It was near midnight when the riders arrived at Bighorn Medicine Mountain. They had been on the saddle for nearly two days since departing from Fort McKinney. To Cato Alabaster’s gratified surprise, it had been an unprecedently smooth trip. No grudge-bearing Indians with an appetite for American scalps as war trophies swooped down upon them. No predatory outlaws waiting to ambush oblivious travelers roaming the Wyoming territory ambushed them. No rattlesnakes or coyotes paid them moonlit visits when they camped for the night. Cato reflected on the trip as he and his companions’ horses’ strides slowed to light trots. He couldn’t remember a ride so sweet and uneventful, and neither could the two black troopers who had ridden alongside him.
“Sorry for dragging you fellas along,” Cato said, removing his hat to flap some gnats and strands of his hair from his face. “I wanted to head out by myself, but Colonel Miles wasn’t going for it.”
“Didn’t have much choice in it, did you?” Barkley said, spitting out tobacco he had been chewing. “You were told to take two men with you, and we all knew they weren’t goin’ send no white troops just to escort some boy to the mountains.”
Cato gave the colored soldier a look. “Boy? I turned eighteen a season ago, Barks. And I’m taller than you are now.”
“We’ve known you since you small ‘nough to have to hop just to reach a horse’s saddle, Cato,” Parker said. “You may be a man so far as Uncle Sam’s concerned, but ‘till that Devil-red head of yours goes gray, you’ll always be ‘Little Red’ to us.”
Cato could only sigh. He tipped his Stetson slightly as the trio’s light trot came to a dead stop. After two days, they had finally reached their destination – the Bighorn Medicine Wheel. There were many medicine wheels which arrayed Bighorn Medicine Mountain; it was named for them after all. This one was unique if only in its pure size. Its width was enormous by the standards of the other, and the place it held in the mind of the natives was highly sacred.
To the average American, it would seem a novel wonder to visit at best or proof of native primitiveness at worst. To a magician like Cato, it would serve a much more significant purpose. And sitting at its center was the individual who would help Cato realize that much-coveted purpose; a lonely figure with smoke pluming up from his face, adorned in the garb of the Cheyenne Tribe.
“Five Owls?” Little Red called to him from his horse.
He received no response. With his legs crossed and his back faced to the trio, Five Owls smoked on his decorative pipe serenely. He paid them no mind.
“Finally went deaf, did he?” Parker asked.
“I’m bettin’ he just wants me to come near. Better not keep him waitin’ then,” Cato said while he dismounted his horse.
“Careful now, Little Red. That’s no regular Cheyenne,” Barkley warned.
“If he was a regular Cheyenne he wouldn’t be much use now, would he?”
“Cato…”
“Whether you guys, Pa, or even Colonel Miles, y’all are always so spooked at the idea of dealin’ with Owls.”
“And if you were less hardheaded, you’d be right there with us.”
Cato chuckled. He made sure to give his horse a quick caress as he started towards the medicine wheel. As he approached, Five Owls gave no notice of Cato’s approach. The Indian continued puffing on his pipe even while Cato’s shadow was cast onto his own. C
“Evenin’, Five Owls. Mighty fine moonlight we got out tonigh---“
“I was told that you would be the only one I would be waiting for. So tell me then, Red Buffalo, why are there two Buffalo Soldiers here?”
“Hmm… How’d you know they’re colored troops?”
An annoyed grunt from Five Owls compelled Cato to answer his question.
“C’mon, no need to get frustrated... I was told to take at least two fellas with me when I was s’posed to head out from Fort McKinney. It wasn’t for you, Owls. It was for the outlaws ‘round these parts, and Indians who’re a whole lot less friendly than you are.”
“Ah… I’m a friendly Indian now, am I? It seems once you’re at the white man’s bidding, suddenly you’re a friendly Indian.”
“Bidding? Pa said you had volunteered to help.”
Five Owls sighed a cloud of smoke. “Of course he did. I will make this clear from the outset, Red Buffalo: While I hold no true grudge against you, your father, or any white or black soldier who has ever marched through Indian Territory; I will perform no charity for any American. I do this only because Sherman said he would get ‘this’ taken off in exchange.”
The native raised his left hand and allowed his sleeve to slip down it. On his wrist was a peculiar tattoo, its ensorcelled ink shimmering in the moonlight. It looked like a stave caught in a chain that coiled around Five Owl’s wrist. Cato recognized it immediately.
“Mage’s Shackle…”
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
It was meant for magicians who had proven themselves to not be so inherently dangerous that they should be imprisoned or killed but still dangerous enough that simply leaving them be was out of the question. American mages called it “parole for spellcasters”. There were several spellcasting Confederate veterans who still wore the shackles over a decade after the war. They took a strange pride in them, calling them ‘Rebel Cuffs’ in their little circle.
Five Owls didn’t hold the same degree of endearment toward his own shackle.
“So, General Sherman said he’d end your parole in exchange for helpin’ me out?”
“He did,” Five Owls confirmed, letting down his arm. “Once we are finished, it will be gone within twenty-four hours. No strings attached.”
“Well then, we oughta get to it, shouldn’t we? It’s almost midnight.”
As Cato set his hat back on, he heard Five Owls murmur something. Like a feather touched by a breeze, the Cheyenne’s pipe flew from his grasp and up toward Cato who caught it.
“Smoke,” Five Owls commanded.
“Oh. Is this part of the ritual for---“
“Just smoke. Now.”
Shrugging, Cato puffed on the pipe for a brief moment. As smoke plumed across his face, he quickly realized that he had been handed no ordinary tobacco. An eclectic sensation coursed all through him. It was his mana going wild, like the waves on the coast during a full moon.
“It’s been a while since my mana’s felt this way... Is this Metzehouf tobacco?”
“Yes, and it will only last for a few moments, so go back to your horse and be ready for my signal.”
Finally, Five Owls stood. He faced Cato at last, showing the boy his colorless blind eyes which paradoxically seemed more insightful than any other pair the Red Buffalo had locked gazes with. According to Cato’s father, Five Owls wasn’t born this way. His father used to say that Five Owls used to be able to see ‘further than Enoch from Heaven’s peak’, whatever that meant. Cato couldn’t begin to imagine what that meant since his father never elaborated properly. Besides, so far as he was concerned, Five Owls had no problem ‘seeing’. Regular eyesight would have likely been a hindrance to him.
“Alright! Just tell me when!” Cato exclaimed while jogging back toward his horse.
Five Owls stuffed his pipe away in his sleeve. He then dug around in the opposite sleeve and pulled out a ceremonial fan made of feathers. The Buffalo Soldiers blinked in confusion at the sight.
“Now how in the hell do you mages keep the whole world in your pockets like that?” Parker asked Cato as he was remounting.
“Eh. It’s a pretty basic trick. I got it down when I was ‘bout twelve, but I’m a slow learner.
They all watched as Five Owls began to pray and eventually dance. His blind eyes stayed shut while his feet shuffled with equal parts force and grace under the moonlight.
“Ritual’s about to start?” Barkley asked Cato.
“Yep. In another minute.”
“Well, we’ll give you some room then.”
“Try not to act like too much of a hick out East, Little Red,” Parker said as he and Barkley trotted some distance away from the medicine wheel.
Cato just shook his head. He had been putting up with getting teased by Buffalo Soldiers since his father took him out west for his work. It would be the first time in his life he would be completely separated from such an environment. Just the thought of not being ‘Little Red’ to anyone was going to be a strange one for him.
As Five Owls continued his dance, Cato could sense a rift forming in the immediate area. The countless realms which bridged to their own were beginning to converge on their location. The leylines which zipped and zagged all across Bighorn Medicine Mountain were coming alive. The stones which composed not only the Bighorn Medicine Wheel but every Medicine Wheel on the mountain were beginning to light up, imbued with immense magical power. Mana floated up from the leylines beneath the earth and became so dense, even Barkley and Parker could feel it.
What’s more, they could see it. At first, they thought they were fireflies, but fireflies did not give off the same blue shimmer as did the countless supernatural beings floating around Bighorn Medicine Mountain.
“Sprites are gettin’ restless,” said Cato.
The same could be said for him and the mana going crazy within him. He tried to steady the flow with careful breathing while he awaited Five Owls’ signal.
Eventually, the Cheyenne did stop with his feather fan held high within the air.
"O’ Chief of Chiefs, let thou have passage across the sun, the moon, the stars...
O’ Chief of Chiefs, let thou have passage across the mountains, the plains, the waters...
O' Chief of Chiefs, take thou beyond the horizon and further yonder..."
When he finished his chant, the leylines which riddle Bighorn Medicine Mountain began to swell with immense magical power. The sprites danced in the moonlight in a feverous spectacle. From miles off, one would have been able to see how the mountainside lit up.
"Now Red Buffalo!" exclaimed the Blind Cheyenne.
Cato started at an energetic gallop around the medicine wheel once the signal had been given. When he was about to finish his first cycle around the medicine wheel, Five Owls flapped his fan, and the sprites scattered about in a frenzy as though a great gale had cast them afar. The Buffalo Soldiers looked on with further astonishment as they watched Cato’s horse begin to gallop above the ground. Initially, it was only a few inches, but with each flap of Five Owls’ fan, Little Red and his mount levitated another foot in the air. It was two feet. Then it became four, then eight, then twelve. This continued until Cato was riding in circuits some twenty-five feet in the air.
All the while, the rider felt his mana getting stormier while his senses became dimmer. The ritual’s power and the Metzehouf tobacco’s effects were combining and providing him with a high all the adrenaline in the world couldn’t match. Though his vision became blurred, he felt as if could ‘see’ better than he ever could before in his life. Soon, Cato’s skin gradually started to crack like damaged glass. His very mana gleamed out from the fractures. Even his horse’s hide began to crack. Cato now glowed as much as any sprite flying around Bighorn Medicine Mountain. It might have bothered him more if not that his comprehension of reality had become so abstract.
Still, his senses were sound enough for him to hear one final call from below.
“Good luck, Red Buffalo!” shouted Five Owls.
Cato smiled at the parting words just as his fractures abounded until he – hat, horse, and all – shattered into countless shimmering fragments. They then, in a cluster of light, shot off eastward at a speed only light knew. After the cluster vanished over the horizon, the light that lit up Bighorn Medicine Mountain dimmed. The sprites that pranced and romped about the mountain gradually faded away like dust blown by the wind. Once the calm of the mountain was restored, Five Owls sat back down in the spot where Cato had found him. He tucked away his fan and withdrew his pipe once more.
As he did before Red Buffalo’s arrival, he silently puffed on his pipe, moonlight beaming down on him. Barkley and Parker watched him for a moment. After the former tipped his hat in silence, he and his fellow Buffalo Soldier headed off without a word exchanged between them and the Indian. If Five Owls – the “Shame of the Cheyenne” – appreciated anything that night, it was that final act of antipathy.
Americans were good for that, if for nothing else.