Ghost Dancer

Many moons ago, when the world and its people were still young, and the crows were as white as snow, there lived a man of our nation called Hiamovi. Hiamovi was a paragon of the Tsitsiistas nation, even in his youth. He belonged to a starving people, plagued by the mischief of the white crows. Every year, when the Buffalo gather in the fields, the people would send out their hunters and warriors in hopes of securing food and nourishment from the beasts. To the grief of the people, the Buffalo were always warned in time. The white crows would land upon the shoulders of the grazing beasts, and call to them, “Caw, caw, caw, cousins! The hunters are coming! Save yourselves!” The beasts would hear this and stampede, and the people went without food.
It was then that the people called a meeting to decide what to do about this ever-growing issue. Now, among the birds was a large one, twice the magnitude of the other birds, who served as their leader. One elder suggested that they capture this bird, and teach it a lesson.
He brought out a large, heavy Buffalo skin, tipped with horns, and laid it out. They decided that they would send someone out, disguised as a buffalo, to get this bird. Hiamovi volunteered.
It was later that Hiamovi crept low through the grass, and joined the herd of Buffalo. He dipped his head low, and pretended to graze. The hunting team followed him from a distance.
And when the white crows, who were soaring above the herd, saw these hunters, they dove from the clouds above to warn their cousins below. As usual, they landed on the beasts and announced, “Caw, caw, caw, cousins! The hunters are on the move! See them creeping through the grass? Run, run!”
The Buffalo stampeded, until all that remained in the field was Hiamovi, who still pretended to graze. Finally, the large white bird landed upon his shoulder and cawed, “Caw, caw, cousin, are you deaf? Did you not hear our warning? The hunters are here, escape while you still can!”
As the bird spoke, Hiamovi slowly reached out from under the heavy skin and grabbed the bird by the feet. With great haste and deftness of hand, Hiamovi tied the bird with a hide string, binding its feet and attaching the other end to a stone.
With the bird in his grasp, Hiamovi shed the skin and carried his catch back to the camp.
When Hiamovi returned, the people held a council once more. They tried to decide what to do with this evil bird that had made their people go hungry for so long.
One angry, grievous hunter suggested that they burn the bird, to teach it a lesson. He grabbed the bird from Hiamovi and threw it, stone and all, into the fire.
The great crow was badly burned, but the hide string binding its feet burned faster, and soon he was set free. The bird flew from the inferno, his singed wings stained from the smoke of the fire. The bird escaped, and was still large, but was no longer white as the snow. The crow was now black.
As the bird flew away, it called down to the people, “Caw, caw, caw, I’m sorry! I’ll never again warn the Buffalo! I promise!” The bird kept its promise, and the people were fed.
It was many years later that young Hiamovi had grown into a man, with a son of his own. He taught his son everything he knew, from hunting, to scouting, to keeping peace within the camp. Hiamovi educated his son in all of these things. He called his son Remaining-Fire because after the death of his wife, the child’s mother, Hiamovi’s son was all he had left.
One day, Hiamovi and Remaining-Fire went out very far ahead of the camp scouting for the return of the Buffalo. This was a long journey, and required much patience and effort. Because Remaining-Fire was old enough to leave the camp and venture out this far, Hiamovi saw it as the ideal time to spend with his son. 
The two were crossing a creek, under the watchful glare of the sun, when suddenly Hiamovi heard something rustling through the trees. Closing his eyes and concentrating, Hiamovi tried to distinguish between the sound he heard and the water rushing around his ankles through the creek.
His son stopped next to him, and asked him what was the matter. Hiamovi silenced the boy, and opened his eyes in the direction of the sound.
All at once, the silence and serenity of the creek was shattered by a blood-curdling war cry from just ahead of them. From behind a tree emerged a beast of a man, wielding two Tomahawks. The man was of an unnatural height, clad in a bone-ribbed leather shirt and pants, with a short black Mohawk atop his head, and a blood-red handprint upon his face. He glared at Hiamovi with the spirit of murder burning in his eyes, and cast a Tomahawk down at him.
The sharpened edge of the bone-blade sliced through Hiamovi’s shoulder, causing him great anguish. Before his pained eyes, Hiamovi watched as the man was joined by two others in similar dress. Hiamovi knew that these men were Pawnee, the most brutal and savage of all people.
The man jumped down into the creek and cast his second Tomahawk into Hiamovi’s side, where it stuck. Hiamovi fell, landing hard upon the slippery rocks below.
Soon he was pinned down by one of the warriors, so he called for his son to run and escape. It was too late for Remaining-Fire, who had already been surrounded by the other two. Hiamovi watched in horror as they slayed his son.
And after the nightmare was over, the Pawnee left him for dead, and the silence and serenity of the creek was restored.
Hiamovi lay there for a very long time, looking up at the sky. Barely clinging on to life, he watched as small black shapes began to swirl around in the blue above him. The number of shapes grew, and soon he realized that they were crows.
The crows flew around him, shedding their feathers down on him, creating a blanket for him, keeping him warm as the sun set.
Upon those cold, slippery stones in the mud he lay, water rushing around him, as his wounds healed. The crows kept a watchful eye over his recovery, and soon he felt ready to stand up again.
He rose to his knees, but lost his balance and fell again. He dug his fingers into the mud, and smeared it over his face, pulling his hair back with it. He tore a strip of hide from his shirt and made a headband out of it, and without thinking, gathered the feathers around him and slipped them into the band. He let the feathers cover his head, and some draped down over his face.
At last, he rose to his feet, and began to walk again. He started with a limp, his strength failing him. He started out into the forest, and back to his camp. The darkness of the night fell upon him, and just when he thought he could go on no longer, something fell from the sky and landed at his feet.
It was a slain rat, he realized. He looked up and saw that the crows were still silently circling above him. They had caught the animal and provided food for him. He built a small fire in the forest and cooked the rat and ate it, his strength soon returning to him.
When he had been fed, he found that he could walk upright, and move very quickly. He covered ground with ease this way, oftentimes running right past obstacles in the forest that would normally have slowed him down.
It was then that he saw the distant twinkling lights of a campfire. He relaxed, recognizing this as his nation’s camp. He approached it, ready to bring his people the bad news.
As he neared the camp, he noticed that something was very wrong. The people around the fire were not his own, they were Pawnee. He saw no familiar faces, only the red war paint and black Mohawks of the savage people.
He hid behind a tree and spied on them, realizing that this place had been taken over. It was then that he saw the bodies of his former brethren strewn about the camp, some slain and others left for dead. He gnashed his teeth tightly, all of his anger and pain boiling over.
In his rage, he accidentally knocked over a stone, and caught the attention of one of the savages. The rage in his blood froze into fear as the warrior moved to investigate the sound. Soon the man would be upon him, and he would be discovered.
It was then that one of the crows overhead let out a loud caw, catching the eye of the savage just in time. Hiamovi seized the opportunity, and ran out of his hiding place to escape.
Just then the man turned his head and looked directly at him, but did not react. He merely stood there, as if Hiamovi were merely a gust of wind. Hiamovi froze dead in his tracks, and stared at the savage with his eyes wide. The savage merely shrugged and walked away.
It dawned upon Hiamovi, as he looked up at the crows, that he was something more than what he was before. He was now more than a man. He had been wronged, and given a gift that he could use to right those wrongs. He had become something that his people had long since spoken of only in legend. He had become the Ghost Dancer.
Hiamovi crept through the branches of the trees, perching lightly upon them like a hunting bird, and watched the patrolling Pawnee below. They were looking for something; more survivors, Hiamovi thought.
He dropped down from his perch and moved with the speed of the wind through the camp, completely unseen by his enemies. The Pawnee were absolutely oblivious to his presence, and he knew that he could kill as many of them as he wished.
The crows kept a watchful gaze above him, cawing whenever a foe came near, and alerting Hiamovi to their positions. Keeping low, Hiamovi ducked into a tent. In the tent, he found his surviving brethren hiding from the Pawnee. They could not see him, but he would save them. He found some weapons that they were storing there. He picked up three bone-bladed Tomahawks, like the ones that had taken his old life and the life of his son, and took them out of the tent.
He looked around at the Pawnee warriors around him, surrounding the fire. He cast the first Tomahawk into the fire, knocking the logs away and extinguishing the light. Engulfing the Pawnee in darkness, the Ghost Dancer went to work.
In the darkness, all that could be heard were the sounds of Tomahawks slicing through flesh, suppressed screams, and the insane cawing of the army of crows in the sky above. None of the warriors in the camp knew that anything was wrong, as the sounds of battle were entirely drowned out by the deafening cries of the multitude of crows.
The Ghost Dancer carved a path through the Pawnee warriors. When the rest of the savages saw what was happening, they were so afraid that they ran from the camp without taking any of their belongings.
In the morning, the survivors of our nation crawled out from the tent and into the light. The Ghost Dancer watched, unseen by those he had saved. When he was certain that his people were safe, he left the camp and set out into the forest once more, an army of crows following close by.
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