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♥MONSTER /// LITERATURE Little Big Chief As Told By: Derek Eliot Shaw Illustrated By: Darren Pearson Prologue Many moons ago, in a land quite near, these burrowed hills and flattened plains belonged to the native Blackfeet. This is the tale of a nomadic people without a home, the legend of endurance.
Chapter I. The Sage
Winter waned and mellowed into spring. February marched onward into Little Big Chief’s thirteenth year.
The west went pastel when the sun fell. Blackfeet danced atop a leaping fire, singing from singed bosoms till the flames punctured the clouds, and rain teemed down from the heavens. Youth sprang from the south, and all was yellow.
Chief Howling Wolf withdrew his boy, who would soon become a young man. They retreated from the revelry, receding into the forest. Suddenly, a clearing in the pines undraped the valley below. Diamonds at the river’s edge shone and shimmered, the flickering of five thousand fallen stars.
“Traverse the shore of reeds, and see the sage at the wooded ridge—His tipi is tall, and black plumes billow from its crown,” spoke Chief Howling Wolf. “Some hail him as a medicine man, others a madman. There are those who write stories and those who tell them. He who talks too loud hears no one; he who walks too proud goes nowhere, and he who stares too hard sees nothing. You must free fantasy from folklore. You must beg answers with questions. Little Big Chief: my lone kin, my beloved son. Summon that spirit which compels you to keep on. Do not return till you find what you’re looking for.”
With that, the chief vanished. A “hoooooow?” echoed through the ravine and resonated downstream…
The nomad trailed the sound to the banks of Red River. Little Big Chief breached the reeds along the shoreline, but its clutch was unforgiving. Alas, the boy was bogged down and breathless. He trudged and nudged but couldn’t budge and finally sank into the sludge.
Little Big Chief awoke at dawn to the tune of a panpipe. He cried at the air, and an old man appeared. The stranger spoke no words and wore a vague smile, offering the boy a branch, which freed him from the mire.
They walked together in silence, approaching the tallest tipi the lad had ever seen. He peeled back the buffalo hide and stepped inside the cloudy chambers imbued with the smoke of oak and cedar oil. The old man slowly stirred a boiling pot of herbs, wild mushrooms, shoots and roots.
Little Big Chief stood eagerly till he was handed a satchel of sage’s brew.
“Carry this on your journey…you need only take two sips every seven suns.”
The boy bowed, sat fireside and soaked up the elder’s sermon: Blackfeet legends like the trout that ate the rainbow, the widow who chopped too many onions, and the bolt of lightning that split oak and begot fire.
“Which way do I travel?” Little Big Chief beseeched.
“I shall not tell but rather show you the way,” said the sage.
“And if I lose my way?” feared the nomad.
“I do not offer directions,” shrugged the sage, a furrowed brow forming forty wrinkles about his forehead, dating the old man like the rings of a tree.
“But how will I know when I’ve found what I’m looking for?” the boy implored.
“The heart will beckon you back,” the sage replied. “Kiss your fists; hear the hiss of the flame.”
Little Big Chief minded the fire, which begged patient ears. In the heat of the flash came the boy’s first vision, a black bear. The beast awoke from the flames and bellowed a yellow-fanged roar. He yowled at its ghastly growl and cowered in horror.
Just then came the boy’s second vision, which collided with the first. A mighty buffalo charged at the black bear in a furious fireball, forcing Little Big Chief to the floor.
Suddenly, like a cloak drawn overhead, Little Big Chief was topsy-turvy in the tipi. Poison poured from the boy’s soul. Demons leapt from his lips as he sacrificed blood and bile to the gods.
Little Big Chief crept into the corner and wept till he ran out of tears. His raven locks lay buried in the violins of grasshopper legs. Deliverance was daunting. His battle had all only begun, and already he sought surrender.
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“Return to the flame,” urged the sage.
“I cannot.”
“Come,” said the man, and the boy did.
“Enough with the tricks,” he pleaded.
“I impart allusions, not illusions,” the old man retorted. “I do not mix potions or cast spells. I am no magician or martyr, nor prophet or prince. The sage is neither a saint nor a shrink. The superficial and supernatural are not my business. There are no miracles and no surprises. I do not chase luck in lottery. I deal in the dirt and what it breeds. There is no greater truth than that which is natural.”
“But if you’re so close to nature, why must you stay inside this tipi?” asked Little Big Chief.
“My wife once collected the spices, compiled the recipes and cooked my meals. Her fingers plowed the earth, sowed the seeds and reaped the fruits. I haven’t tended my own garden in years, and now my hands are too feeble to farm.”
“Where did she go?” the boy inquired.
“I sent her northward to fetch an herb said to clear warts and ward off evil spirits.”
“Did she run away?” the lad persisted.
“She must have found something worthwhile, or perhaps someone found her worthwhile. Anyhow, she’s bound to be scalped and squandered by now…No Blackfoot shall ever know.”
“Maybe she’s lost,” suggested Little Big Chief.
The old man paused momentarily, gazing at the fading fire. His head remained bowed, his back hunched, as he clutched a long tobacco pipe.
“No act is accidental, and all commands are discretionary.” _____________________________________________________________ ♥MONSTER  ♥MONSTER 
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Welcome to Heart Monster! Come out and celebrate the CD release of Doves & Desperados superbowl Sunday at the Office, Feb 1st at 10pm. Admission is $5, you get a CD on entrance |
