Bradlie Johnson

Native American Document 2

The earth trembles and groans beneath us. Ahead she is mangled, torn
beyond recognition under pressure of the White Men and their battles. Still does the
ringing of bullets and detonations pierce the air, the same wounded drone that
greeted our company in the midst of battle. It has been only hours since our arrival
to this pitted wasteland, yet already I have lost sight of the rest of our
sharpshooters. The mires slope dragged all but seven of us into the trenches not
long ago. Most of Company K was placed precariously close to the throes of gunfire
for far too long. Now they are lost somewhere at the rim of the trenches, and we
separated seven cannot see through the smoke to find them. One by one we have
been stricken by opposing sharpshooters. We spot them quickly though, and down
them just as fast.
Beside me are Sooleawa and Takhi, who are perhaps the steadiest shooters I
have ever met. We three are the last left uninjured of the seven. Behind us are our
wounded. They cover their faces to hide their misery and stifle their sobs, but even
above this blasted noise of battle can I hear my brothers moaning. Our youngest,
just barely a man, received the worst of our companys injuries. And yet his
suffering has lasted the longest. There is one white man amongst us who has given
the young one some semblance of treatment, but I am sure we all know he will pass
soon. I am sure he knows as well. He and the others began a death chant not long
ago to the Great Spirit, Mishe Moneto. The white mans face is twitching as he looks
at them, bloody beneath their rags and still chanting in a tongue he does not
understand.
Whats that supposed to be? he asks. His mustache slants parallel to his
brows when he says this. My brothers do not stop.
It is a death chant, replies Takhi. So that Mishe Moneto may help them find
their way. Takhi reloads his rifle as he speaks, his eyes lowered on our dwindling
supplies while the White Mans are on him. His voice is low, always, and it is
steadier now than the shaking ground even as men cry out in the distance.
Sooleawa is nodding to the sky.
The White Man spits dismissively in the direction our Company came from.
You redskins say the strangest things, he says. I despise these names he has for
us, but Sooleawa knows my anger too well to allow it. He pats my shoulder and
gives me a stern look I cannot fight.
The White Man continues, Find their way where?
Sooleawa is the first to respond to this. To their new lives. All creatures are
souls under the guidance of Mishe Moneto, not just man. When we our done in this
life we move to the next. Sometimes we are men, and sometimes we are of the
toad, or of the birds, or of the deer.

Sowhatll you all be? he asks. There is a flash of genuine curiosity in his
eyes, contrasted sharply with the dirt on his brow.
We glance amongst ourselves for a moment. When I was young I roamed the
forests and looked to the ground and to the trees and to the sky and wondered
where best I would like to live or where instead my soul might have lived long ago.
These days the future has bothered me far more than the past, and such things
have slipped my troubled mind. I think too slowly. Sooleawa speaks first.
An eagle, he says.
But you are already an eagle, my friend, I volunteer. He smiles at this,
dimly. The battle is still raging ahead of us, but I continue by declaring, And if you
are an eagle than one day I shall be a cougar, so that you may look down on me still
and that I may be strong enough to defend you.
Takhi releases air sharply from his nose. You both may see your wishes
fulfilled sooner than you think if you do not take up your weapons faster. We will not
die today for this war.
Beside me the White Man lowers his own rifle into an aiming position. His
breath steadies and his words come out in wisps of exhalation: If you all think
that ending this mess of a waris as easy as dyin then youve got another thing
coming.
He pulls the trigger.
The noises of the battlefield blur. I hear no difference.
We are not cowards for dying, comes the feeble voice of our young one. He
has pulled the cloth from his face to speak his final words. His face is creased in
misery and tears seep from his eyes, yet still he wishes to speak. The others have
slowed in their rhythmic chanting. Wewe are not cowards for dying, he repeats.
Takhi grasps the boys hand and agrees with him. Indeed no, my brother,
says he. You are brave to act where others have not. Be at peace now, for none
shall call you a coward. Takhi stays like this for a long while, the boy clinging to his
dirty palm with the desperation of winter. You are no coward, he whispers again
and again. Soon I say so even to myself.
We are not cowards for remembering our peoples stories instead of fighting
in the White Mens war. And we are not cowards for standing beside them. All of our
company chose to take action. We chose not to lie down and slip meekly into the
death of our people. Even as my brothers chant behind me, it is for the hope of
better days. It is for the greener pastures that they fought onbleed onthat they
die for.

So I take up my rifle, my brothers beside me, and I aim at a white man I have
never seen before.
I pull the trigger.
And the only sound I hear in the whole of the world is the collective
exhalation of four souls. Behind me, the chanting has ceased.