Turmoil in the West

Turmoil in the West

The wall of dust flew at her, moving no faster than the sun as he traverses the sky.

Clara Firewater nevertheless tried to run. Dust storms were all too common in the American West, choking everything and blocking all light, and although it was futile to avoid the filthy winds when they were at their most restless, it still wasn't a good idea to be outside in the middle of their fury. Some of the storms were so fierce, lately, that they had blown the dirt of the West as far as the Chicago city, where people were too busy imbibing and shooting each other to worry about the Drought.

Clara ran along the lonely road, but couldn't seem to move forward. Her cowboy boots couldn't grip the ground, and some force was tugging her back towards the storm. She felt for the Great Mystery, and tried to reach for the power that let her summon Earthquakes, but it all slipped away, and she jerked back towards the wall of dust-

Little Firewater stared at the Shaman with disbelief. "The Chosen One?"

He nodded, as calm as the Canadian snow that fell around them both. "The embodiment of Wakan-Tanka. You are the foremost expression of the Great Mystery, and its least expression. You are the new birth of the Chosen Ones who have come before, and the new birth of all the world's people and spirits."

Little Firewater tried to figure out what the old man was talking about. She knew of Wakan-Tanka, but the idea of it somehow manifesting in a person was further than she had ever pushed her mind. "What does all that mean?"

"It has taken me a lifetime to be properly confused by it," the Shaman said, a smile growing on his face. "But, knowing you, the question is meant in a more practical sense. It means you will have to go South, to learn all the aspects of Wakan-Tanka. You will learn the ways of the mind, the ways of the land, the ways of the gun, and the ways of time. You will be needed by all the nations. Your predecessor saved them from the White Man, forged a new nation of all nations in the American West, where they could live in peace, one as a part of the Great Mystery. Such peaces, however, do not live long lives. They must be nutured by those with the proper hearts, the proper spirits. You are the Chief of such people, now. But don't worry. We will teach you how to be a good one."

She opened her mouth to object, to ask questions, to gasp with wonder, but before she could speak-

"REPENT!!"

Who? Was that the Shaman? No, it came from behind. Clara turned around to see a masked man shoving his way into the dusty, rundown arena. His whole head was covered by what looked like a Mexican Day of the Dead mask, however that made any sense.

"REPENT!!"

He wore a priest's clothes, and carried what looked like a Bible. Young men and women, their faces covered with scarves like bandits from in a nickelodeon story, roughly parted the crowds for him. The man, though, ignored it all, entirely wrapped up in his shouting. "Repent by the will of God, and you will be saved!"

Clara sneered and spit over the side of the ropes. This guy was ruining her first bout. On that note, she turned around and held up a boxing-glove-covered fist. "Don't even think about it."

Her opponent, a tall man who looked of mixed White and Chinaman lineage, stopped short with a surprised look on his face. "Hey! I wasn't going to hit you, Loca! Bad enough I have to fight a woman, but I'd never hit my opponent from behind. Those kind of blows are illegal in the professional circuits out East."

Clara rolled her eyes, and turned back to the masked moron who was ruining her big premiere fight. He was holding forth on how the godless Mexican government was stealing its own country's oil fields from its people, and that it had lost its way to corruption. Behind her, the tall half-Chinaman spoke. "I've heard of that guy. They call him Anónimo, because he hides his face. Very strange for a Padre. And what kind of a man of the cloth has armed goons following him everywhere?"

Clara Firewater felt a smirk overtaking her face. "Let's find out." she began pulling at the strings of her boxing gloves with her teeth. Seeing her former opponent's surprised expression, she said, "Don't worry, I can fight just as well bareknuckle."

He just stared at her for a long moment, before shaking his head and muttering, "Loca!"

"And the Americanos think they can buy our souls with trees!" the Anónimo man was shouting. "They say we farmed the land wrong, that the droughts and dust are because of science! They say they will teach us the true way of farming, and all we have to do is bow before them like a golden idol! I say they fear our potential for God! They fear what would happen if we worship the truth, and not their money! The dust has come because we are sinners, worshipping false Injun gods! No more!"

The most amazing thing was that people were agreeing with him. With every ridiculous pronouncement, more and more people shouted encouragements. Some at the edge of the crowd were kneeling in prayer. It made Clara want to take action.

So she did. "Hey, faceless! I got your false gods right here!" She climbed up the ropes of the boxing arena, and leapt down into the crowd.

Anónimo stayed calm. He made the sign of the cross in her direction as Clara landed and the crowd parted around her. Then his goons immediately drew handguns and fired at her.

Good thing she had already learned how Wakan-Tanka could make her bullet-proof.

The crowd gaped at her, still standing after being shot by half a dozen different gunman. "Hey, Anónimo. Repent!" She moved towards him and his thugs, fists raised-

The dust blasted across Clara's face as the storm overtook her. The whole world disappeared, swallowed by a sea of earth that had decided to go flying for a change. She tried to pull her threadbare shirt up over her face, but she got a lungful of the foul air before she was ready, and fell to her knees in a coughing fit. At least she didn't have to worry about anyone else, this time. She usually traveled with groups of Okie sharecroppers walking to California in hopes of better times, and the last time a dust storm had hit, the group she was guiding had...

When was the last time? It was hard to remember. Memories were suddenly as blurry as the dust around her.

"That is the right question. When."

Clara looked up at the sound, and was stunned to see an old man- dressed like a Shaman but not of the Apache nation- approaching her out of the storm. He walked easily, his face uncovered, as though it were a beautiful day with only the slightest of breezes. She tried to focus on his face, but the air around her was too harsh, and she had to squint to protect her eyes.

"Get up, Clara Firewater," the man was saying. "Your journey cannot end at this Now. You have many more Nows ahead of you, and our timelines must join."

Blah, blah, blah, something about time. Didn't this guy realize that she was in the middle of a dust storm right now!

Wait. Time?

And then Clara understood. This man wasn't really here, at least not at this point in time. He was in California, in the city of Todas Tribus, waiting for her. He was the last person she had to seek out to complete her understanding- or lack of it- about Wakan-Tanka. He was the son of Sleeping Boy, the Chosen One before Clara.

He was the last Time Shaman.

With her realization, his form faded away, turning into a swath of colorful dust that was soon swept up in the winds. The moment slowed, and Clara could imagine that she felt every grain of dirt throw itself against her body, trying to beat her down. Perhaps Anónimo was- will be- right, and the dust was trying to wipe out the ways of her people. Maybe she was just going crazy after walking across all of Arizona barefoot.

Didn't matter. Clara Firewater wasn't going to lose to dust.

She got up, and started walking to California.

END