The Way. Story of Crazy Bear

By the author

In September 1917, the editorial office of the newspaper where I worked as a staff reporter assigned me to find some “juicier” material. The head of the department, whom everyone called The Rat – a gaunt middle-aged man with a gray, sagging face and thick lenses on his nose – impressively said:

– I don’t care what you dig up, pal, but it has to be appetizing. Just remember, I won’t accept any anti-war materials from you.

He uttered the last words almost in a whisper. Everyone in the editorial office was afraid of denunciations. Due to America’s entry into the war against Germany, the government had whipped up a real hysteria: all Americans of German origin were being persecuted, and any anti-war sentiments were brutally suppressed.

– Go to Pine Ridge, – The Rat suggested to me, blowing his nose loudly into a dirty handkerchief.

– To the Indian reservation? What the hell would I do there?

– I heard a redskin who volunteered for the front has just returned there. A shell blew his leg off. We really need that kind of story. If you can spin this topic, it would be very useful for the newspaper…

I had never received a more uninteresting assignment. To go into the midst of native shacks and rummage around looking for so-called national heroes – what could be worse and more hopeless!

But I had to go, otherwise I risked losing my job. My only consolation was the brand-new car provided by the editorial office – a bright blue Ford Model T, shining as if it had just been doused with water.

I had no idea that this trip would turn my whole life upside down and that I would be fortunate enough to meet a man who would make me see the world in a new way. I was going to carry out a boring errand, but I encountered a Great Mystery, embodied for me by a frail old man…

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

My old friend Winthrop Haley, with whom I had studied together ten years earlier but had gone our separate ways, worked as a clerk in the Pine Ridge reservation. I contacted him by telegraph, and he met me at the post station.

– What a magnificent thing! – Haley exclaimed, stroking the steeply curved fenders of my automobile. – No one here has ever seen such a wonder.

Hills covered in dense blue-green forests humped around us.

– Now this is a wonder! This is enchanting! – burst out of me. – This is true beauty and grandeur!

Winthrop just laughed in response:

– If only you knew what it was like here before. A real primitive world. And as for the times before we were here, it doesn’t even bear talking about.

– “We” who? Who are you talking about?

At that moment, a bear emerged from the thickets with a terrible roar. Startled, I hit the brake. The car made a sound like a tubercular cough, jerked, and stopped. The bear rose on its hind legs, opened its huge maw – whose smell I acutely sensed from several meters away – and crashed its full mass onto the front of the car. We were shaken thoroughly.

– God! – Winthrop whispered hoarsely. – It’s a female with her young!

I saw two shaggy cubs peeking out from behind the bushes.

– She’ll tear us to pieces! – Haley gripped the seat with his hands. – Don’t you have a rifle?

– I only have paper and ink!

– Then pray!

And then, a little further down the road, a man appeared. He was dressed in an old plaid shirt and sagging trousers. His gray hair was cut short, but from his facial features, I unmistakably identified him as a member of the Indian race. I would have guessed he was about eighty or ninety.

– Get away! – I shouted to him. – Run from here, quickly!

But the old man paid no attention to my pleas. He had no intention of running away. For a few seconds, he looked at us, slightly spreading his hands as if feeling for something in the air. Then he decisively stepped towards us and spoke a few words in a language I didn’t understand.

The she-bear, who had almost reached the car door, slammed its paws against the side one last time. I heard the terrible screech of its long claws on the metal, a sound that gouged deep furrows of fear in my memory for a long time. However, hearing the words spoken by the Indian, the fierce animal stopped and shook its huge head. The beast’s loud breathing rippled the air hardly less powerfully than its recent terrible roar had. It seemed to me that the walls of the Model T shuddered from its breath.

The Indian approached unhurriedly, stretching his hands out before him.

– He’s talking to her, – Winthrop whispered. – He’s asking her to leave us alone.

– Asking? – I managed to squeeze out with difficulty.

– Asking…

The she-bear seemed to ponder, then stepped closer and for some time stared directly at me and Winthrop. Its hot breath touched my face. Then it reluctantly turned and led its shaggy offspring away, waddling and grumbling under its breath.

– God! – I couldn’t stop the trembling in my hands.

– So much for your introduction to virgin nature, buddy, – Haley laughed weakly. – Welcome to Pine Ridge territory.

– But how did he manage it? – I pointed at the old Indian.

– A bear can always find a common language with a bear, – my friend said and waved a greeting to the native: – Hello, Mató!

– You know him?

– Of course. He’s one of the oldest residents here. He knows so many stories about the tribe’s life that you can lose track of time with him.

– What did you call him? Mató? What does that mean?

– Bear. Actually, his name is Matό Witkό, which means Crazy Bear. You’ll be lucky if you can find a common language with him.

– A common language? Does he speak English?

– Quite passably, – Winthrop nodded.

The Indian walked around the car several times, studying it carefully, sometimes squatting and looking underneath the chassis.

– White people come up with many interesting things! – he laughed.

Then he shook Winthrop’s hand, and after that, greeted me. He smelled of herbs. Looking at me, he smiled almost imperceptibly.

– Yes, yes, – his lips uttered, – that’s how it is…

The entire time I was fiddling with the car, trying to start it by cranking the front-handle, the Indian silently watched me. I constantly felt the old man’s unwavering gaze on me. Finally, the car started, and I took my place behind the wheel.

– Mató, come with us, – Haley invited the Indian.

The old man climbed into the car and settled on the back seat.

– I was waiting for this meeting, – he began when we started moving.

– Waiting? – Winthrop asked.

– The Thunder Beings came to me in a dream, – the Indian nodded. – They said a white man would appear here to whom I must tell the story of my life. You are that man, – he poked me rudely in the back with his finger. – I have never told anyone about myself. But the Great Mystery, through its messengers, demanded that I tell everything without holding back. It is time for me to leave this world. Nothing is eternal on earth, not even the mountains…

We drove on in silence. As we entered the settlement, which consisted of simple wooden huts, Haley nodded towards the Indian sitting in the back:

– He’s one of the strongest shamans here, buddy. If he says he has to tell you something, then so be it. You don’t understand what this is about now, but you will later…

When Mato Witko began to speak, I completely forgot the purpose of my trip and gave myself entirely to the life story of Crazy Bear – the greatest man I ever met on my path. Behind his inconspicuous appearance lay a strength that the boldest minds dare not dream of. As soon as he started speaking, I understood that I would make him the main character of my book.

– I was waiting for you, – he said. – I will tell you about my path, my feelings, and the secret knowledge. You must tell people about them. Wakán Tánka sent you here; you must not refuse. Everything the Creator has intended must be brought to life. The Great Mystery rules the world. It is not for us to decide why certain tasks are entrusted to each of us. We are meant to fulfill our mission, even if we do not understand its meaning. That is the essence of the Great Mystery…

This is how this book was born.

Some chapters of the novel are stenographic records of Mato Witko’s account. I decided to leave them in their original form, without making any edits, even when the old man sometimes jumped from one narrative to another. This, it seems to me, gave the book a very distinctive form. Mato spoke very sparingly about some things, but at times words poured out of him in a stream, as if some force compelled him to utter them. When he was brief, I took the liberty of adding something to the logical sequence of events, as I was writing a novel, not just recording someone’s memories.

I was also fortunate to receive heavily worn pages from the disintegrated notebook of a certain Randall Steven Scott. By fate’s will, the pitiful remains of his diary were preserved among Mato Witko’s numerous relics. The diary, although noticeably damaged and missing many pages, proved no less valuable to me than the memories of the gray-haired Indian elders. The existence of these yellowed papers allowed me to fully reconstruct the chronology of certain events.

And now, my reader, after this lengthy but necessary introduction, I invite you on a journey along The Trail, where many human destinies intertwined into a single knot, fell apart, and merged again, to prove to themselves and others that in the world there is only God and His unwavering laws.

Mato Witko

His Own Words

There is nothing left now. The life of the Lakota was in the past. Now we sit motionless and wait for death. Do not think that death frightens me. Everything in this world dies. Even rocks crumble with time. Of all we see around us, only Mother Earth is eternal, and the Sky. But my heart is heavy with the thought that I did not die sooner, now that the life is gone. Understand me correctly. I am an old man. I have lost a great deal, even though my knowledge does not allow me to think this way. I know things that most people do not even suspect. But I grieve, and I can do nothing about it. I failed to make myself like Heȟáka Sápa (Black Elk). I was too attached to my people and our way of life.

Our world was renowned for its freedom. Freedom was valued above all else. But I did not understand this immediately. Today, our children have children of their own. The elders will tell them of the great days of the Lakota, when our people could travel and hunt wherever they wished, and there were no fences blocking the path. But those born today will never be able to understand this.

I remember a time when my people lived far from the white man; we did not encounter whites, although many spoke of them.

I know that life can be different from what it is now, but my grandchildren, who are no longer children, do not know this.

There were no sick people among us. We breathed clean air and ate fresh meat, killing game with our arrows. The whites did not force us into schools or make us pray to the one they called their God. The world around us, my friend, was to us what a wise book is to you. We read the leaves, the grass, the sand, the stones. The animals and birds shared with us the harshness and the tenderness of the Earth. All living things were our relatives. The white man did not think this way. He did not, and does not, understand how a tree or a river can be our kin. The entire world, except for himself, seemed to him to be populated by wild creatures: beasts and Indians. He began to destroy our great family. The buffalo disappeared, the elk, the deer. Our forests became sparse. The Earth is the mother of all peoples, but the white intruder slit her belly and gnawed at her for some metals. The white man considers himself the master of the earth, not its son. But where will this master go when the earth dies from his abuse?

At first, we thought the whites were simply weak and foolish; they did not understand the language of the animals and paid no attention to the whisper of the wind. But it turned out they were insane. Too much anger ran in their blood, and it poisoned them. I am sorry that we allowed them to enter our land. But how could we have known they were not like us? How could we have guessed that the foreigners would invent their own laws instead of following the eternal order of the Creator, who is the father of all living beings?

A great sorrow has settled in my heart.

My friend, your tribe is great; I have seen your cities, your brothers are without number. Therefore, convey our words to them through your paper. We have told you much. A spoken word must not fall to the ground and turn to dust. It is born for a purpose, it flies up like a bird and soars above us forever, so that people may make use of it.

When we were no longer living in freedom, Short Bull brought the Lakota a message from a seer, who foretold that the past times would return, the land would be cleansed of the white man, herds of horses and buffalo would reappear, our fallen warriors would return… Many believed and began the Ghost Dance, as the seer had taught. They did not understand that he did not mean the return of the bygone years exactly as the Indians remembered them, but was foretelling the coming of harmony.

That seer instructed the Indians of different tribes to love one another. He said they must forever forget the warpath, and only then would the beautiful life begin. He taught the people a new way to dance – all together, not separating men from women, or children from adults. He taught the people the dance of peace, the dance of unity. But the Indians failed to grasp his words and interpreted them in their own way.

I understood the seer and his teaching well, for I had heard of such things in my youth from Black Elk. I know that his prophecy will be fulfilled…

Black Spotted Elk (Big Foot) and many others fell to soldiers’ bullets, but can that stop a prophecy? I do not know how soon it will come to pass, but it will happen. The world of the white people is full of sickness, so it must die. But it will not be overthrown by war. The Indian people spent long years on the warpath; it was war that destroyed our life. We strayed from the laws of the Giver of Life, spilled too much of others’ blood, and now we are paying the price…

Bear

He turned thirteen that year, but he had not yet taken part in any war party (he hadn’t even been asked to guard the horses during an ambush), and he had never shot a large animal on a hunt. Everyone called him Boy-With-A-Ringing-Voice, but he dreamed of a solemn and powerful name, the kind men received after a brave deed on the battlefield… He knew that seasoned warriors often took a teenager as a junior companion to teach them the arts of war and hunting. He, however, had no such mentor.

He sat on a large boulder, its base covered in soft moss and still holding the warmth of the departed sun, and stared with a fixed gaze at the quiet settlement of the Grouse clan – his home camp was quickly dissolving into the twilight. The boy had gone far enough from the Indian village to hear no voices, and now he was surrounded by almost complete silence. He wanted to be alone…

A black figure appeared before him suddenly, as if from nowhere, and from the surprise, the Boy’s heart tightened, and his throat went dry. Everything around immediately became peculiarly dark. Perhaps it seemed that way because of the surge of fear; after all, the man had crept up unnoticed, meaning he was a cunning and deadly enemy… And there was nothing to oppose him with, as the Boy had brought neither a knife nor a bow and arrows.

– Do not be afraid, – a low voice spoke, and the Boy saw white teeth right near his face. In the darkness, only the whites of his eyes and teeth were visible (likely, his entire skin was thickly covered in black paint). Occasionally, an invisible ray of light snatched from the space two mighty curved horns above the stranger’s head. The same glint allowed the Boy’s sharp eyes to discern in a split second the shaggy pelt tied to the head, to which these horns were attached.

– Do not be afraid, – the black man repeated, – I will not harm you. I see you are deeply saddened. I know your thoughts. You feel that the elder warriors unjustly overlook you… I will help…

– Who are you? – asked the Boy, trying to suppress his agitation, – and what help can you give me?

– I cannot tell you my true name. For you, I will be Bear Bull. I am the patron of those who are meant to awaken but do not yet know it. One day, great power will awaken in you, but many years will pass until then, and I will be your guide on the Path.

– Bear Bull? – exclaimed the Boy, unable to hide the surge of superstitious fear. – I do not know you.

– Calm yourself… In time, you will learn much. But I did not come for talk… Take the knife, – the Boy saw the wide blade offered to him gleam dully in the gloom, – and prepare to move from empty dreams to action immediately. Be very attentive and repeat my movements…

His words broke off.

The Boy flinched, hearing a terrible, trumpeting roar almost right in his ear. He turned sharply and saw huge tusks right in front of him. The beast breathed hotly into his face and swiftly rose on its hind legs, powerfully swaying its shaggy belly and instantly becoming impossibly huge. Something burst in the Boy’s chest and sprayed icy needles throughout his body. Time stopped. The Boy forgot about the knife clenched in his hand, and what could he have done even if he had remembered the wide blade? Not a single one of the most experienced hunters would dare face a black bear alone. And here was just a boy…

– Cast aside fear! – came the voice of Bear Bull. – If you are fated to die, then it is too late to be afraid. Give your hands all the strength of your body and strike! Repeat my movements! Be my shadow now!

At that second, it seemed to the Boy that his vision sharpened abruptly: the outlines of the surrounding objects became clearly distinguishable, even though the night continued to thicken. He saw the black figure of Bear Bull swiftly slide under the outstretched paws of the shaggy animal, as if wanting to enter the powerful embrace of the tusked giant. At the same time, the Boy managed to realize that Bear Bull’s movements resembled those of a man swimming underwater – they seemed slowed down. The Boy took a step after him, also smoothly, as if flowing from one pose to another. Now his arm swept to the right, now a heavy paw with gleaming claws froze above his head, now his face pressed into the fragrant fur, his cheek felt the solidity of the bear’s body. The knife pierced the skin with a loud sound and sank into the muscle tissue up to the hilt. And then suddenly everything became incredibly fast. His armed hand, with lightning speed, delivered several blows in succession. The Boy instantly jumped out from under the air-rending clawed paws, leaped aside, and immediately plunged the blade into the beast’s throat, somehow finding himself on its scruff. Hot blood drenched his clenched fingers. He heard his victory cry merge with the bear’s roar…

The powerful, shaggy body crashed heavily to the ground, legs twitching. The Boy, panting, knelt beside it and wiped his face with a sticky palm.

– Thank him, – said Bear Bull, not allowing him to catch his breath. – From now on, you receive the strength of this four-legged brother and his name. Show him respect.

The Boy, loudly gulping air and hearing his chest heave, knelt before the still-quivering carcass.

– Thank you, my elder brother, for the life, wisdom, courage, and strength you have gifted me. Forgive me for having to spill your blood. I will always keep your memory.

Still trembling slightly from the unsubsided excitement, but now feeling no fear at all, the Boy used his left hand (as it is closer to the heart) to scoop up the bear’s blood and smear it on his chest.

– Now cut off his claws; later you will make a necklace from them for yourself, – ordered Bear Bull, – skin him and give the hide to your younger sister (she is still a virgin). Dry the liver and heart and carry them with crushed sagebrush in a small pouch on your belt. When danger threatens you, this amulet will grow heavy and thus warn you… Leave the bear’s skull on an anthill, and when the little brothers have picked it clean, rinse the skull with water and place it on the stone where you were sitting when I came to you. Cover the stone with red ochre and pray to it as a manifestation of the powerful spirit Inyan. This will be a place where the Bear People can give you counsel. From the upper part of the muzzle, you will make a mask and wear it on your head during journeys… And now I leave… I will often appear near you to advise and help, and you will recognize me by my appearance today. But this form is only for you. Others, before whom I appear, see me differently… I leave you the knife with which you slew the bear. You can be proud of such a weapon, but do not let anyone else handle it, and know that you must not speak of me to anyone, otherwise my help will cease. A secret remains a secret; it is not permitted to be revealed.

And the black figure of Bear Bull, taking a couple of steps to the side, vanished.

In the morning, the father of Boy-With-A-Ringing-Voice sent a crier to announce to the entire village that his son had performed a great deed and would now be called Bear. Not a word was spoken about the secret helper, although many asked for details of the fight and craned their necks with curiosity to get a look at the huge knife with which the thirteen-year-old boy had felled the fearsome beast – a weapon he had not possessed before.

Horse raid

It was early morning when Two Humps touched Bear’s shoulder and woke him.

– What is it, father? – the boy started to ask, but his father covered his mouth with his palm and pointed significantly with his eyes toward the entrance of the tent.

– Want to see an enemy? – Two Humps mouthed silently.

The boy hurried to nod in reply and carefully slipped out from under the hide that served as a blanket. In his father’s hand, he saw a stout bow made from a large elk antler and three arrows. His eyes flared like coals under a gust of wind.

– He came to untie the horses, – Two Humps gestured, meaning the scout who had sneaked into the camp.

Two Humps placed an arrow on the string and positioned himself near the piece of hide serving as a door. Beckoning his son with a barely perceptible gesture, he slightly lifted the edge of the hide, and Bear immediately spotted the figure of a man cautiously moving toward the neighboring tent, where two beautiful black stallions were tethered. The horse thief was completely naked and painted from head to toe with white clay. When he stopped, crouched motionless, he looked like a large rock. Even his hair, stiff under the layer of clay, resembled dried grass.

– That is a very skillful and cunning warrior, – noted Two Humps. – But my hearing is sharp enough to catch even his silent steps.

He drew the bow and with his eyes ordered Bear to pull back the entrance flap. As soon as the tent opening was clear, Two Humps quickly raised the bow and released the string. It made a light, barely audible, snorting sound and propelled the arrow toward the horse thief, giving it the speed and force of lightning. The man jerked in surprise and grabbed his side. The arrow had struck him under the rib, and the tip exited his chest, having likely pierced his heart. The scout froze on his knees for a few seconds, then smoothly turned his head toward the source of his sudden death, and lay down on the ground. Blood quickly flowed from the wound, reddening the white clay thickly smeared on the horse thief’s body, seeping into the cracks, swelling in the white crumbs, weighing down the dry pieces of clay and making them fall off.