Prologue

In 1981, I learned the basics of safe psychic channeling and for many years I enjoyed giving friends & associates PsychicGenealogy* readings. And with each reading, I was always careful to invoke the spiritual support and protection I knew I needed and could trust. It was (and still is), my simple and important way to begin; however, after many years of practice, I learned rituals aren’t always required. Sometimes safe and valuable channelings begin in their own way and in their own time. Such was the situation with the psychic experience presented here.

A woman named Sara and I were roommates in the mid-nineties. One warm summer evening, on a camping trip, we were enjoying the last rays of sun, braiding sweet grass. Our light conversation ended and we worked quietly for quite awhile, when something happened to my vision.

I was no longer looking down at my hands tightly braiding vibrant green blades of grass in a Paradise, Oregon campground. I was seeing instead, the hands of a young American Indian boy braiding course black strands of his horse’s mane in my exact same location, somewhere back in time.

This is the way the channeling of Yellow Hand, Wild Child, and The Horse Of Knowing began back in 1993 – a psychic connection that would last almost a full year.

~Silhouette

* PsychicGenealogy is akin to Past Life Readings, but with a new understanding. Who we Are grows up from the roots of Who we Were, plus the roots of Who we Will Become, because reincarnation is non-chronological. As Silhouette’s Guide/Friend, Charles F. Thompson wrote, “Existence is related to experience beyond the confines of just one lifetime.”

*******

Yellow Hand, Wild Child and the Horse of Knowing

Chapter One

The Horse Of Knowing was solid pitch-black and marked with a striking yellow handprint on the opposite side of her neck from where her mane grew long. Although she was greatly admired and respected by all who knew her, she would only let one boy ride her — and his name was Yellow Hand. In fact, they were riding together the day they first encountered Wild Child.

On that day Yellow Hand had been given the honor of the very important responsibility of holding and guarding the horses, while the older men crept up on a homesteader named Carson. Normally, this was a peaceful tribe, and for the most part, this approach was working well. The homesteaders were among them now, and so for a long while they had endeavored to live side by side. However, racially motivated incidents, as was the case with this Carson fellow, began happening more and more frequently. And since the law of the land, according to the homesteaders, showed not much in the way of true justice for the indigenous people, the tribe finally decided to move away from their sacred and ancestral homeland.

The Unspeakable Event,” as it came to be called, took place just days before the tribe had planned to leave. It was a horrific crime and the warriors were extremely vocal about the need for action, even if it meant ending Carson’s life. The women were against killing him, but they also were outraged and felt terrorized. Many tears fell.

Finally, a decision had to be made. The warriors spoke fiercely with one voice: “Death to Carson!”

“And then we will go,” Black Hawk, their war chief suggested. However, the women just wanted to leave all the sorrow behind and start fresh in their new home. It was the way of this tribe to Hear All Voices and then to take all the viewpoints to the Old One. In these times, the Old One was a woman.

The Old One leaned forward out of the shadows and into the light of her tipi fire for only one blink of the eye, as she flipped open the doorway flap. From that point on, only her hands were visible and they were indeed the hands of a very old one. A highly regarded warrior and tribal leader named Catching Birds spoke for the angry warriors and his wife, Blue Wren, made the case for the women.

The Old One spoke softly to Blue Wren, “Let’s remind the women that these are matters related to the ways of men. And that clearly these men who are new arrivals to this land, need to be shown that the men already living here are able and very willing to express justice with weapons, when words have no meaning. And please let Singing Bird know too, of course.”

Blue Wren nodded, “I’ll find her.”

“Catching Birds,” the Old One continued, “the men are wise to listen to the council of their mothers, sisters, wives, and daughters; but the mistake is to listen with your minds rather than with your hearts. Realize as the women do, that you will be, in seeking this justice, taking away a woman’s son, someone’s brother, another woman’s husband, and a child’s father. Your mothers, wives, sisters, and daughters are showing you with their tears and concerns that justice must be balanced with compassion. “Go now,” the Old One concluded, “and find a way to balance your solution.”

And so Catching Birds selected a warrior to go on a mission. More information was needed; specifically, what kind of son, brother, husband, and father was this Frank Carson? Not Shaped To Be A Warrior gladly accepted this mission, and although he was indeed not shaped to be a warrior, he was still a man of many talents. He had what European cultures would call an ‘Excellent Ear,’ for he could imitate any sound he heard. And even though he had no way to physically support his people in battle, he developed other skills more suited to his small size, unusual shape, and fine imitative talents.

For this mission, he assumed the form of an old and foolish Indian who would allow himself to be abused for the sadistic entertainment of the abusers in exchange for money or alcohol. He was well versed in this game and also well prepared. Before heading into town he went to see Woman Speaks Not.

“Try these on,” she signed, gesturing towards the entrance to her tipi. Not Shaped to Be A Warrior eagerly complied. In the doorway he found all the protective gear he would be needing to survive the coming onslaught: a thick leather collar with matching shoulder-like pads attached, thinner leather arm and leg sleeves, and what could only be described as a leather cape protecting the back. He carefully examined each piece, marveling at the workmanship and smart design. “I like the changes!” he told Woman Speaks Not. They co-designed the first layers of protection a few years back after he had suffered a particularly brutal assault, and ever since then she continued to work on it, improving each piece in accordance with their goal to keep Not Shaped to Be A Warrior as safe as possible on these dangerous missions.

Once the layers were properly secured and concealed, Not Shape to Be A Warrior went into the woods to pray for spiritual protection. Singing Bird joined him and performed a smudge ceremony while singing to him about courage. He was ready and focused.

And how perfectly he played the people in the saloon!  In a short time, they were all drunk and telling stories about themselves and family members who had had interactions with Carson.  Even the town’s doctor broke his oath and told of several “repair jobs” (as he called them), he had done on “the Mrs. and that feral kid of hers!”

Bad land deals, wrongful deaths, the poisoning of competitors’ livestock — Mr. Carson had neither friends nor satisfied customers in the saloon that night. Even the saloon harlots hated him, saying only that he was a “bad man.” There was a rumor that he once killed a girl and then bought off the saloonkeeper to say she had jumped him. But the girls knew otherwise.
“Why, that man even stole his own mother’s weddin’ ring and his brother’s horse before leavin’ Chicagi to come out c’here and then had the gall to brag about it to the Preacher!” one old-timer remarked.

Hearing the stories from both the males and females of Carson’s own people gave Not Shaped To Be A Warrior the answer he was looking for — Carson was not a good son, good brother, good husband, nor a good father. Carson did not have what this tribe called a “solid spirit.”

This information, as well as the 18 pieces of gold contemptuously thrown at him, were brought back to the Old One who listened quietly. Finally, after a long silence, she spoke, “Let our women know, Blue Wren, that our men will pray and enact the full Ceremony of Death to attract help from the spirits so that they might kill swiftly and accurately — only this one man.” She turned to Catching Birds, “Please, tell Black Hawk that neither the wife nor the child should be harmed. Nothing is to be burned, nor should any horses be taken. This is not a raid. He must make his plan accordingly. Do you agree to this approach, Catching Birds?” He nodded and she continued, “Our tribe will leave two days before the warriors kill this man. Get word to Singing Bird tonight. We will need her to scout the game trails for us now. When we get to our new home, we will be very hungry! Our stored food supplies are low and they will be gone by the time we get there, so we will be dependent upon fresh meat for awhile.”

“We can count on Singing Bird!” Blue Wren spoke with assurance.

Singing Bird was the only female tracker anyone had ever heard of and she was a recluse. Her personality was such that she preferred to live alone and away from others, yet she was fiercely loyal to the tribe and to the land they lived upon, which she called “The Big Brown Mother.” The tribe accepted her reclusive nature because her unabashed attraction for women in general, and for Blue Wren in particular, was quite disturbing to most of the men, and to some of the women as well. Although it was customary for two, three, even four women to share the same husband, it was rare to find a woman sharing herself with another woman — and even more unheard of, was a woman married to both a man and a woman.

“It’s a very good thing that you prefer the woods to village life,” the Old One told Singing Bird at one of their many meetings, “this way, the men can better mind their own business! Plus,” she cackled, wickedly, “seeing Blue Wren flying back and forth between two tipis in the same village might cause a little jealousy among the women too, and make Catching Birds feel more distracted than ever!”

Despite the unease a woman like Singing Bird created for him, her skills and love of Blue Wren were never in doubt to Catching Birds. He was a realistic man when it came to matters related to basic survival. He appreciated having loyal eyes and ears in the trees nearby his village. And although he was a man, subject to the thoughts and feelings of a man, and was clearly somewhat unnerved by the situation, he also felt a deep sense of relief knowing his beloved Blue Wren would be well cared for should something ever happen to him. It was upon this that he pondered most when he felt the eyes of the other men watching his every reaction should they happen to see Blue Wren leave the village or return from the woods.

“Realize and tell the warriors, Catching Birds,” the Old One continued, “that I have had the following dream message: by taking this action, we will — our entire tribe — have a very unique experience.”

“What experience?” Catching Birds asked.

“The Golden Whirlwind,” the Old One said.

“What is it?” Blue Wren asked.

“I don’t know. It’s not been a part of our experience before.” the Old One answered.

“Is it a bad thing or good thing?” Catching Birds asked.

“I don’t know,” was again her response. “Now go,” she waved energetically towards the doorway, “and let the people decide.”

And so with sadness, the people decided to go ahead with Black Hawk’s battle plan and two days after the rest of the tribe said their goodbyes to the land they so loved, the warriors made their move.

The Horse Of Knowing and Yellow Hand were stationed on the far side of a small meadow across from Carson’s cabin. The warriors dismounted their ponies and Yellow Hand hid them in a stand of Alder trees. He had no idea how much his life was about to change.

The warriors crawled through the meadow grasses like snakes upon the ground. They were patient and slow-moving until they reached a certain point. There, they stopped and laid in wait. Carson’s woman was drawing water from the well, nervously calling for her child, “Christina!” The child was nowhere to be found, except by Yellow Hand back there in the Alder trees.

The little girl was an amazing sight to this native boy and he watched her with great fascination. However, Yellow Hand knew the stories and he understood their teachings. Over many years of bad experiences with people of yellow, red, or brown hair; fair skins and light colored eyes — the tribe had grown wary. Those traits became warning signs, so although this little girl was melting his heart, Yellow Hand, an up-and-coming young warrior, knew in his head to stay on guard.

But he could have watched her play all day long! She sang to herself and jumped like a frog; she built herself a doll to talk to from a scrap of moss, three twigs, and a fern leaf. He found himself envying that doll!

Yellow Hand! He shook his head. Stay focused on the warriors! Be ready!

Things moved so silently and slowly at first — but then, when the action began, it was over so quickly! They were all shouting, “Come on, Yellow Hand! Bring up the ponies!”

“Aye-eee — ya!” he called out in celebration of their success. But as he thundered up to the warriors it became clear something was wrong. They did not return his whoop for joy, but were instead huddled in a circle around two dead bodies.

“What happened?” Yellow Hand whispered as he gave each man his horse.

Finally, Catching Birds spoke in an ominous tone, “This woman was nowhere near our mark — in fact, when she heard our death cries, we saw her turn to run out of harm’s way. So … ” he began to whisper now and it made Yellow Hand tremble inside, “we sent our arrows to the man, but he spun around and grabbed the woman using her as a shield… his own wife… ” Catching Birds could no longer speak. Everyone stood there in silence looking at the woman with an arrow in her heart.

Their shock was further amplified when the little girl’s voice rang out. Singing at the top of her lungs and calling “Mama, Mama…” she skipped happily along in their direction.

Instantly, almost instinctively, Yellow Hand dropped his reins and ran to intercept the child. Much to his surprise and secret delight, she was not at all afraid of him. Obviously, she was totally unaware of what had just happened. He leapt and croaked like a frog to capture her attention while the warriors hurriedly buried her mother. The man was just left on top of her grave to rot.

Soon, the child began asking Yellow Hand many questions and although he could not understand her, he was pretty sure he knew what she was asking about. So, he approached Catching Birds and requested that she be allowed to see her father’s body and her mother’s grave. He ended his request by saying, “I know she is so very young, but I feel she will understand that she must leave with us.”

“With us? Aye chi…” Catching Birds raised his voice, not something he was known to do except in battle. “We will take her to the edge of town for her own people to find!”

The thought of never seeing her again was mysteriously crushing to Yellow Hand. He fell completely apart, weeping at Catching Birds’ feet. He was too overcome even to beg. The great warrior was stunned. He knew this boy well and Yellow Hand was emotionally mature enough for this mission! He had not been shocked by the sight of blood, nor by death before…why should taking this child mean so much to him?

A whinny from the Horse Of Knowing broke the paralyzing spell and Catching Birds looked over to see the girl spinning like a little whirlwind in front of the huge black mare. All the warriors were now transfixed upon this most surreal sight. The springs of her curly golden blond hair were flying out almost parallel to the ground. As the black horse switched her tail from side to side, the child whirled around and around until she could simply go no more and collapsed giggling into the soft grasses!

Yellow Hand’s eyes darted up to Catching Birds’, searching intently for his decision. In a dazed voice their tribal leader finally spoke, “Take her to the grave.”

Once there, the little girl picked up a stick, and like an animal she circled the grave, cocking her head from side to side, trying to comprehend what she was seeing. She poked Carson’s graying body with the stick to be sure he wasn’t just in another drunken stupor. When she was convinced he was not going to get up, she jumped upon his chest, got down over his face and began shouting! “Bad man! Bad man!” She switched him with the stick, then threw it on the ground. She ran towards the cabin calling out for her mama. Yellow Hand, young as he was himself, somehow knew this would have to be the time to show her where her mother was.

Gently, he stopped her from going to the cabin and he turned her around towards the grave, “Mama” he said as he pointed to the mound beneath the dead man.

“No!” She didn’t like this already, but Yellow Hand took her closer still and as he pointed to her mother’s bonnet, he patted the mound. She looked at him with a pouty frown and proclaimed that he was wrong, but he could see in her eyes that she knew it was the awful truth. She began to cry and bury her little face into his chest, and he wept too. Then she stood and grabbed her stick and she struck the dead man several more times saying, “Get off! Get off!” And in an angry little fit, she climbed back up on the mound and tried to drag Carson’s body off her mother’s grave!

Yellow Hand leapt to her assistance saying in his own tongue, “Very smart! I will help you!”

After Carson was appropriately relocated, the child rushed again into the arms of her new friend. Sensing that this was the perfect time to go, Yellow Hand picked her up, placed her atop The Horse Of Knowing and upon Catching Birds’ signal, they headed for home.

When the Old One saw the child and heard the story, she took a moment to light her pipe and slowly inhale. She always sat in the shadows of her warm, mid-sized tipi, but was known to move into the fire’s light occasionally when she meant to give her words special emphasis, as she did this evening. Leaning forward, she released the smoke through her nostrils, and check with The Witness if you don’t believe it’s true — the smoke streamed directly to the Old One’s hand and curled around her bony forefinger as she whispered softly, “The Golden Whirlwind experience has begun.”

Iris Colored Dreams...In Your Inbox!

Iris Colored Dreams...In Your Inbox!

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