In the Spirits' Tears

The sun burned in blood as the dust from the storm settled across the land. The elder council knew the time had come, with most of the warriors dead it was a time for peace a time for treaty. A great father had come with papers to sign providing land for the people. Traders would come to trade skins, food and blankets, it would bring prosperity.

What weapons that were left were stacked for the soldiers to take. Hunting would no longer be needed, the great fathers would have agents bring them the food they needed. The people would live on their reserves with no interference from the white men who were moving westward.

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It was a strange smell in the air that floated in the cold spring winds of Laguna Pueblo that fall in 1973. It smelled of soil, it smelled of rock, it smelled of death, a burning death fed in half-lives. But the elders knew of the angry spirits and desecration at Jackpile Mine, where time was measured in the spirits' tears.

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Later the elder council met again with another great father and more papers were signed, more treaties and the white men were allowed on the reserve to dig in the earth. Some of the elders worried that the digging would disturb the sacred spirits on their land, they asked them to dig elsewhere. No, the papers were for this land, besides, the white man would treat the land with reverence.

Again, the council understood it was a time for peace, with the warriors gone they had no other choice than to sign the papers. Soon the diggers came, opening great holes in the foothills. The people prayed to appease the spirits.

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Students smelled it. It smelled of children, it smelled of secrets, it smelled of pacts, of lonely deaths. One by one by one the students died in spring of '73. "Cherylyn died, now it's my turn," the notes said, as the brightest and best followed: a suicide club, membership: seven. They didn't know why, none of the kids knew.

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The people complained to the elders. Their eyes and noses burned from the dust and smoke from the foothills where the white man dug. They felt the land rumble it's displeasure as the spirits quaked their anger. "Make them stop the people begged, the spirits are angry, the land is fouled. We need to pray, we need to appease the spirits, and we need to cover the holes with dirt."

The elders met and talked of the troubles, but the treaties were signed, they could do nothing to change things. In the meantime dirt roads were paved in gravel, and bigger equipment traveled along the new roads, spewing dust and noise.

Soon the burials started: first children and the old ones, soon the first of the elders died. They wanted to change but they remembered the treaties. They talked to the agents, but all he told them was to remember the treaties.

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One man smelled it. It smelled of wine, it smelled of beer, smelled of bourbon, of a shiny new axe. They were his friends who visited him fresh from the mines and at his table, he cut them up, dumping their pieces around the reservation. "Your two best friends, why did you kill them?" They asked. He couldn't explain.

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Children are choking and dying in the dust and smoke from the digging. Huge vehicles passed on the roads, leaving ruts and mud, but the council would do nothing, they showed the treaty.

"But the mine is destroying us," the people cried, "slowly, one by one our children sicken, some die. And now the elders also die, not from the spirit way, but the coughing, the sickness. We all feel it. We must stop the mining or we all will be destroyed."

"We have treaties," the elders responded, "We cannot break them. Look at what happened at Wounded Knee."

"But we don't dance the ghost dance, we don't ask for all our land, we only want them to stop at the mine. We just want them to stop, because we will die if they don't stop."

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It was a strange smell in the air that floated in the cold spring winds of Laguna Pueblo in 1973. It smelled of soil, it smelled of rock, it smelled of fire, of a burning death, they called it half-lives. But the elders knew of angry spirits and desecration at Jackpile Mine where time was measured in the spirits' tears.