the wagon and finally, as one of the men stood up from his work and stretched, he happened to look straight at us.

Open mouthed, rooted to the ground and mute for several long moments, the hairy faced white man suddenly yelled to the others and they immediately dropped what they were doing and ran to get their rifles.

Okomeha’caaté motioned us to stop and rode out in front of us with his right hand raised in the air, his palm facing outward.

The chief had been camped with the southerners the last fall sharing a ritual of the four sacred arrows and had passed some time with the white man, William Bent, so Okomeha’caaté had learned some words of the white man's tongue and he spoke loud enough for his voice to carry the distance of some forty meters.

Greetings friends, we come talk.

You ain’t comin’ nowhere closer injun, now turn tail and git, responded one of the men who I thought must have been their chief.

Okomeha’caaté didn’t move but his face displayed incomprehension and for the first time a hint of confusion.

We were indeed lightly armed, the four of us, with bows and arrows and our chief with an old rifle slung to his back. I estimated the distance and mentally prepared my arm and attuned my senses, my fingers, for a quick reaction. I felt fear, I felt excited and thrilled and I felt primed for battle but the odds were disastrously against us and no sooner had these thoughts and sensations coursed through my veins than the first crack smashed through the wilderness causing the buzzards to flap panicked from a carcass that lay some forty meters the other side of the camp.

But I didn’t miss noting the point to where the rifle had been aimed as the bullet whistled overhead.

Now do as I say Injun and just git’ off back to where y’all came from.

Another man fired his rifle into the dirt in front of Okomeha’caaté.

Two, I thought, and took note of where the other four men were aiming their guns.

We come in peace, spoke Okomeha’caaté unflinching on his pony though his mount was high stepping on the spot at the closeness of the second shot striking the dirt in front of him.

Then I saw that a third man with a red face and dirty yellow hair and a reddish beard was aiming straight at Okomeha’caaté with the hammer cocked. My eyes, sharpened by the excitement, saw his finger tightening on the trigger.

Their talking chief, having spent a cartridge was reloading his gun while once again yelling at us,

Now just do as I say and get away with ya before we put the next bullet between ya eyes.

The red-faced man was showing his fear and his finger was tightening on the trigger.

As one hand snaked over my shoulder to draw an arrow from my quiver and the other drew my bow up from my side, Hotuawokomas, who was closer to Okomeha’caaté and must have seen what I had seen, reached out and slapped his chiefs' horse on the flank causing it to lunge sideways in the moment that the red-faced man pulled the trigger. It all happened too quickly and it happened as if in slow motion. We had turned our ponies and galloped off, two more bullets passing us by harmlessly but the third struck Hatseske in the shoulder. Hotuawokomas steadied the youth in his seat as he began to fall and helped him control his pony in flight.

I knew that they had fired all their bullets and it would be a few moments before they would reload. If they even did, now that we were galloping away.

I wheeled my pony with the adrenalin of fight pumping through my veins and whooping loudly, raced back at them shouting insults in my native tongue. I saw them hurrying to reload but they were fumbling in surprise and panic. I saw the red-faced man clutching at my arrow embedded in his neck, blood spilling from between his hands, his eyes wide with fear. I urged my pony forward and was on top of them before they could reload and aim and as I hurdled over them, clubbed their chief on the head with my bow, counting coup, and rode on past, wheeling around in a long arc encircling the men in a wild gallop. One shot went by and then another before I arced left in the direction that the others had taken.

On the ride home, no-one spoke. Okomeha’caaté and Hotuawokomas were both in deep contemplation while Hatseske was in too much pain and losing blood. Hahkota passed the journey glancing over to his wounded friend and sometimes to me in a way he had never looked at me before.

Me, I was wishing I had killed them all. I wanted to rid our lands of these bad spirits who didn’t know right from wrong.

Chapter 3

The Star Children of the Cheyenne Woman

Okomeha’caaté, Little Wolf, immediately called for a council with the other chiefs upon our return and while they gathered in the great lodge, I led the horses to the river with Hahkota and as we splashed water over their sweaty coats Hahkota couldn’t restrain himself any longer and began telling all those gathered around us, children, youths, women and even some of the warriors, about the day's events.

Me, I was feeling many emotions. Pride yes, but overwhelming anger and a deep foreboding about the future of our people. It had been a stunning display of courage and daring on my part as Hahkota was now wont to tell all with exaggerated enthusiasm, but the serious implications of what had happened were too great for me to feel festive - as if we had simply returned from a successful raid on one of our Indian neighbors.

So, I smiled wanly and nodded on occasions to confirm to the assembled audience that Hahkota spoke truly but otherwise I focused on the horses and my troubled thoughts.

Having seen to the horses needs and checked for lameness and injury to each horse thoroughly I made my way back to my mother’s tepee. I felt many eyes upon me and heard the raised and now angry voices of warriors as the news spread around the camp and I caught the occasional call of my name but I ignored it all in search of solitude.

And on reaching the lodge of my mother, Heove-Ameotse’e, I saw her breaking away from a group of women who had been working together sewing a new lodge. She hurried in my direction and in that moment of what was about to be tendering mothering she hesitated and saw not her boy anymore but a young man who had stepped through a door of no return and instead of embracing me and checking me for hurts she stopped, and looking at me as if for the first time while casting her eyes over me from top to bottom, said,

Saubita, everybody is talking about you and the bravery you showed - I am a proud mother today and your fathers' spirit will be prouder still.

I turned to face her and gently taking her hand I replied,

Mother, you may feel proud of your son in this moment but our people are in real danger - this is what everybody must understand now, and opening the flaps of the tepee and drawing a light deer skin cloak around my shoulders, I sat in silence.

sep

At that same moment, the pipe was being passed around by all the Chiefs who were then present in our camp. It passed from Tahmelashme to Ho’neoxastes, to Nahkohsené to Mohtakevoeha to Nahkoh’matomohe to Okomeha’caaté and finally to the young Hotuawokomas who had been invited on Okomeha’caaté’s insistence.

Speak Okomeha’caaté, began Tahmelashme, the fearless chief staring directly at his fellow but younger chief.

Tahmelashme, Dull Knife, was a big man, big enough to have defeated a full-grown bear with only his hands and a knife but he was considered too, a wise man. His nose was long but straight and flared somewhat at the base of his nostrils. His buckskin shirt, adorned with the claws of the bear he had killed, hid the scars the same claws had inflicted upon his back.

Tahmelashme’s brow was furrowed with worry. There had been a time when the few white men who ventured into their lands to hunt had sought friendship or at least had shown the Cheyenne respect before taking game from their prairies and forests, but no longer. The treaty they had signed with the white soldiers a few summers before had meant these lands were their lands to hunt and he had wanted to trust the white man’s word. He had no wish for war with the whites.

Hotuawokomas pushed through the lodge door to find me sitting in silence. Waiting for me to look up to him he began recounting to me the discussion of the chiefs, squatting his youthful but already bullish frame in front of me.

Okomeha’caaté spoke of what we had seen, he began, and that he had wanted to approach the white men and talk to them - about how the white men had behaved in such a crude and uncivilized way and how they had threatened and then fired on us – he spoke, Saubita, to the council of chiefs of both your recklessness and your bravery and they want you to immediately begin your initiation into manhood.

I nodded, pleased to hear that at last, I could become a warrior. In the impatience of youth, it had already seemed to me that I had waited for far too long.

"And then they spoke at length about the white man and how it had dawned on them that the coming of the