In the
Moon of the Great Ghost Face
In the moon of the great ghost face,
In the shadow of the Mountain,
Along the banks of the Gila,
Coyotero Apache dwell.
Wiciup of willow and grass;
Bluestem, bear grass, lashed with yucca.
Hide and smoke, and vessels of clay,
Burden baskets willow woven,
Devil’s claw adorned, buckskin trimmed,
Bears all; food, wood, and swaddled babes.
In the moon of the great ghost face,
In the shadow of the mountain,
Along the banks of the Gila,
Ishkiin a boy, and
a dreamer;
Dreams night and day of taking flight.
Awake, asleep, he dreams to fly.
Nighttime he slumbers among the stars.
He slumbers, he dreams, and he soars.
In dreams he blazes through the sky,
A shooting star, streaking the night.
Dawn creeps in, slides into his eyes.
A shifting feeling near his heart,
Drumming his heartbeat of longings.
A new day, a new day to dream,
Quickening breathlessness, yearnings.
In the moon of the great ghost face,
In the shadow of the mountain,
Along the banks of the Gila,
Sycamore, walnut, maple, ash,
Cottonwood, alder, and willow.
Gurgling croaks and scratchy caws;
Ravens like black seeds flung skyward,
Skyward into the gloomy face.
A face gray with winter’s warning.
In the moon of the great ghost face,
In the shadow of the mountain,
Along the banks of the Gila,
Cold, biting ice and blowing snow.
Ishkiin’s heart
throbs, gallops, and flies.
Arms unfurl, fingers touch the wind.
Leaning into the swirl of snow,
To be a raven, to soar high,
Fingers aching, tingling to fly.
His heart thuds dully in his chest,
Arms too heavy to lift or move.
Heat and tears well behind his eyes,
Spill and freeze upon his brown cheeks.
Oh, to touch the raven’s wing…
In the moon of the great ghost face,
In the shadow of the mountain,
Along the banks of the Gila,
Upon his bear grass bed he lays,
Underneath his warm, red-wolf robe.
Threads of smoke from embers trailing,
Ascend like prayers through the smoke hole.
Sleep will not come—dreams forsaken.
A rustle in the shadows move.
Ishkiin stirs live
embers for light.
To the willow a raven clings.
In the shadows, feathers ruffle.
“Shike’ dahnnah,
you follow me.”
The raven’s eyes flash in the dark.
In the moon of the great ghost face,
In the shadow of the mountain,
Upon the banks for the Gila,
Moccasin dance in the new snow.
Vapors of warm breath float and swirl,
He pulls his robe against the cold.
Upon the wiciup the bird clings.
“Ishkiin, you are
the boy who flies?”
The boy’s tongue lay mute in his mouth.
“Hasidah, hasidah,”
it said,
“You climb up there, Ishkiin,
up there.”
“Ba’ ts’ose, a
shaman dwells,
Ba’ ts’ose, coyote
knows.
Bayani’, elderly
one knows.”
The boy’s heart froze, and then it pounds.
Still his tongue lay dead in his mouth.
His thoughts scramble to understand.
In the moon of the great ghost face,
In the shadow of the mountain,
Upon the banks of the Gila,
The mountain’s breath stirs the hoar frost,
Grown crystalline in the snow.
Biting cold nips inside his nose,
Vapors erupt with each footfall.
His muscles clinch along his jaw.
Upon the mountain he ascends.
Laboring tracks trail in the snow.
Sycamore, walnut, maple, ash,
Cottonwood, alder and willow.
Up through the pinyon-juniper,
Through the darkness of the tall pine,
Past the feathery topped spruce-fur,
Up above the quaking aspen,
Moccasin feet tread through the snow.
In the moon of the great ghost face,
In the shadow of the mountain,
Along the banks of the Gila,
Hunkered down by a small fire,
Sheltered in an ancient dwelling,
Ishkiin unearths Ba’ ts’ose.
A shaman sheltered from the cold,
Eerie eyes in the glow of light,
Age-old eyes, eyes of dark magic.
Fragrant piney-pinion embers
Sending threads of smoke heaven bound
Mix with the smell of dried nettles,
Jimson weed, roots, and earth odor.
“You are Ishkiin, the boy who flies?”
His cracked voice carries forewarning;
A shaman, trickster, coyote.
Ba’ ts’ose tosses
wood to flame,
Burning brightly in the kiva.
Quivering shadows jump and dance;
Glowing orange in the kiva.
Painted creatures and shaman show,
Painted walls of magical dreams.
The warmth settles Ishkiin’s
sad heart,
Rubbing his hands and aching legs.
Ba’ ts’ose takes
from the shadows
A painted parfleche he opens.
A hide shirt, quilled with raven dreams;
Dreams of magic raven rising.
Adorned with feathers black as raven,
Ba’ ts’ose holds the
magic shirt.
Raven shirt, mystic shirt, dreamlike.
Ishkiin wears the
magical skin,
Spreading his arms, the feathers stream.
Clay vessels born of earth and fire,
Formed and smoked and etched with outline.
Held colored sand ground for magic.
White gypsum crushed, yellow ochre,
Charcoal and gypsum render blue,
Red sandstone and charcoal yields brown,
Browns of the earth, blues of the sky.
Sandstone and gypsum makes dawn’s blush.
Flower pollen of rainbow hues,
Corn meal pigment and roots and bark.
To be a sacred dream painting.
To chant, dance, and seek a vision.
Ba’ ts’ose makes his
magic.
With four sacred feathers in hand,
Ishkiin sways,
hops, shuffling feet,
Chanting a song from Ba’
ts’ose.
Colored sand dances in the dirt,
Raven’s image appears slowly,
Encircled by sacred feathers,
Colors of the four directions,
Colors of the sacred sun,
Colors of the sacred moon,
Trickle between nimble fingers.
Ba’ ts’ose sings his
divine chant,
Ishkiin twirls, encircles with dance,
In the orange glow of the Kiva.
Night to day and then day to night,
All the while he seeks a vision.
On the third night, the wind blows cold,
Pinion wood embers blush glowingly.
Ba’ ts’ose rises
from his crouch,
His fingers stained with earth’s colors.
Trembling, Ishkiin’s eyes
sparkle,
Gleaming with expectation.
Guided to the sacred painting,
He rests on the magical image.
Emptiness gnaws at his stomach.
He fights faintness, twitchy muscles,
Quivering heart, quickening breath.
Ba’ ts’ose chants
and fans smudged smoke.
Purified with sage and cedar,
A new song to raven he sings,
A new song to bring the vision.
Ishkiin feels the
magic power.
His eyes close, his breath comes quickly.
Soon, he is envisaging dreams.
Flight, flight enchanting and tranquil.
In his vision he’s a raven.
Mountain breath blows through the kiva
Howling low, stirring the magic.
Colors of the four directions
Swirl and drift, mix and blow away.
Ishkiin stirs, awakens, startled.
Cold wind drifts snow in the kiva.
Shimmering eyes scan the shadows.
The shaman, Ba’ ts’ose
has gone.
Deserted, he stretches his arms;
Quivering arms, feathered and black.
Could it be his vision came true?
Ishkiin has become
a raven?
His heart’s desire, his longings filled?
With his long feathered arms outstretched
His heart is light and he ascends.
From the kiva, the raven wings.
The raven, who was the boy, rises,
Soaring into the cold dusky sky;
A sky of gloom, a dreary sky,
A vast open sky to discover.
Over the brow of the mountain,
Above the crest, the snowy peak,
Crowning the summit with eagles.
The moon’s face watches from above.
Night to day and then day to night,
All the while he lives his vision,
Taking wing in his endless flight.
The boundless night gives way to dawn.
Morning’s blush; sandstone and gypsum.
Come the first light, Ishkiin
settles,
Shivering from the bitter cold.
Into the new dawn, ice-covered,
The thrill of flight wans with hunger.
“Oh, what fate is this?” the boy cries.
“I no longer desire to fly.
I want to be a boy again!”
Tears glistening in Ishkiin’s
eyes.
Taking wing he sets out for home.
Gliding down the rocky cliff face,
Soaring by the quaking aspen,
Past the feathery topped spruce-fur,
Through the snow covered tall pine trees,
Down through the pinyon-juniper;
Sycamore, walnut, maple, ash,
Cottonwood, alder and willow.
In the moon of the great ghost face,
In the shadow of the mountain,
Along the banks of the Gila,
The coming dawn guides his flight home.
Wiciups bathed in blue sunlight,
Smoke, heaven bound, trails through smoke holes.
Outside his wiciup, he calls,
“Haighah, come
out! Come out!”
Ba’ ts’ose, appears
as the boy.
Wearing the red-wolf robe, he smiles.
“You are Ishkiin, the boy who flies.”
“Coyote, shaman, you trickster,
The People will see
through your hoax.
Change me back, coyote, change me.”
“The People see you, boy, not me.
And they see a raven, not you.
Now you want back what you had?
But that you will not have again.
I know the song to sing to change,
And frozen in the snow you sit.
You are Ishkiin,
the boy who flies.”
In the moon of the great ghost face,
In the shadow of the mountain,
Along the banks of the Gila,
Flies a raven, who was a boy.
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