My name is Morning Cloud, I am Oglala Lakota, or Sioux as the white man calls us. I have been camped within sight of the Reservation agency for a number of months now. Our men have no weapons or bullets with which to hunt for food, their rifles having been taken away from them when they were made to surrender to Bear Coat Miles and his army of bluecoats. Enslaved, they then brought us here, to Wazi Ahanhan (Pine Ridge.) Our children are beginning to cry because they are hungry. Their bellies are empty and the sickness is upon them. The little food that has been supplied by the agency, most of which consisted of meat that was bad, has only just managed to get us through the last stages of this long cruel winter. Now the agency is telling us there is no more meat and turns us away empty handed. The Government agent does not hear the cries of our children, and even if he did, this would not prompt him into giving us what is rightfully ours.
   Now all we can do, to help keep the hunger at bay, is to boil a few vegetables that we find scattered here and there, dropped from the supply wagons to the fort, but this is not enough, the whole village needs meat.
   The old people, and the children, are becoming ill in ever larger numbers. The air is filled with the cries from those loved ones who are left behind to mourn their passing. I am fearful that my own children, who are growing weaker daily from the hunger, will be carried away from me. This is my biggest fear now.
   The men of the village seek out the holy men so that special prayers can be said in the hope that the Christ will take pity upon us and deliver us from this living hell. For has it not be foretold that if we dance then all the spirits of those who have gone before will rise up and live again?

 

   At night as I lay with my husband we have to endure the constant questioning from our hungry children. They want to know 'when will the buffalo come back?' It is a question that we do not have the answer to. My husband has a heavy heart; for he feels that it is his fault that his children cannot be fed. I know he does not like living here upon the reservation where he is being forced, like a prisoner or some caged animal, to do what the agency officials want. I do not blame him, or our chiefs, for the present situation.
   The true fault is with those who wanted to come here and steal our lands away from us. I am only a woman but I know in my heart that the white man cannot to be trusted. Has word not already reached us that the white officials now want us to stop the Ghost Dance? Did not the Holy man, who has come to show us the new way, tell us that the white man had also treated the Christ badly? Leaving scars upon his body, and that was why He had journeyed back to heaven?
   Although our men dance, I can still see the sadness and how heavy my husband's heart has become. In our more youthful days together, when we were able to roam upon our lands as free as the wind, he proved to me time and again what a great hunter, a good husband and a good father he was. But now if I try to remind him of these distant times I see the deep sadness etched in his eyes.
   My words no longer seem to offer him comfort. He constantly feels the heavy burden that is the responsibility of fatherhood and the weight of being held a captive upon his own lands. That is why he has a heavy heart. I know the pain will only be lifted when the Christ sends the big waters that will wash away the white man from our land.

 

   One morning when I awake, the buffalo robe beside me is empty. I know in my heart that my husband has journeyed, far away from the reservation, in an attempt to find food for his children and myself. This is a most dangerous thing to do because our men have been told that the bluecoats will view them as hostile, and treat them as such, if they remove themselves from the protection of the agency. But a father cannot ignore the tears of his children. My husband would prefer a warrior's death, in the pursuit of food, than to stay here and watch his children die from starvation!
   I think he will be gone for many days, desperately searching far and wide for food, and will not return to us until he can put meat into the feeding bowls of his family. With each passing sun I wonder whether he is any nearer to returning to us. The soldiers who guard the reservation seem not to notice that most of the young men have vanished. They look but they do not see. Some say that the Christ has mixed the colours to their heart and now they cannot see what is before them. Anyway they are too busy drinking, raping, and stealing all that belongs to us to notice much else. On the seventh morning I am awokened by a loud commotion coming from outside. I scramble from the tipi, my children hot on my heels, and there before us is a tremendous sight.
   Sitting upon his pony, looking like the great warrior that I know him to be, is my husband. He is painted and dressed in his finest clothing. Upon his face he is wearing a smile. Behind him I can now see the reason for his happiness. Laid out across the back of the rear pony are the limp bodies of two full grown deer. Without any obvious weapons it is hard for me to imagine how he came to slay them, but he did. He jumps down and walking taller than I have seen him walk for sometime, approaches the second pony.

 

  Then he lifts one of the deers and turning to face me again carries it across to our tipi. He boldly lays it upon the ground before me. My eyes are misty from the tears that I am fighting to hold back the tears in my eyes. He stands looking down at both of our children, Little Dove and Wolf, who have become nothing but skin and bone, then he turns away without a word and walks back to his ponies. He slowly leads them away and I know where he is going. He is taking the second deer to the tipi of our chief, Black Foot, so that it might be cooked and shared amongst those in need. My heart soars with the love and admiration that I now feel for this fine man whom I am proud to call my husband.
    I immediately set about the task of cutting the hide from the body, placing some choice meat into my cooking pot as I do. I set about making a fire while my daughter journeys down to the nearby creek to fetch water for the cooking pot. It is not the waters of the Greasy Grass, neither is it the cooling waters of Weeping Woman Creek, it is a small creek that is often littered with the trash from the agency and the soldier fort nearby. Yet it is the only available water that we have for cooking and drinking. I also send my son scrambling off to collect bits of fire wood that is lying scattered around us.
   “But be careful of the soldiers in the fort.�?I warn him for is well known that they will use our children as target practice if they venture too close.<O:P>
   “I will, don't worry mother.�?He calls back and I watch him until he has gone from my sight. My heart will be full of worry until he returns to me.

 

    While the children are off doing their chores I turn my attention back to the hide. I have in mind to make a most sacred garment from it. One that I know my husband would be proud to wear. As I cut it from the carcass I am careful not to allow any blood to spoil the outer skin. Once stretched out upon a wooden frame I begin the task of scrapping away all the fat and tissue that still clings to the inner skin. My intentions are to make my husband a ghost shirt for providing us once again with all that we need. And for restoring some pride back into the village.
   After I have checked that the feast I plan to make for my husband and children is well on its way to cooking, the smell of my cooking bowl now teasing the noses of my children, I instruct our son to quickly go and fetch the holy man Big Bear Walking, for I will need him to firstly inspect the skin and then to have him chant a special prayer which he will offered up to the Christ of the Ghost Dance religion.
   Big Bear Walking comes and after he has inspected the drying skin, approving my work thus far, he then offers up one prayer to the Christ. Next he sits beside me outside the tipi and begins to give instructions on how I am to proceed with the shirt. I listen carefully and do all that he asks of me without question.
   "When the shirt is finished I will come again and put upon it the scared signs." He tells me before standing. I feel ashamed the food is not ready for eating yet, for it would have been right to have offered the holy man something, so in return for his prayer and instructions for the making of the shirt I cut him a choice piece of meat from the carcass of the deer and offer it to him instead.
   He takes it, nodding his head in approval at such a fine gift, and then he walks away holding the meat high above his head so that the village might know what has transpired between us. He sings the praises of my husband, as he makes his way back to his own tipi, where the meat will be placed quickly into a cooking pot. I know now that we will be the talk of the village for some days to come.

 

   Throughout this sun, and the ones that followed, or whenever I am visited by family and friends living nearby, I carefully cut them some meat from the body of the deer so that they will have meat for their own cooking pots. They accept my offerings with smiles of delight, for on another occasion it might be I accepting meat from them. This is how we have always lived when times are hard. It makes my heart soar to see them walking away with laughter on their lips and knowing that their children will not be crying for a little while. I know in my heart that the Christ of the Ghost Dance would want me to do this, for has He not already said.
   "You must not hurt anyone or do harm to anyone. You must not fight. Do right always."
   Therefore am I not right to give to those who go hungry? I am willing to share with them what little I have, because I am a Human Being and I silently thank the Great Spirit for making me thus.
   When my husband returns he sees how much meat has been given away and he is not bitter, neither is he angry. He also sees his children. Their wooden bowls full of the meat that he has provided. My actions, and his own, I know have filled his heart with a newfound pride. For in this new religion, as it was in the old, it is a measure of a man to be judge by just how generous he can be in life. Proudly he enters the tipi and I tell the children to be quiet because their father is tired. I know that he would not have slept since the morning when he left the reservation. He would not have relaxed until he had made his first kill. I also know that the body of the deer that he placed before me were still warm to my touch. So that could mean only one thing. My husband had not made the kill until shortly before he returned home to us. So I understand why it is that he feels the need to rest more than he feels the need to eat.

 

   During the suns that follow I spend much of my time engrossed with the making of the shirt. Big Bear Walking comes to my tipi every morning and sits beside me, giving me constant instructions, as I carefully cut out the shape of the body and arms. Then I sow the front and back together. The deerskin feels soft and warm to the touch and I know that my husband will enjoy wearing it.
   Next comes the decoration. I leave this to the holy man. Only he knows the magic symbols that will be painted on to the shirt. He carefully removes his paints and places them upon the ground before him. Each colour that he is going to use he first holds up to the sky and chants. He shows the colours to the four directions so that they might come to recognize them once they are placed upon the shirt. Then after mixing the colours he paints the symbols with his fingers upon the front and back. All the while he is painting Big Bear Walking is singing and praying. When he is finished with the shirt all his energy is spent.
   "Behold this Ghost Shirt! Behold the wearer!" Are his final words as he hangs the shirt up so that the paint might dry. He then rests awhile where he now sits. I make sure nothing disturbs him until he is ready to open his eyes once again. I look at the shirt and notice the large symbol of the cross of the Black Robes upon it. Some say the reason for this is because long ago the white man crucified the Christ upon such a cross. I see that to ease any pain that the symbol might bring the Christ, Big Bear Walking has placed it within the sacred circle. The sun is sinking in the sky when I see the medicine man move again. Before he leaves me he takes the shirt down and hands it to me. No words are exchanged. For none are needed.

 

   I take the shirt inside the tipi and carefully place it down upon the buffalo robe of my husband. It will be there for him to discover whenever he returns to our lodge. I now go and wait outside the entrance with the children who are excited and eager to see their father return. The day has been long and the sun quite hot and bright in the clear blue sky above. Only when the power of the sun has totally faded, and we sit in the glow of a fire, does my husband return to our lodge.
   He stands before us wondering why we all sit looking up at him. I smile as he steps closer to the tipi. Then he quickly moves forward and enters. I hold my breath listening for any clue to what is happening inside. I am sure I hear a sharp intake of breath and then all is silent. The children want to move but I softly urge them to be still and silent. I myself fight the urge to go rushing into the lodge to see whether the shirt pleases him or not, but I know to do so would be wrong, for the pleasure of the shirt is my husbands, and that moment of pleasure is also for him alone.
   Behind us I hear the flap of the tipi open and I can feel the presence of my husband. I fight the overwhelming urge to look around. And then he steps out before us. The children gasp and smile at the wonderful sight of their father. Oh how my heart flutters to see him dressed so fine. I blush beneath the gaze of this handsome looking warrior standing before me. He stands tall and proud. I can tell that he is pleased with the shirt and my heart soars.
   "You have made me a Ghost Shirt."
   "Because you are the finest warrior and one who deserves to wear such a shirt." I reply keeping my emotions in check.
   "Your words speed straight to my heart." He declares lovingly.

 

   Then he turns away before he reveals too much of his inner being to me. I know that this is the way of men. And I love him even more for the few words that he has already spoken. Tonight when we lay together beneath the buffalo robes he will come to me and whisper the soft words that a husband tells his wife during such tender moments, and my body already begins to ache for him. I cannot wait for that moment to arrive but I must be patient.
   I watch proudly as he moves around the village, our children following in his wake, as he pauses before each lodge that he comes to so that the occupants might see, and comment upon, the sacred garment that he now proudly wears. He glances back every now and then and I smile with both love and pride as he enjoys the praises that are heaped upon him.
   Then my heart sinks as two bluecoats come walking out of the darkness of the night towards him. It is obvious from the way they are staggering that they have been drinking and from past experiences we have come to know that the white man in this mood are at their most barbaric and bloodthirsty. I can see that they are walking the same path as my husband and a confrontation is now inevitable. I can also see that my husband is ready to stand firm. He will not bend to their ways whatever happens.
   The ghost shirt has given him renewed belief in who he is. I now fear for the safety of both him and the children. Others of the village can also see the coming situation and they now stand and wait to see what will be the outcome.
   One soldier suddenly looks up and seeing that his path is blocked he moves to the side and without breaking stride passes by my husband without glancing back. It is as if an unseen power has made him react thus. But to me I know it is the power of the shirt. For it has been truly blessed by the prayers of the medicine man.

 

   The second soldier looks a little confused as he too steps aside and moves around my husband who is still standing, with arms folded across his chest, and without moving, looking straight ahead. When the soldiers are some way off, and my husband continues his journey, excited chatter suddenly fills the air.
   What has taken place is seen as a sign. And both I and my husband are only just beginning to know the power of the ghost shirt.<O:P>   </O:P>

<O:P>

THE END

</O:P></O:P>