Song of the Native American

My god, he thought, there’s no air in here.  It’s so dark and stuffy.  In fact, where am I anyway?  He tried to look around him to make out his surroundings, but he found he could not move his head.   In fact, he could barely move any part of his body.  After a few minutes his eyes adjusted to this gloomy world that had enveloped him.  Dirt.  Everywhere.  What on earth…?  Oyster shells, ornaments, all his belongings, surrounding him.  Suddenly it became clear to him.  These were gifts used in his tribe’s burial rituals.  But why were these things surrounding him?  He was not dead.  Or was he?  No!  That couldn’t be, he told himself.  I must get out of here and show my people I’m still alive!   Mustering as much strength as he could after a seeming eternity of slumber, he began digging, actually scraping, the dirt above him.   Mere seconds went by before he gave up in exasperation. The soil, with nowhere else to go, filled his eyes, his mouth, his throat, until he could no longer see and could barely breathe.  I must not use my hands.  He used the strength he had left to push against the soil with his feet and his legs.   Was it his imagination or was it beginning to give?  Finally, he felt his foot break through the surface.  Using his foot, he widened the break in the surface until his entire lower body could fit through the hole.  He slid the rest of his body down towards the hole he had made until at last he was free.  Still barely able to breathe and with dirt gritting in his teeth, he began coughing uncontrollably—so hard his eyes teared, washing away the dirt that made it so difficult to see.  At last he could make out where he was.  Graves. Broken headstones.  Inscriptions so faint they were illegible.  He looked at the gaping hole he had just emerged from.  Beyond that was a headstone, larger than the others, more elaborate, yet cracked down the middle, with a large corner obviously broken off.  This must have been… for my grave.  A shudder went through his body as he wondered WHY?  Staring for a minute or so, a faint outline materialized before him.   Hiawana.  That’s me, he recalled.  Chief Hiawana of the Montauk Indians.  Why would my people bury me alive, he anguished.  Still staring at the faded inscription, he could make out the word Iroquois.  Yes, of course!  That fierce and terrible tribe from the north.  Suddenly in a flash he remembered.  Sounds of warriors crashing through the brush, coming for what the Indians had an abundance of on this island—food from the sea, land so rich with soil as dark as their jet black hair, with such a great number of waterfowl that when they took off at once it would block out the sunlight.  The Iroquois wanted to call this territory their own.  Although their territory was rich with deer and the great black bear, they savored the taste of the bluefish and the whale.  They no longer wanted to barter for the oil of the whale used to preserve their skins for so many winters.   They wanted the hills, s rich with clay, for making pottery.  They wanted to call these things their own—to have necessities such as these close to their own settlement.  For this reason the Iroquois invaded the Montauks’ territory time and again.  However, news had it that this particular time the chief of the Iroquois wanted to meet with Hiawana to come to a final agreement.  Chief Hiawana’s people begged him to disagree to any meeting, and at the last meeting of all the tribes of the island, Sachem Wyandanch instructed Hiawana to drink a potion that would induce sleep with the appearance of death.  It was to make his breathing shallow and his heartbeat barely detectable.   It was to wear off after three sunsets and sunrises.  Surely much more than three sunsets and three sunrises have passed, he mused.  But how much more?  Where are my people?  Why have they deserted me?  Were any of my people left?  He began to search the burial ground for clues—there must be something.  He gave up trying to decipher the inscriptions on the headstones, seeing they were all faint and either chipped, cracked, or broken.  He turned back to his gravesite.  Another headstone, smaller than his but larger than the others, lay beyond his own grave.  This, too, must have been an Important One.  He knelt before it to read the epitaph.  All he could decipher was the single word “Deer.”  Of course!  Running Deer.  The quickest among the tribes.  Chosen to deliver messages between the tribes in time of crisis.  Why, this explains why my people thought me dead.  They never received the message that my faked death was only a ruse.  Buried ALIVE.  He shuddered at the thought.  Who is leading my people?  I must let them know I’m alive before they despair, before they elect a new chief.1

He spied a path through the woods.  This must lead back to my settlement.  Burial grounds are never too far from the settlement.  The souls of the dead protect the people.  He looked toward the sun and decided the path was heading east.  This makes sense; the Land of the Souls is in the west.  He set upon the path to find his tribe, his family.  The path after only a few feet turned suddenly to the north.   Ahead of him he could see a clearing in the trees.  As he approached, a noise he only faintly heard before distinctly became louder.  It was unlike anything he had ever heard and he became frightened.   It resembled the growl of a large animal, almost like the bellowing roar of the black bear—yet this was much louder.  Upon reaching the clearing, he noticed at his feet a large flat rock, stretching as far as he could see to the east and to the west.  This rock had lines of white along the edge and yellow running down the middle.  War paint?  He bent down to rub at the paint, but found it would not wear off.  Suddenly dozens of boxes, metal boxes with wheels whizzed by him at a great speed—greater than even a deer.  It seemed that these boxes were making that great noise he had heard.  What are these things?  Studying one moving somewhat slower than the rest, he saw people INSIDE the metal box.  He watched the box roll by on its four wheels with the people inside.  Further on, the box with the people rolled off the flat rock and onto the dirt along side it.  As the people got out, he could see they were much lighter than his own people—lighter than his own jet black hair and brown skin.  They walked from the box they had gotten out of and into another box—but larger and without wheels.  This box appeared to be made mostly of wood.  More metal boxes whizzed by as he stood there.  Transportation, he realized!  I must find my people and tell them of my discovery!  But where can they be?  And why did they bury me in a territory that is not our own?2

With the Land of Souls to his back, he continued his journey east along the flat rock that never seemed to end.  He saw many more boxes like the one the Light People had entered—some with thick black smoke billowing from them.  He realized that these Light People must live in these boxes, just as he and his people live in teepees.   He also saw many more metal boxes like these Light People used for transportation—many of them had a horrible black smoke coming out of them as well.  In fact, this was all he could see for miles.  Land that was once covered with trees was now covered with these boxes they live in.  Land where the deer and the bear could run free was now overrun by these metal boxes for transportation.3

And where are my people?  Have these Light People killed them?  Have they driven them from the land they roamed free for centuries?  I must find out!  He continued on.4

Nightfall came quickly.  Growing weary, he lay on the ground, gazing up at the stars.  But what happened to all the stars?!  There were no clouds to block his vision tonight, so why could he see so few stars?   Have they died?  Perhaps the earth, too, is dying.  However, he was too exhausted to lie awake worrying.  Tomorrow was another day.  In minutes he was asleep.5

When he awoke, the sun was directly above him.  How have I slept till midday, he wondered.  Where is the multitude of chirping birds I rise with every morning at dawn?6

I must hurry!  I must find my people before the sun sets!7

Again he set out with the Land of Souls behind him.  Within minutes, to his relief he spotted in the distance a teepee.   He hurriedly approached it, but not without apprehension.  Would my people remember me?  Have they found a new leader?  Why was there only one teepee and not many?8

Looking inside, he found no one.  However, it did not look abandoned.  They must be at the sea catching their evening meal.9

Using the flat rock he had been following as a guide, he headed south towards the Great Sea.  Instead of the sea, he found rows of these huge wooden boxes that these Light People call their homes.10

By this time he was immensely hungry.  Spotting a rabbit a few feet away, he began quietly stalking his prey.  To reach it he jumped over a row of wooden sticks placed upright in the ground—something he had never seen before.  However he was so intent on catching his meal he gave it no thought.  Suddenly he was startled by the yell of a man emerging from his home.  “What the hell do you think you’re doing trespassing on my property?  Doesn’t a fence mean anything to you—like ‘keep out’?”11

What language does he speak, Hiawana thought to himself.  It seems the same as my own, yet some of the words were so foreign.  Trespassing?   Property?  Fence?12

“I do not understand,” Hiawana said to the man with skin as dark as night and hair short and curled tightly against his skin.13

Suddenly the irate man became subdued, as if he realized this person was different—an Indian, no doubt, but not from this time.  “I’m sorry,” said the black man.  “Can I help you?”14

“I was only trying to catch that rabbit  for my dinner.  I’ve been searching for my people for a full day now.  Perhaps you can help me.”15

“Just who are your people?” the black man said.16

“The Montauks,” replied Hiawana.17

“Well this is the Montauk-Shinnecock Indian Reservation.  I think it’s the only place on the island besides the Poosepatuck Reservation that you’ll find a settlement of Indians.”18

Finally, it was beginning to dawn on Hiawana.  He had definitely been asleep for more than three sunsets and three sunrises.  In fact, it appeared that thousands of sunsets have passed since drinking that potion on the eve of his scheduled meeting with the Iroquois chief.19

“Come,” said the black man.  “I will explain.”  He led Hiawana to the back of his home where there was a platform made of wood with a table and chairs scattered about.  There was a fire going in the corner where Hiawana could see meat cooking.20

Hiawana and the black man who called himself “Joe” sat at the table to enjoy the food that had come hot off the fire as Joe began to tell Hiawana the story of the coming of the white man.21

Hiawana listened intently as Joe told him how the white man came over in ships from across the Great Sea to settle the beautiful land, unlike the land they left, that they had begun to destroy with “progress”—houses, factories, cars—polluting the air and dirtying the countryside.  Joe told him that although this was not the reason they had left their mother country, it is the reason now the same man is grieving—lack of good earth, lack of drinking water, lack of respect for all living things.22

As Joe continued, telling Hiawana how the white man tricked the Indian into “selling” the land, Hiawana could feel himself choking—choking back the tears, choking back death that he knew was coming upon him.  The white man had given the Indian “firewater” that made them laugh and lose their senses.  And when the Indian was in this state the white man had them sign the land over to them in return for a few gifts.  Hiawana was amazed that a large area of the north shore of the island was purchased for 10 coats, 12 hoes, 12 hatchets, 50 tools, 100 needles, 6 kettles, 10 fathoms of wampum, 7 pipebowls of powder, a pair of stockings, 10 pounds of lead, and 10 knives.23

Joe told of how the white man drove the Indian out of the land that they “bought”—land that should belong to no man—land that belongs to God.   But the white man couldn’t see that.    They drove away the same Indians that taught them to live off the land.24

Today, Joe told him, the Indians still have to fight for what is rightfully theirs.  They had to fight for the few acres of land the reservation now lies on.  Courts decide what little land the Indians can inhabit; courts decide whether to demolish or preserve Indian burial grounds—land that developers would rather turn into shopping malls and needless housing developments.  The Indians are fighting to preserve a heritage that the white man cannot comprehend.25

As the sun set behind them, Hiawana closed his eyes.  A tear trickled down his face as he drifted into slumber.  Joe, too, sat back in his chair.  He felt sorry for the chief, sorry for the whole race, but most of all he felt sorry for the white man and the mess they had made of a once-beautiful world.26

Joe opened his eyes when he heard Hiawana’s light snore come to a halt.  Looking over, he saw the Indian chief had slumped over, dead in his chair—unable to live in a world where nature and man cannot exist in harmony.27

Free at last, Joe thought, as he wrapped him in a blanket to prepare him for a final and infinite sleep.28