Brent smiled. “You’re Michael?” he asked, trying to remember all the names.
“Michael Tiger,” the boy said proudly.
“Michael, you’re right. Smoking isn’t just very bad for your health, it’s an expensive and annoying habit.”
“Then how can anyone smoke the sacred pipe?” the girl at Brent’s side asked.
Brent lowered his head, smiling. “The sacred pipe is now part of a ceremony. There are very specific times when the pipe may be smoked among the Lakotas, you see.”
“You never finished the story,” another of the girls pointed out.
“Ah, yes,” Brent said. “Well, the rest of the story relates to what we’re saying now. The stone that the White Buffalo Woman put down at first had seven little cuts in it. They indicated those very special times when the pipe might be smoked, ceremonies to honor all that she was teaching. They would be part of the relationships that the people must learn so that they would not be like animals, wandering the earth, without care for it or those around them. When she had taught them a bit more, she walked a few steps away. Then she turned into a brown and white calf. Again she walked, and this time she became a white calf. After a few more feet, she became a great black buffalo. She left the council tepee and walked up a hill and there she bowed to the four corners of the earth, north and south, east and west, and then…”
“And then?” Michael Tiger demanded.
“She vanished,” Brent said.
“But…why did she come, if she was only going to disappear?” Michael asked.
“She came to teach the people to respect and care for one another, for the earth itself, and for all creatures, and for all the gifts that were given to man, even the stones and the river and the ground,” Brent said. He smiled, rising. “That is the Lakota legend of the White Buffalo Woman.” He swept an arm out, indicating the many people who were attending the festival, a gathering of tribes deep in the Florida Everglades. It wasn’t a reenactment of the old days—vendors sold soda, popcorn, tribal T-shirts, corn dogs and other non-native foods, while rock bands filled the air with sounds that would certainly have shocked the White Buffalo Woman. He’d come with a group called the Wild Chieftains, and since he had something of a reputation as a storyteller, he’d been asked to tell a few legends to the children. They weren’t all Indian, and that pleased him. The children represented local tribes, such as the Miccosukee and Seminole, along with Cree, Creek, Cherokee and others. There were also a number of African-Americans, Hispanics and whatever mix the so-called “whites” might be. He’d heard British and German accents in the crowd, so even the tourists had come out for the festival.
“The truth is, every group has its own legend. The Great Spirit is God to some and Allah to others. There are many paths a man—or woman—might take to reach the same place. The important part of the story is that we all need to respect and take care of one another, and respect the earth, as well,” Brent said, grinning.
Then his grin faded as he looked past the children, and saw, in the group of adults standing behind them, a familiar face.
A too-familiar face. That of a man he knew well.
But hadn’t he been expecting him?
“Are you really a Lakota?” one of the little girls asked him. “Your eyes are green.”
“Oh, Heidi,” Michael Tiger said, sighing, as if he were possessed of a great deal more wisdom than she, a younger child, and a girl. “My sister’s eyes are blue, because my stepmother is mostly German. People mix up.”
“Was your mother mostly German?” the girl asked.
He grinned. “Irish,” he told her.
“But your father was all Lakota?” Michael asked hopefully.
“How about this—my grandfather, Chief Soaring Blackhawk, was all Lakota,” Brent said. He could feel the eyes of Adam Harrison boring into him as he spoke. He could also see the man’s smile. Adam was very much enjoying the way the children were putting him on the spot.
“Is it easier to be only half-Indian?” Susan asked, her tone serious.
Brent ignored Adam for a moment, hunkering down in front of the little girl. “Let’s hope that very soon it won’t matter whether we’re red, black, tan, yellow, white…male or female. Or whether we believe in the White Buffalo Woman, the teachings of Buddha, Allah or God.”
“Yeah!” The little girl turned to stare at Michael.
“She is really smart,” Michael told Brent grudgingly. “She makes the best grades in school. Especially in math.” He made a face.
“I said I’d help you,” the girl protested.
Brent had a feeling he was watching a budding romance. “Take her up on it, eh, Tiger?” he said, and smiling, he waved a hand, starting away from the group that had gathered around him. His departure was acknowledged with a nice round of applause. He smiled, waved again, and Adam caught up with him.
“You’ve got quite a talent there,” Adam told him.
Brent shrugged. “Kids like fables from any land, about any people.” He stopped walking and stared at Adam. “All right, why did you track me down?”
“I need you to go to New Orleans.”
Brent groaned inwardly as a wave of dread washed over him. He avoided New Orleans like the plague. Not that he disliked the city. It was full of wonderful people, great food, incredible music.
But it was one of the places a man such as himself should never go.
“New Orleans,” he muttered bitterly. He stared at Adam, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I’m supposed to be back at the Pine Ridge Reservation on Tuesday,” he said.
“You’re needed?” Adam said.
“Every man is needed,” Brent told him.
Adam smiled, looking away from the area where the festival was taking place, out to the rich areas of saw grass that seemed to stretch forever, though the road, the Tamiami Trail, was really within a few hundred feet.
“Your eyes are green,” Adam commented, looking at him again.
“And what is that supposed to mean?” Brent asked.
“Well, I just listened to you give the most marvelous speech to those children. About acceptance.”
“Yes?”
Adam smiled. “Heritage is a wonderful thing. The Irish arrived after a potato famine. Italians poured into the country in the 1920s. Cubans and South Americans and immigrants from the Caribbean all came to South Florida. You know what happens after we’re all here a while? We become Americans.”
Brent had to smile. “And…?”
“My point is the one you were just making. We’re all many things. You’re more Irish than you are Lakota. You’re just an American.”
“So?”
“So you should support your heritage—all of it. You teach, you counsel…and then you have your special gifts. Your mother was full-blooded Irish, you know.”
“Is that a comment on my ‘gift’?” Brent asked.
“It’s a comment on the fact that you’re a mongrel, like most people. And right now the mixed-up all-American part of you is needed,” Adam said.
“In New Orleans?”
Adam looked away for a moment. “Look, I know how you feel about New Orleans. I wouldn’t ask you if I didn’t believe this was important.”
“It’s where Tania died,” Brent said quietly.