by Kim Roberts
© 2000
The beat of the drum is the heartbeat of the Earth . . . calling to her children . . . calling her children home.
If he was to dig a grave, he would need a tool. Not finding anything in the area that remotely resembled a shovel, Buck opted for his knife as an alternative. He selected a location in the shade of the aspen grove where the soil under the brown and matted grass of the clearing was moist and the digging would be easy.
To make certain he didn't dig any more than necessary he laid down in the grass to determine the proper size of the hole that would serve as his symbolic grave. With his knife, Buck cut away a piece of sod to mark the top of his head then repeated the process to outline the width of his shoulders. He then rose to a sitting position, his legs stretched out in front of him. Unable to reach far enough to mark the bottom of his feet in similar fashion, he gouged the heel of this boot into the damp soil to mark his height.
The dimensions drawn out, his work began. Using the knife he was able to remove the layer of sod fairly quickly by outlining a small area in vertical cuts and then sliding the blade into the crevice and slicing horizontally just under the surface to cut through the roots of the sod. Each clump of grass he carefully laid aside so it could be replaced after the hole had served its purpose and was filled in again. Once the full rectangle of bare earth was exposed, he inserted the blade to its hilt and twisted the knife to loosen the stubborn soil, removing one blade width of dirt at a time. The process proved excruciatingly slow and after several hours of tedious labor, Buck felt his patience growing thin and his already wounded and weakened arm protested each stabbing motion of his knife. Switching hands alleviated the pain in his left arm, but the unnatural use of his right hand was cumbersome at best and slowed the process even more.
Frustration mounting, he began to wonder why he was there anyway, alone on a cold mountain, hoping for the guidance he had no assurance he would receive. Many warriors didn't receive a vision on their first quest - some never did. It was almost ludicrous to think he would be granted such a craved experience when other full-blooded Kiowa were not. The braves in the village would certainly think the idea laughable. But, Two Rains had been encouraging and insistent. Buck's mood brightened a bit and his resolve strengthened thinking of the strange old man. If Two Rains, a highly respected Kiowa prophet, had seen something worthwhile in him and been blind to his mixed blood perhaps, if he could prove himself extraordinarily deserving, the spirits might be generous?
After a brief rest to placate the throbbing wound on his arm, Buck threw himself back into the task. He found it somewhat faster to loosen large sections of soil with the knife and then remove the clods of earth enlisting the aid of an elk's shed antlers found among the dropped leaves of the aspens. The prong horns served as a make-shift scoop to shovel out the large pieces of earth though the smaller clods and loose dirt still had to be removed by hand. He was forced to stop occasionally to flex away the cramps in his fingers and shrug off the soreness the prolonged crouched position created. The sun had journeyed to the far side of the sky when he finally, with hands swollen and blistered from the task, sheathed his knife and pulled himself out of the three feet deep hole to survey his work.
Satisfied, he wiped his dirt-blackened hands on his shirtsleeves and turned his attention to gathering firewood and stones as Two Rains had directed. Old wood was abundant in the clearing and he soon collected a fair supply. As the old man had promised, he found the cave hidden behind a growth of mountain laurel on the slope above the aspen grove and deposited the firewood inside the small cavern for later use. Buck spent the remaining precious hour of daylight traversing the steep slopes gathering stones of the size Two Rains had specified. Exhausted by already one sleepless night in the sweat lodge, he stumbled and staggered on the uneven footing. His missteps sent a shower of gravel bouncing down the slope and on several occasions he came close to tumbling down the mountainside himself in his hurry to finish the assignment before nightfall.
Bone weary but relieved, Buck dropped himself into the opening in the earth as the sun fell onto the horizon and bled across the sky. He drew a determined deep breath to calm the anxious beating of his heart and firmly clutching his medicine pouch, sank into the cool dampness assuming the position of a dead man. He would spend the night there, dying to his old self and emerge from his grave in the morning to begin his quest.
Buck felt the moist soil through his cotton shirt and shivered. Exhaustion throbbed in the gash on his head and he coerced his heavy eyelids open forbidding himself the rest his body ached for. As the dark hours crept by and the cold night air settled into the opening, his legs cramped in the tight confines and he wished he had dug the grave a little longer so he could flex his feet and move a bit. He heard a strange noise reverberating off the earthen walls and realized it was the sound of his teeth chattering. His shoulders stiffened in the damp cold and he crossed his arms over his chest to lift them off the moist dirt. It helped somewhat, but envisioning just how much like a corpse he must look he quickly dropped his arms back to their original numbing position.
Suddenly the realization of where he was and what it represented loosened the reins of his imagination and his thoughts began to run wild through a weary mind. Creatures of the underground began crawling on him. He jerked suddenly as an earthworm wiggled its way under the cuff of his shirtsleeve and inched its slimy length up his arm. The clawed feet of a mole scurrying across his legs ripped his buckskin trousers and tore sharply into his skin. It hurt. He felt the stinging bites of ants as they paraded across his face and he hurriedly slapped the insects away.
Quickly grabbing hold of his runaway imagination while it could still be harnessed, Buck commanded himself to calm and concentrated instead on the reason he was lying in a cold, cramped hole, three feet underground. He was on the verge of a great experience, a ceremony as old as the Kiowa themselves and he would not let fear of the unknown or unnatural ruin his opportunity. The night sky above him glowed with the reassuring light of uncountable stars and the moon tilted its head to watch over the young Kiowa. Buck breathed deeply allowing the crisp night air to clear his muddled head and reached for his medicine pouch with numb, blistered fingers and a renewed determination. He lay awake the remainder of the night watching the dark hours pass by overhead, the walls of his grave wrapped securely around him like a mother's cradling arms.
At the first hint of dawn, Buck pulled his cold stiffened body out of the grave and using the elk antlers quickly raked the soil back into the hole. He laid out the sod pieces and stomped them back into place, completing his symbolic burial. With a mixture of hope for a successful outcome and apprehension of what lay in between, he drew a deep cleansing breath, stepped into the small circle of identically sized stones laid out the day before and his quest for enlightenment began.
He fixed his gaze on the fiery ball as it crept above the horizon and stood steadfastly in his place, staring into the sun, not moving save to follow its slow course across the sky. By mid-morning he thought he would scream in pain and by noon his eyes burned in white-hot agony. For a frightening moment Buck wondered if this was how Two Rains had been blinded. How ironic to gain your vision, but lose your sight. He squinted tightly so only a thin line of the bright light could enter his eyes and continued praying silently on cramped and trembling legs. By mid afternoon, the sun had burned its way past his eyes and into his skull. Dissolving blood and bone, the fiery rays spread down his neck and filled his entire body with searing light. Mustering more strength than he dared believe he possessed, Buck continued standing motionless and staring into the face of the sun. To reward him for his courage, Pahy, the sun, hid itself behind a bank of clouds permitting him a brief respite from the ordeal. When the clouds passed Buck determinedly finished the second requirement of his quest, not moving from his place or averting his eyes until the last ray of light disappeared behind the western horizon.
Blinded by white spots dancing before his eyes, Buck stepped from the circle of stones and crumpled to the ground, his legs no longer able to support him. He lay on the cool earth, his throbbing head cradled against his folded arms, hiding his eyes until the blistering pain eased and he half stumbled, half crawled up the rocky terrain to the cave.
Using the wall of the cave for guidance and support, Buck crept into the dank chamber. He crouched low, startled, as a bat flew inches above his head toward the cave opening and into the night. Although his vision had cleared somewhat, the blackness of the cave prevented Buck from seeing the pile of firewood and he stumbled over the stack of dry logs and twigs, falling head long into the darkness. A large spider web looming before him wrapped itself around his face and neck as he fell and he hurriedly brushed the sticky web away, wiping its glue on his pants legs. Collecting himself, he blindly restacked the wood and built a small fire, breathing easier as the flames warmed his chilled bones and illuminated the space.
Cool subterranean air soothed his burned eyes, quieting their screams to a weak cry, and Buck sank down against the cold wall of the cave to begin another sleepless night. As Two Rains directed, he pulled a bundle of sage from the beaded, leather bag around his neck, then slowly crumbled the dry herb over the fire and began chanting ancient prayers of the Kiowa. He had barely used the language in the past seven years and some of the chants not sung since his childhood he didn't remember exactly. But as the night wore on they came back to him, like water remembering its course through a dry streambed.
Buck told himself he wasn't tired as he jerked awake. He tried to convince himself he didn't want food or water, but hunger stabbed his empty stomach and sand coated his throat. As the hours past and doubt crept into the cave to keep him company, he told himself to be patient, that he was worthy of the spirits' blessing, that it would take time - but the voice of uncertainty mingled with his prayers, telling him otherwise.
He heard Raven Wing taunting "You were a mistake, White Face. An error." He heard Thompkins bellowing insults and the sound of white laughter. He heard Kathleen's sweet voice pretending affection and he heard Neville. The sounds pulled on his confidence like a tug-of-war and refused to let loose. His chanting continued, but underneath the prayers lay fear not faith, anger rather than serenity. To combat the doubt, he chanted louder - his prayers taking on a hard, demanding edge.
As the first rays of light crept into the cave Buck stiffly rose from his cross-legged position to greet the morning. Weak and lightheaded from the lack of sleep and food he groped his way to the entrance and stood unsteadily upon a rocky parapet to give thanks for the new day. The morning was beautiful. Its sunrise brushed across the sky like a watercolor painting but Buck was too tired to notice or care.
A diligent spider spun its web at the cave entrance overnight and Buck nearly walked through it as he turned to re-enter the cavern. Morning dew outlined the strands of the web transforming them into gossamer threads of filigree lace as delicate as any piece of store-bought handwork. Rays of sunlight reflecting off the intricate pattern of connecting rounds made the web momentarily intriguing but Buck's exhausted mind quickly lost interest and he reached out to sweep the spider's creation aside.
"Will you brush me aside again, Grandson?" the spider asked in a familiar graveled voice.
Buck pulled back in surprise as if he'd been bitten. "Grandfather?"
The spider sat back in his web and fixed his gaze on the young man. Buck reached toward the black shelled spider in wonder, but hesitated and pulled his hand away, fearing his touch would shatter the fragile creature. "I have done as you directed," he said wearily. "I spent the night in my grave and looked into Pahy's face. I have prayed. I am hungry and tired, but no wiser."
"You seek peace, but your prayers are angry, Grandson," answered the spider. "You ask for acceptance yet you think of yourself as different. You wear the cloth of a white man but the medicine of the Kiowa. Decide who you are, Grandson," implored the spider. "Decide who you are."
Buck took a good look at himself. The Grandfather spider was right - he was a deliberate mixture of two worlds. The spirits must be as confused as to who he was as he was himself. A Kiowa spirit would no more speak to a white man than the Christian's God hanging on a wooden cross in the chapel at the mission would reveal himself to an Indian. As long as he thought of himself as half-white the rest of the world would also. Could it be so simple?
"Thank you, Grandfather," Buck whispered. He raised his eyes to the small creature but the spider lay shriveled and lifeless among the threads of the web. The death of the spider saddened him, but also had a purpose. Buck gently wound the web around the dead spider, wrapping its frail body in a shroud of lace. He then loosened the rawhide string of his pouch and placed the delicate bundle inside, adding the wisdom of the spider to his medicine.
Buck felt a tingling of anticipation as he returned to the fire. He added new wood to the dying coals to revive the flame and sprinkled a pinch of sweet grass from Two Rains' bag over the hot embers as an offering. "Decide who you are," the wise one said. "Your past self must die before your future can be revealed." A chill ran through him as he stripped naked, humbling himself before the Gods and rubbed a bundle of sage over his bare skin, purifying himself with the pungent herb. His buckskin trousers held no threads of the white world and he carefully folded them, placing them along with his knife on the dirt floor of the cave. Wearing only his medicine pouch and the old man's leather bag, Buck stood before the fire and dropped his cotton shirt, vest and boots into the waiting flames ridding himself of any physical trace of his white half.
As a child, Buck had watched with a morbid fascination as the participants in the Sun Dance pierced and mutilated their bodies as an offering to the gods. "The flesh is weak," Red Bear told him. "It must suffer for the soul." The shaman of the tribe cut slits in the flesh on the back or chest of the chosen dancers and inserted skewers of wood or bone through the wounds. One end of a long rawhide strap was attached to the protruding ends of the skewers and the other end secured to the cottonwood pole in the center of the dance circle. The warrior was suspended in air by these straps or danced around the pole pulling on them. If the dancer's spirit was strong, he would endure the self-torture without crying out and his sacrifice of flesh was considered highly by the gods.
The ritual that had captured his young curiosity took on new meaning as Buck slowly passed his knife over the flames to purify the blade. He then took hold of a fold of skin on the left side of his chest, just underneath his collarbone, placed the tip of the knife to the fold, closed his eyes tightly and shoved the knife through the skin until it exited the other side. His jaw clamped rigidly suppressing a scream of pain, Buck withdrew the knife and with trembling hands pulled a rib bone of a small animal from Two Rains' bag. Twisting and probing, he worked the bone into the cut on his chest, through the sliced muscle and out the other side of the wound. His hands slick with blood and feeling faint he replicated the wound on the other side of his chest.
Oozing blood and throbbing in pain, the wounds kept him awake as his supplications began again in earnest. He chanted until the words were no longer separate and distinct but rather one continuous sound. The prayer knew no beginning and had no end. It enveloped his existence, all existence, until the sound blended heaven and earth together.
On the morning of the third day Buck offered his prayer to the rising sun as directed, but as he re-entered the cavern the dirt floor gave way beneath him and he felt himself falling, spiraling, tumbling end over end through a hole in the mountain. The tunnel opened suddenly and spilled him into a lush, immaculately manicured garden. Buck squinted in the bright light. He wasn't sure how he got there - he remembered no such place on his journey through the mountains with Two Rains. If this was his vision, it wasn't what he expected. But the feel of the grass beneath him was real. The sunlight warming his bare body felt real.
Curious and feeling a little stronger, he rose to his feet and began to explore this piece of paradise. A brook, lined by towering cottonwood trees and thickets flush with deer and small game, meandered casually through the garden. The silver leaves of the cottonwoods above him swayed in a slow dance to the strains of meadowlarks nested in their white barked branches and the brook below bubbled in applause of their performance. Berries, plump with ripeness, growing at the cottonwood's ankles were enticing, as was the fresh water, but his fast not yet broken, Buck resisted both. The quiet calm soothed his weary mind and body and he felt very much at peace there. The garden was a perfect place, providing everything one needed. It was evident the gardener tended it carefully and was devoted to her creation.
Buck noticed a vine growing at the edge of the garden. It appeared to be a weedy, invasive sort of plant - greedy. It didn't seem to belong there. The vine spread itself across the lawn with twining tendrils that reached out to choke whatever blocked its path. The marks of the gardener's pruning shears were clear. She evidently had to work very hard to keep it from invading her garden. For every shoot of the vine that had been cut back, two new shoots grew in its place.
A single flower nestled in the center of the garden caught his attention. It was wild by nature, taking root where the seed dropped, not planted purposely by a human hand. Four red petals, the color of the sunset, surrounded a yellow button center. A simple flower. It wasn't glamorous like the rose nor did it possess the heavy perfume of the honeysuckle. Many might pass it by unimpressed, but to Buck it was beautiful in its simplicity - living quietly and undisturbed. He drew closer to the flower as it silently called his name. He admired the lovely plant and wanted nothing more than to touch it.
He knelt beside the flower in the lush carpet of grass and moved closer, reaching for the red petals, but drew back quickly as a bee emerged from the grass and sank its stinger into his hand. He winced at the sting and batted the pest away but its hum of alarm drew more of its kind and a hostile swarm quickly surrounded him. Buck slapped and swatted at the buzzing creatures but they fiercely guarded the wildflower refusing to let him near it. The swarm grew larger and more aggressive, stinging him repeatedly until large welts covered his body and he grew sick from their poison.
Buck didn't understand what he had done to provoke their anger. All he wanted was to touch the life they guarded - he meant no harm. He wasn't in the garden by choice - he'd simply been dropped there. The stings hurt terribly and unable to fend off his attackers he had no choice but to run and leave the garden behind.
Commanding his weakened legs to move, he fled to the north and the assurance of winter winds. As the air grew steadily colder, the swarm gave up their chase and he paused, panting, to rest. Buck leaned forward, his hands on his knees supporting his weary frame, and caught his breath but jerked upright in surprise as the grass beneath him turned white and he found himself on a snow covered mountainside.
The snow lay perfect and undisturbed on the slope like a feather comforter draped across a great bed. Buck bathed himself with a handful of snow and the burning in his fevered welts subsided under its gentle touch. Feeling better, he stood quietly, entranced by the beauty of the snowfall. The mountain was strangely quiet, but each flake shaken from the sky carried its own note and the tones blended together in a silent symphony. He held his hand open and caught one of the flakes. It was a precious thing, a gift from an imaginative god. But he was allowed to hold it for only a brief moment before the wind swept it away. How sad, he thought, to be shown something so wonderful and not be allowed to keep it.
The mountain began to tremble under his bare feet and a roaring wave of snow broke loose on the peak above him. His eyes quickly searched the slope for shelter but finding none he plunged down the mountainside in an attempt to outrun the avalanche. The cold draining his energy, the wall of white was soon at his heels and Buck felt the snow building around him - knee high, waist high - until he could no longer move his legs. The force of the avalanche knocked him forward and he tumbled, somersaulting and sliding down the icy slope. He reached out desperately grappling for something, anything, to stop his descent, but the snow swept him further down the mountain. The white mass covered him and he gasped for air but the ice crystals he breathed in numbed his throat and lungs. He felt himself growing weaker and resigned himself to dying on this frozen mountain.
Buck suddenly felt the snow give way beneath him and he realized he had tumbled off the edge of a cliff. Airborne, he braced himself for his most likely death, but landed abruptly on a hardened patch of bare dirt baked dry by the intensity of the summer sun. The earth had cracked into small pieces, fitting together like some strange jig-saw puzzle across a table top of wasted land.
The warmth of the sun felt good initially in contrast to the frozen mountainside he had just left and he began walking. He didn't know where he was headed. There was no sign of life anywhere in this barren land, only row after row of heat waves dancing on the horizon. Two Rains told him there was a purpose in all things, but he couldn't imagine what bit of wisdom he might find there. As he walked on, the relentless summer sun beat down on him like a club, burning his skin bright red. Sweat flowed from every pore of his body and the salty rivers stung his burned skin. Blisters rose on his bare feet and Buck soon felt what little strength he had left waning. Exhausted, he staggered and fell to the unforgiving ground. He told himself to get up and keep moving, but his legs wouldn't obey the command. His swollen tongue begged for water but he saw no sign of the precious liquid anywhere. Fearing he was at the end, Buck closed his eyes and waited for the buzzards to find him.
He felt a cool shadow pass over his face and opened his eyes expecting to find a benevolent cloud passing overhead. Instead, he saw the lovely face of a young woman kneeling over him, her parasol providing the shade. Buck blinked twice to reassure himself the exquisite creature was real. White blonde hair framed her face and cascaded in ringlets around her shoulders. Her skin was perfect, lily-white and untouched by the sun. He stared in wonder at the beautiful woman and saw himself floating in her deep-water blue eyes.
He wanted to ask what she was doing in this forgotten place, but his throat was too dry to form the words. Dressed in a gown of white satin and lace she obviously didn't belong there. She leaned over him wiping the sweat from his brow with her handkerchief and smiled reassuringly. His gaze traveled from her eyes down her slim neck to creamy white shoulders and cleavage that hinted of perfectly poised breasts beneath the bodice of her gown.
The woman leaned closer and brushed her mouth against his parched lips. Her kiss was moist and tasted of honey. Unalarmed by his nakedness, she caressed and soothed his blistered skin with her touch. The billowing skirt of her white satin gown spilled across the baked ground like a cool island in a desert sea and she drew him into her embrace, holding him close. Her perfume was deliciously intoxicating and Buck found himself a willing captive of her charms.
In one hand she held a crystal goblet of water and raised the glass to her mouth to drink. Droplets of moisture clung to her lips like dew on a rosebud as she pulled the glass away and she smiled again. Buck had never seen anyone so beautiful and his desire to be with her grew stronger. He wanted to taste her kiss again, wanted to feel her soft, white skin against his blistered body and he pulled her to him. To his dismay she resisted. Instead, the woman dipped a dainty finger into the goblet and pressed her moistened finger against his cracked lips. She offered the water to him and blinded by his desires he accepted. Eagerly raising the glass, Buck felt the relief of the water's cool wetness across his lips - but stopped suddenly as words of warning came rushing back.
"The desires of the body are great, Grandson. Do not expect temptation to be removed from you. These things you must do for yourself."
Buck looked from the glass to the beautiful temptress and pulled away from her soft embrace in horror as her flawless skin changed into the diamond pattern of a prairie rattlesnake and her gown became the predator's white belly. The snake wrapped herself in a tight coil beside him, her mouth open wide exposing anxious fangs. He instinctively reached for his knife then realized it wasn't strapped to his leg but lay on the floor of the cave. Using the only weapon at his disposal, Buck threw the crystal goblet at the snake's head as she raised to strike. The blow momentarily stunned the rattler and he sprang to his feet, running in an unknown direction.
The ground beneath his feet began to tremble and threw Buck off balance for a moment. A noise unlike anything he had ever heard advanced on him from behind and he dared slow his retreat enough to glance over his shoulder. At first he was unable to identify the thundering dark mass approaching but as it grew closer he realized it was a herd of buffalo bearing down on him. He ran as if his life depended upon it - then ran faster yet realizing it did. Sharp pains stabbed at his sides with every breath and his lungs begged for air. The buffalo were upon him in seconds but rather than trample him, the herd parted and accepted him into their midst.
Buck pumped his arms and legs harder to keep up with the surging wave. The closeness of the huge beasts tightening around him set his mind to panic, but he soon realized the bison meant him no harm. A great pounding echoed across the land - the thunder of a thousand, ten thousand, a hundred thousand cloven hooves and two human feet. He felt the warm, live wind of their breath at his back and it pushed him forward. He was close enough to reach out and touch the wooly hump of the massive bull running beside him and he marveled at the strength in the animal. The power of these creatures excited him. Buck had never felt stronger, more alive or more free than he did running with the giant beasts. The Kiowa and the buffalo - masters of plains.
The booming crack of a rifle discharge, louder than any gun Buck had ever heard, split the air and a large cow in front of him staggered. The cow didn't die immediately but stumbled a few strides before her knees buckled and the crippled animal fell. Signaled by the starting gun, shots rang out from all directions and the mighty beasts began to fall. Buck herd the sickening crack of breaking bones as fallen buffalo were trampled under the panicked hooves of their own kind. Blood spurted like angry geysers as huge bullets tore through the animal's thick, curly coats leaving gaping wounds and dangling entrails.
Buck's eyes frantically searched the plains for the killers, but the cowardly hunters didn't need to come close to wage their unprovoked war. The range of their great guns was too far and the accuracy of their aim too great.
In a matter of minutes, the giant herd had been reduced to a field of broken, bloodied bodies and the shots ceased - their mission accomplished. A mournful breeze carried the death moans of dying animals across the plains and the north wind cried. Horrified, Buck stumbled numbly among the great animals lying littered across the floor of the prairie. There were so many dead. How could there be so many dead? Finding his voice he shouted - cursing the hunter's greed - cursing their ignorance. Vowing vengeance, he felt a wet stickiness rising around his ankles as the dried ground became a lake of blood.
The sky had also been wounded, ripped to shreds by the barrage of lead, and its blood flowed down like rain. Buck felt the thick drops splatter across his back as he leaned over the quivering body of a great bull, the last trace of life hanging precariously in the buffalo's dulling eyes.
"Stay with me, Kiowa," the buffalo whispered. "Stay with me while I die."
Buck knelt beside the dying animal and ran his hand through the curly thatch covering its monstrous head. "You have been a friend to my people, Buffalo. I will stay with you while you die."
Buck felt the mighty animal draw his last breath and a hush fell across the prairie. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something familiar and slowly moved away from the carcass of the dead buffalo. His sloshing steps through the blood-drenched grass grew faster as he recognized the beautiful wildflower and he dropped to his knees beside it. Transplanted from its home in the lush garden to this barren land the flower was unable to put down its roots and flourish. Choked by the tendrils of the creeping vine its petals lay torn, beaten limp by bloody rain.
Buck hesitantly reached to feel its petals, fearing the reproof of its guards, but the swarm of angry ones was gone. With a gentle touch he gathered the withered, bloody blossom into his hands. It was his greatest wish to hold the flower, become a part of its life and now even as it died, it was beautiful - more beautiful than he could have ever imagined.
In the next moment Buck found himself on the dirt floor of the cave, the fire burned out, the night air chilly and damp. Slowly regaining his awareness, he felt the fresh blood of the wildflower and the buffalo on his hands and he cried. He had seen the future of the Kiowa and he cried for the life that once was and would never be again. . . but in its final moments would be his.
Author's note: The elements of a vision quest described in this chapter are not solely those of the Kiowa but rather a compilation of the rituals of various tribes of the plains.
