The Night Marchers and Other Strange Tales (12 page)

A white guy in a leather blazer, dirty red-blond hair slicked back, the manager probably, pushed through the crowd. “What the fuck is this?” he demanded. His smoke-stained teeth and lines under his eyes stood out after looking at so many kids.  

“Federal agent,” Erin said. “Show’s over. Clear everyone out of here,” she said louder, waving the warrant. 

“Like hell.” He took a step in.  

“Step away, now,” she yelled. “Unless you want to come with him.” 

He backed off. The dancers began to chant, as if reacting to a silent or unseen cue. The suspect smiled.  

Erin took out her cuffs and snapped them around the suspect’s fat wrists. He smelled of leather and sage.  

“Tashunka Witko. You are under arrest for conspiracy to overthrow the United States government. You have the right to remain silent, anything you say…” 

The manager laughed. “Don’t worry, Grandfather, we’ll have you out in no time,” he said. 

Grandfather. Erin noted the term of respect for an elder. 

“I’m not worried,” the suspect said, as Erin tightened the cuffs. “I’m sad for her. We will break her chains.” 

“Just don’t say anything,” the manager said. 

“I want to talk. It’s all supposed to happen this way.” 

Avenco pushed through the dancers, badge drawn, alert green eyes scanning the crowd. A stray strand of dirty dreadlocked hair swung at him. Avenco batted it away. Erin recognized that rigid and tight let’s-get-out-of-here look on his face.  

“All good?” Avenco asked. 

Erin nodded. She saw his recognition of her fear in his eyes. 

“Let’s have some house lights,” Avenco said to the manager. 

The manager spoke into his radio. The house lights snapped on with an electric hum. The suspect looked even less imposing in the harsh light. 

“Let’s go, Mr. Witko,” Erin said and pushed him through the spinning circle of dancers. He moved with no resistance. 

“My name is Crazy Horse,” he said softly.  

Erin steered him toward the door, Avenco covering her. The dancers danced on, their hair and flowing arms looked less mystical in the light, but still disturbing.  

They weaved their way to the mouth of the narrow hallway leading to the exit only to find the door girl blocking the way. She smiled emptily, revealing a space between her two front teeth.  

“We shall live again,” a soft voice said, though the girl’s lips didn’t move. A thin line of drool hung from the corner of her mouth. 

“You OK?” Avenco asked. 

“Fine. Hearing things. Let’s get him out of here.” 

She placed her hand on the girl’s shoulder to move her. The waify girl felt solid as a tree and didn’t budge. The door opened. The big bouncer from outside and a dozen teens from the street poured through, choking the hallway. 

“Move,” Avenco yelled, his face reddening. Erin tapped her pocket, feeling for her spare clip.  

Erin pushed the girl again, but she didn’t yield. The line of spit broke and fell.  

“This war will not be fought with guns,” the suspect’s soft voice said from behind her. 

On the word “guns,” the dancing stopped with a resonant stomp; the final united footfalls echoing despite the crowd. Feet planted, the teens swayed in place, like tall grass rippling in the wind. Whispers and the hum of the lights filled the void left by the absence of pounding feet. 

Erin jerked her head, looking for the source of the scratchy whispers. She saw only empty stares and Avenco’s cornered animal look. 

“Damn,” he said, tapping his earpiece. “Try yours, I’m not getting through.” 

Only white noise. She shook her head.  

Crazy Horse looked at her. “You hear the voices. You see me for who I am. You even think of me with the name I earned from my father.” 

“What the hell is he talking about?” Avenco said. He looked as if he could start shooting any second. 

“Stay calm,” she said to him. “Squadron Thirty Seven will realize we are out of touch; they’ll come.”  

“You must not cry when your friends die,” Crazy Horse said to himself in that steady low voice. A bead of sweat dripped from his nose. 

“When your friends die,” the dancers answered. Their voices echoed and blended with the murmur of whispers. 

Avenco pushed the drooling girl. The big bouncer stepped forward and pushed back, sending Avenco stumbling. 

“You must not hurt anybody. You must not fight,” Crazy Horse continued calmly.  

“Always do right,” the dancers answered, “We shall live again.” 

“Your world is falling. Way is being made for the return of the buffalo,” Crazy Horse said. “The victors of war write the history books—this time the true story will be told.”  

“And what war is that?” Erin asked. 

“This tale will be written in the sky with the wind,” Erin heard a chorus of voices say but saw no lips move. 

“I’m going to read him his rights again, if he’s gonna talk,” Avenco said.  

“The tribal leaders have united. We will dance, focus our faith, and free the land you have enslaved. The Buffalo will return to the land, a signal of great prosperity for our people.” 

“Anything you say can or will be used against you in a court of law,” Avenco interjected. “You have the right to an attorney. In the event you cannot afford an attorney one will be appointed to you. Do you understand these rights?” 

Crazy Horse looked at Avenco as if he was a slow child. “I understand that I live again. I know my name is Crazy Horse, like my father before me. My circle is strong and full of medicine.” 

The dancers swayed left, then right, as if moved by an unseen breeze.  

Avenco drew his gun. “Your circle is under arrest for conspiracy to...” 

“Easy!” Erin yelled. 

The dancers nearest to Avenco opened their eyes and grabbed him with the speed of snapping turtles striking. Avenco struggled and fired his gun, taking out a light with a pop and a crackle. Erin listened to her instincts and froze, as glass rained down on her and Crazy Horse. The dancers knocked the gun from Avenco and held him by the arms, legs, and around the waist. He convulsed and jerked but did not break free. 

“Our father in the sky remembers who are the savages. This war will not be fought with guns and bombs,” Crazy Horse said. He then walked over to Avenco gracefully, despite his meaty hands being cuffed behind his back. 

They stood face to face, patience to fury. 

“I will show you,” Crazy Horse said to him. “Even you can join us. It will not be long now.” 

Crazy Horse leaned forward, touching his forehead to Avenco’s chest. 

“Terrorist,” Avenco spat. 

“You don’t stand a chance against our prayers,” Crazy Horse said.  

His voice echoed in whispers. Erin thought she felt a breeze moving the moist smoky air. For an instant she saw a tall blurry shape in the place of the short wide kid before Avenco. The old sepia-toned picture of Chief Crazy Horse flashed in her mind.  

Avenco went slack. The dancers let go of him and he slumped to the ground. 

“This war will not be fought with guns,” Crazy Horse said. Erin noticed something different in his dark eyes. Wisdom, patience, and indignation.  

“Give me your gun,” he said. 

Erin put it down, aware of her second weapon in her shoulder holster. 

Crazy Horse looked at her kindly. 

“He was not ready to join the dance,” Crazy Horse said, nodding at Avenco. “But
you
are.”  

Crazy Horse stepped up to Erin, close enough that his face almost touched hers. She felt her lungs expand and contract, conscious of the taste of sage and smoke in each breath.  

“Join us,” he said. 

Out of sight, in the distance, a single drum pounded four steady beats, then the rhythm of hundreds of pounding feet joined in as the circles of dancers resumed their dance. Erin heard chanting, clearly, like the whispers but louder and in focus. The harsh house lights overhead dimmed and changed to a soft filtered quality, like the first rays of dawn. 

Crazy Horse’s face appeared different, older, an amalgam of the fat native teen and the grizzled old man Erin knew from the picture. As he swayed—keeping his eyes directly in front of hers—the young boy seemed in focus, with the image of the old chief trailing behind just long enough to blur. 

“It’s not too late for you,” he said, young and old lips moving. “Not everyone is strong enough to believe.” 

She glanced at Avenco, motionless on the floor. 

“But I don’t believe,” Erin said, noting the echo of her voice was gone. She sounded as if she were outside. The walls looked hazy and insubstantial as if she could walk through them.  

The circles of dancers widened, each dancer an arm’s width from the next. A blurry human form trailed each dancer, an impossible upright shadow. Erin made out feathers and fringes on their torsos. 

A crow cawed from overhead. Erin could only see its shadow pass over her, then the circle. The cawing made sense, she could almost hear words in the patterns and rhythms.  

“Caw-caw-caw, caw-caw.” Stomp. Stomp, from the dancers. Boom from the drum.  

“We shall live, a-gain.” Stomp. Stomp, from the dancers. Boom from the drum. 

Crazy Horse smiled. “We’re almost there. Soon the buffalo will return. Dance with us.” 

She felt tall grass tickle her. 

“I don’t want to dance,” she said, her voice sounding slurred and delayed in her head, but her body moved to the drum. Something inside her yearned to guide it and insisted that she dance. She lifted her foot and brought it down in between beats. 

As her foot touched down, the floor and walls faded. Erin could see a grassy field. She didn’t notice when the ceiling disappeared, but now hundreds of dancers moved in a field beneath a sky tinged orange by the rising sun. She moved with the circle, her eyes on fringed shirts with tassels and beads. 

An animal smell, heavy and musky, reached her. Shadowy shapes of the teens now trailed the dancing, chanting natives. Now, she understood the words. 

“You must not cry, when your friends die, 

You must not fight. Always do right.  

They have no chance against this prayer. 

They have no chance against this love.” 

Her feet moved with the beat. She threw her hands up and traced circles in the air in front of her. Crazy Horse smiled and reached out his hand. 

“Dance with me,” he said. 

Though his lips moved, she could not hear him over a deafening static and crackle.  

“Say something to me if you’re still alive in there,” a strange new voice said in her earpiece, then faded to crackling. 

“Agent Erin DiNafro?” the voice said, “This is Squadron Thirty Seven. We have the premises surrounded.” 

She wanted to say,
He’s here. I have him in cuffs, I’m close enough to take a shot
, but her heavy lips said, “You don’t stand a chance against my prayer.” 

“Agent? Stay put, we’re executing suppressive measures before moving in,” the voice said, then the static returned. 

Erin’s stomach dropped as if she were in an elevator racing down from a skyscraper. Wind blew across her face. The lights flared, then dimmed, blacked out completely, then flashed and dimmed again. A big American flag waving in the wind appeared in her mind, then the clean-shaven, beak-nosed image of the President. 

“God Bless America,” the President said. “Land of the Free, Home of the Brave.” 

Erin coughed and spat, tasting the stale, sweaty air of the club. Ceiling, walls, and teenage dancers surrounded her. Dozens of them fell to the ground, their dancer shadows gone. The remaining dancers on their feet held their ears and foreheads. Erin watched a girl thrash as if in a seizure and then fall.  

A figure in black fatigues and a thick black flak vest slowly stepped through the door, an agent from Squadron Thirty Seven. A shiny black helmet and reflective visor hid his face. The big bouncer rushed him, then fell to the floor, holding his head as he came within six feet.  

Walking slowly, and carefully, the agent walked into the club. Erin saw images of the American flag and the President in the black visor. 

“America is the land of the free. The reservations are your homes. You are free to worship the Great Spirit in peace,” the image of the President spoke. 

Crazy Horse and a small group of dancers backed away from the approaching figure. They formed a tight circle in the center of the club. 

More black-clad figures walked slowly through the doorway. Erin watched them enter as if watching a dream. They fanned out forming a circle around the circle of dancers still standing, still guarding Crazy Horse. 

Silently and in unison the Squadron Thirty Seven agents took a step closer, closing the circle. The faces of the dancers grimaced as if in pain. Blood trickled from the nose of a young girl. The Squadron took another step closer. A dancer thrashed wildly, and spun out of the circle. An agent grabbed him and two others ran up to wrestle him away from the formation. 

The voice of the President was louder, the message repeated faster and faster. She saw no source for the sound, but knew it originated with the agents. Something they did broke the focus, broke the unity of the dancers. Besides the riot gear, the Squadron’s agents wore no equipment she could see that might disrupt them. No stun gun, no tazers. Was the disruption coming from the agents themselves? 

Crazy Horse stood defiant in the center of the last six dancers standing. 

“The suspect is getting away,” a voice echoed in Erin’s head. “He has resisted arrest, fled from a felony and a federal crime. Respond appropriately.” 

Erin knew the suspect was not getting away. Crazy Horse was surrounded. Erin wanted to tell the voice, there is truth to their cause—why are you arresting them? You should be joining them—every dancer counts—everyone who believes counts and brings them closer. But instead, she took her gun out of her shoulder holster.  

Though she struggled, she started to lift the gun. 

A Squadron Thirty Seven agent moved next to her. She turned and stared into the black visor. She saw her face, but it was wrong—as if she was looking at her academy graduation photo. Then the image of Crazy Horse, like the sepia photo but in full color, filled the visor. Red coppery war paint adorned his skin. His eyes narrowed. Images of Indians killing settlers in an ambush flashed, then an image of Crazy Horse being led away in chains, then an image of thousands of dancers in a huge circle.