On the Crest of the Winter Moon
The mountain pines swayed gently in the cold December breeze as the moon's bright light shone through the branches. Whispered voices mingled with the night and carried upon the wind.
Their words were deep and ancient as they repeated "Waní-Wí-Ipȟá," the Lakȟóta name for the crest of the winter moon. From tree to tree, their voices echoed through the forest as they scaled down from the heights of the tall pines.
The čanotila, the tree-dwellers, leaped from their wooded homes, their root-like feet landing softly on the forest floor. The moon reflected off the sheen of the bark-like skin as they gathered at the feet of the mighty pines. The forest spirits stood no taller than the young saplings they resembled and, if not for their vaguely human faces, could easily be mistaken for a small grow of new trees. Growths of pine needles sprouted at odd angles from their bodies; some had thick coats of needles along their branch-like arms like winged creatures, and others grew to like the manes of wild horses or lions. Pine needles completely covered the bodies of others like rough, green fur.
Once, their tree homes had stretched wide between the canyons, but now their forest was little more than a narrow stretch of woods. It was increasingly encroached upon by the untended plains, which continued to grow without the Lakȟóta to set the controlled fires that cleared the underbrush and prairie and supported the growth of woodland homes of the čanotila. Swaths of forest were claimed as private land and fell victim to the woodsman's axe, cleared by ranchers seeking more grassland to graze their cattle.
Traditionally, on this night of the Winter Solstice, they would gather and share the Waníyetu Ohúŋkakaŋ, the winter stories. Their dark eyes turned to the eldest among them, his branch-like limbs thick and unbent by time, even though they say he walked the earth in the time of Wičhówoyake, the time of legend. The pine needles grew upon his head in the shape of a crown that met in the back and trailed down his long, thin back. They waited upon him to tell the first tale, as was their way.
However, the Elder stood staring at the night sky, nodding solemnly as if in a silent dialogue. When the Elder finally looked amongst the gathered čanotila, the gleam of the moonlight glinted in his eyes.
"Tonight is the crest of the winter moon," the Elder pointed his branch-like arm toward the moon. "The longest night of the waníyetu."
Their eyes looked reverently at the moon and the constellations in the clear night sky before returning to the Elder.
"On this night, we tell our tales, but the Great Spirit has asked something different of us this Waní-Wí-Ipȟá," a look of sadness crossed his aged face. "The Great Spirit has reminded me that Mitakuye Oyasin, we are all related. Spirits who once walked and laughed in these woods have separated from their flesh but are forever joined to the land. Tonight will be a night to join the land, water, and sky with all the spirits that bind us together."
The čanotila listened as the Elder spoke of what the Great Spirit had asked of them, his dark eyes scanning each of the assembled faces before him, and a moment of silence passed among the assembled čanotila as they waited for the Elder to speak again.
"Let us move to the sacred place," the Elder bowed his head.
One after the other, the čanotila turned and followed the Elder toward the grassland. They formed a long snaking line as they crossed onto the moonlit prairie. Their legs swished through the prairie's tall grass, the moonlight casting their thin shadows long across plains as they moved.
The prairie grass gave way to dry, rocky soil as they traversed the chasms and peaks of the Badlands' along the hidden trail to Oonakizin, the Stronghold, which served as the last refuge of the Ghost Dancers of the Lakȟóta people.
The Ghost Dancers believed performing a sacred ritual circle dance could rejuvenate the land, restore the buffalo, and bring about a lasting revival of the Native American way of life. Settlers and government officials viewed the Ghost Dance as a form of insurrection, and so the dancers conducted it in hidden havens. The safety of the Oonakizin proved short-lived as South Dakota Home Guard militia ambushed and killed nearly one hundred Ghost Dancers. A massacre repeated by the U.S. Cavalry on an even larger scale at Wounded Knee Creek two weeks later.
As the čanotila moved higher up the steep peaks, the Black Hills rose in the distance to the west like jagged fingers reaching into the night sky. They passed Lakȟóta prayer sticks and brightly colored fabric tied to the branches of barren shrubs. The Elder smiled as he passed these, pleased that the people still honored this sacred ground as a place of remembrance.
One by one, the čanotila crested the expansive flat plateau of the Oonakizin and formed a large circle. Before them stretched the vast expanse of canyons, grasslands, and plateaus; above them shone the bright moon nestled amidst a blanket of night and stars.
The Elder reached out and grasped the hand of the čanotila on either side of him. The others followed suit until they joined hands in the large circle. The circle began to move clockwise as the čanotila shifted their feet from side to side in the rhythmic heartbeat of Mother Earth. Their root-like feet moved in unison with steps close to the ground.
The Elder closed his eyes and began to sing, his voice a deep, rich sound. He sang in the tongue of the čanotila, a language as ancient as the hills upon which they danced. The voices of the other čanotila joined with the Elder's, and they sang of the story of the Great Spirit's creation of the land, sky, and waters, of the Great Spirit's creation of the people and the animals.
As the Elder opened his eyes, he saw ghostly shapes cresting the plateau. The shimmering bodies were nearly translucent in the moonlight, but the Elder could see they were Lakȟóta men and women. The men wore shirts adorned with depictions of birds, sun, moon, and stars; around the neck of the shirt and down their sleeves were rows of feathers tied by the quill ends and fluttering the night air. Painted half-moons sat on their forehead or cheek. The women wore dresses with similarly stitched designs interspersed with feathers on the waists and fringe. These were the spirits of the Ghost Dancers.
The Ghost Dancers formed a circle outside the čanotila and joined their voices to the song as they danced. The two circles moved as one, raising their voices to the Great Spirit as they sang of the renewal of the land. The Elder closed his eyes and became entranced by the song as the Lakȟóta Ghost Dancers and tree spirits danced beneath the winter moon.
When the Elder opened his eyes again, he could tell by the position of the moon in the sky that many hours had passed. He gazed out over the landscape and could see the shimmering forms of herds of buffalo, ranging as far as the eye could see on the plains. Ethereal shapes moved among the grasslands, some the Elder recognized from his long memory in this land as Lakȟóta he sat within the woods and shared food and tales. He felt a warmth in his chest as he watched the shimmering shapes of children running among the tipis where older men sat and laughed. He saw men and women walking together and young boys riding shimmering horses out toward the herds of buffalo.
Silence filled the plateau as the dance ended, and the only sound heard was the wind amongst the grass and the heartbeat of the earth. Sounds of life and laughter wafted up to the plateau from the shimmering villages below.
"Kȟaŋği tȟáŋka," one of the Ghost Dancers, a young Lakȟóta man, pointed at a shimmering raven that sailed over the plateau and glided down toward the villages.
The Elder watched as the eyes of the čanotila and Ghost Dancers followed the raven as it circled the thriving villages of Lakȟóta below. He heard the Ghost Dancers talking in wonder as they watched the herd of buffalo and pointed to long-lost friends and family.
The Ghost Dancers looked questioningly at the Elder, unbelieving at what they saw and unsure of what to do. Some wiped away tears and wept as they stared out over the plains teeming with life. The Elder smiled and nodded to the Ghost Dancers, sweeping his hand toward the valleys below.
The shimmering shapes of the Ghost Dancers began to move down the plateau toward the villages below. They moved hesitantly at first, still amazed at what they saw, but more quickly as the Lakȟóta spotted them and friends and loved ones waved or rushed forward to greet them.
The čanotila watched as the last Ghost Dancers received warm welcomes home. They hugged their spouses as long-lost loves were reunited, and they twirled their children in the air as their laughter reached the plateau. Tribal elders welcomed them around campfires to share their tales, and young men rushed off to join the buffalo hunt.
The Elder watched as the ethereal Lakȟóta danced, sang, and rejoiced under the winter moon. As the sun rose, the ghostly herds of buffalo and thriving villages disappeared in the morning light.
"Are they gone?" a young tree spirit looked questioningly toward the Elder, his pine needle brows raised quizzically.
"No, they are not gone," the Elder shook his head. "You may not see them, but they are here. Forever, part of the land and spirit world. They are living, laughing, and loving; rejoined with their ancestors in the world they renewed."
"Will we see them again?"
"Oh, yes," the Elder smiled kindly. "They will dance with us again some Waní-Wí-Ipȟá. On the Crest of the Winter Sun."