Among those who have spent any time around The Eye Tree, it is an accepted, albeit unproved, fact that there is an Indian Chief buried beneath it. He is an old man, wrinkled yet strong, with solemn eyes and a grave bearing. None of us have found out much more about him, and these thoughts, consistent from person to person, are the result of visions and perhaps dreams.
But my story today is about another man, whom we believe to be the Chief’s grandson, or perhaps a great-grandson.
My older brother and sister saw him first when he was seven or eight, standing beside the old Chief in a vision. Later, he left foot prints, and pictures drawn in the sand, in the pasture. My brother and sister couldn’t help but think they would some day meet him, and that he was a person of unblemished character and good standing among everyone, as was his grandfather before him. Whenever they saw him in their minds, he had long dark hair, which he wore loosely, or sometimes in a single braid. He always came riding a red and white spotted pony. He appeared to them anywhere from twelve to twenty years old, depending on the day, and they expected him to show up since the time my sister was six.
When my sister was sixteen, a fierce summer storm blew in from the west, on an evening when she and my brother were home alone. I don’t know now where the rest of the family had gone; maybe to the Wednesday night prayer meeting at church. It was a perfect evening for the Indian boy’s appearance. There was a strong smell of horse sweat on the wind, though we had but one horse, and that one small and not given to excitement. My sister could envision the boy riding through the pasture on his own pony, which looked eerily like the one we had, and to make matters worse, our pony was frantic.
He usually spent his days grazing quietly, or standing in a corner of his pasture looking sad and numb, for want of a companion of his own kind. But this night, Diamond trotted back and forth through the pasture, with his mane and tail up, and he kept looking toward the north-east, toward the old one-room school house, whence the Indian boy was supposed to come. My pony was old; 30, at least, yet he looked like a colt as he waited, calling out against the wind. He began to run wildly, until my sister thought he might attempt to jump the fence and go to meet the boy, his true master and longed-for companion.
All that day, and the one before, and for a long string of days and nights, The Eye Tree had been talking about the Indian boy, and how he was supposed to make another appearance. So my brother and sister were out in the driving rain and howling wind, waiting for him. They stood by The Stick House, near the corner into which the pony kept running, neighing. The Indian would come on foot, they knew, and get his horse, and then…what? Another blast of horse sweat came on the wind, and none of the neighbors had horses. Where did the smell come from? Diamond pushed on the corner post with his chest, his sides heaving.
The rain gusted the fiercest yet, and my sister and brother took shelter in The Stick House. When the rain calmed, and they came back out, Diamond looked once again like an old horse, and stood facing west, toward the barn.
It was clear that the opportunity had passed, and that The Indian boy would not be coming tonight.
Soon after, the sweaty horse smell wafted to them a last time, then the sky cleared, and it was all over. They were left standing in a strange stillness, soaking wet, wondering what had happened.
Moments after, Mom and Dad’s van came roaring down the road, and the evening was normal.
That was the last time they ever saw the Indian boy, in image or feeling.
Two months later, Diamond died.
Part 7
To be continued…
