“Lantern with Words” by Annie Dawid

See Annie Dawid’s art, writing and more at http://www.anniedawid.com/
Learn about Dawid’s writer’s retreat at http://www.bloomsburywest.com/

The Ghost Dance
by Daniel Braum

A crow bobbed its head, fluttered its wings, and took flight from its perch on the roof of the nightclub. A patchwork of hand-made band posters covered the wide glass window.  The crow squawked and flew over a circle of hundreds of dancers crowding the sidewalk and street.

The briefing said there would be crows, Erin thought.  The bird’s presence made this different, more real. Erin scanned the crowd: mostly teenagers, not just from the Rez. The last rays of the late summer setting sun cast a red glow on the closed stores of the strip mall and the circle of dancers crowding its streets. No sign of the suspect. No lucky break today.

The dancers’ feet lifted and dropped in unison, then in syncopation with the pounding bass and low grumble of guitars audible outside the small club. It smelled wrong.

No pot. No beer. Not a single one smoking a cigarette.

Her partner, John Avenco, got out of their unmarked Ford Taurus. Together they walked toward the circle of dancers and the nightclub.

“You believe it’s really him?” Avenco asked.

Erin shrugged. She didn’t know what to believe. Two days ago, agents from Squadron Thirty Seven had apprehended the girl called Sitting Bull, along with a beat-up van full of guitars and amps. All the recent chatter indicated something big was going down—tonight. Something big enough for the director to have almost every agent scouring the Reservations and every rock and roll club in the country for the suspect, Crazy Horse.

Avenco looked around, amazed. “I never even heard of this dance thing till that first clash with the National Guard in Houston.”

Erin pictured the image she saw on the news; a giant circle of dancers, much like this one, surrounded by lines of Guardsmen in riot gear.

“I know my history, but come on.”

Erin held her tongue. The Ghost Dance, the desperate protest movement of the Native Americans, had been outlawed over a hundred years ago. Since the fated massacre at Wounded Knee, it was rarely seen outside ceremonial gatherings. Its resurgence along with the rebellious and unified talk of the tribes spooked her. She couldn’t expect Avenco to know all this, but now, after the briefing, he had no excuse.

“I mean, what the hell?” Avenco continued. “Even my sister’s kid in New Jersey is doing it.”

The government today wouldn’t condone shooting into circles of mixed-up suburban kids, would they? Erin hoped she wouldn’t be expected to.

“That’s rock and roll for you,” she said, not wishing to voice her concerns to Avenco. “You were a kid once.”

“Yeah, of course,” Avenco said.

“Let’s just clear the place, confirm he isn’t here, and be on to the next one,” she said.

“Yeah, I heard the briefing. But rock and roll, Wounded Knee, and reservation teenagers pretending they are dead Indian heroes. It doesn’t make sense.”

Erin agreed. At Wounded Knee, hundreds were slaughtered by American soldiers when they refused to stop dancing the Ghost Dance. The dance itself would not bring back the buffalo and herald the downfall of the invaders, like they claimed, neither then nor now. So why the Bureau-wide alert? Why all the fear?

“Rysing Trybe,” Avenco said, shaking his head disdainfully.

Crazy Horse’s band. Erin looked at a sun-faded poster; a silhouette of a mohawked figure, guitar slung around his back, stood in front of a rough, sketchy buffalo.

Rysing Trybe. Tonight. First set 9 p.m.  We shall live again.

The y’s in Rysing and Trybe connected.

Problem was, intelligence reported over a hundred bands called Rysing Trybe booked all over the country. The big rock clubs in New York and L.A., county fairs, and lots of smaller clubs like this one, in sleepy downtown Phoenix. Even with the help of the local sheriffs, cops, and highway patrol, the Bureau couldn’t cover them all. This was probably a dead end, Erin thought. Most of the manpower and resources were focused near the big gatherings. The news had reported that fifty thousand were expected in the Black Hills. Twice that in San Francisco and New York. The director had said these estimates were low.

They reached the edge of the circle of dancers. A big man all in black, stepped out of the door and stood, arms crossed, watching them. The dancers’ feet moved up and down in unison like a huge single-minded animal.

”Glad this is all supposed to be peaceful,” Avenco said. Erin watched the blank expressions of the dancers as they circled past. She knew the Ghost Dance was nonviolent, but she sensed a fury, beyond the years, in the young faces.

“I’m heading round back,” Avenco said, his voice echoing in her ear, as he disappeared round the corner of the club.

“I copy,” she said into the tiny microphone attached to her small black earpiece.

“Too bad we couldn’t just bag this guy at home.” Avenco always chattered when he was nervous.

“Too bad,” Erin agreed, and she meant it. There was surprisingly little intel on Crazy Horse. Besides the CD they weren’t sure of anything.

The music inside the club stopped. The dancers in the street continued to circle, eyes distant, as if moving to a rhythm from an unseen drum.

“We shall live again,” a girl near her called out. The rest answered with a low murmuring moan. The crow cawed from somewhere overhead.

Erin sighed. “All right, I’m going in.”  She stepped up to the black-clad, muscular native man. A small white stone carving of a buffalo hung around his neck on a simple black cord.

“Next set’s in 20 minutes.”  He looked past her at the circle of dancers. “If you’re not dancing you better leave.”

Erin squared her shoulders, feeling the comforting weight of the Kevlar vest beneath her suit. She pulled her badge and ID out of her suit pocket.  “Federal agent. Step aside,” she said.

The bouncer didn’t move. She looked up at him, at least a full head taller than her.

“What sort of post-nine-eleven fascist bullshit is this?” he asked, looking at her badge. She pushed her wispy blonde hair out of her eyes. The white streetlight and red neon cast two shadows of his bulky frame, one a red penumbra of the other.

“Federal agent, step away from the door,” she said louder. She tried for that emotionless ‘I’m all business this is my job and I’ll kill you if I have to’ look she’d seen so often on Avenco.

The crowd stomped.  The crow cawed. The big guy didn’t move. “Crow’s got a message. Aren’t you listening?” he said.

Her training told her not to listen, but his words had a seductive pull.

“What message is that?” she said, but she wanted to say, “step aside or you are under arrest.”

“Dance the ghost dance. Clear your heart. Focus your prayer. Join us to praise the birth of the white buffalo.”

For an instant it all made sense; dance, believe in peace, and the return of the buffalo. All she had to do was dance and join the power of her belief to the group.

“You in yet?” Avenco radioed in her ear, snapping her back to the moment.

Erin blinked her eyes and took a second to orient herself. Seeing the bouncer staring at her she moved her jacket aside, revealing her gun. She reached into her pocket and held up the warrant.

“I’m in,” she said to Avenco.

“Fuck you,” the bouncer said, and stepped aside.

Erin walked into the smell of smoke, sweat, and something earthy and herbal.

The girl collecting cover just inside the door gasped upon seeing her badge. Erin’s adrenaline kicked in, her eyes scanned everywhere for danger—for the suspect. She glanced at the girl; Rysing Trybe t-shirt, cigarette behind her ear, spiked belt, roll of cash in her hand. No weapons. 

Erin walked through the narrow hallway and entered the club. She stood at the edge of the hardwood dance floor, opposite a raised stage about a hundred yards away. Thin wisps of smoke curled around metal scaffolds and colored lights which hung from the high ceiling. Small lights inset into the old paneled walls by the tables on the left provided the only illumination, besides the small stage lights. Spinning, stomping dancers filled every inch of available space of the dance floor; big, human, concentric circles turning within each other. The sweat, moisture, and that earthy smoke, sage maybe, was much stronger. She coughed as she angled into the crowd.

Someone bumped her; a dancing girl, eyes closed, face stern yet somehow blissful in the shadows from the low light. Erin brought her hand up in front of her face instinctively. She reached for her gun. Easy, she told herself. These are kids.

With the smoothness and grace of a yoga pose, the girl raised her hands above her head, her shirt lifting just enough to reveal the tattoo of a sun surrounding her pierced navel.  Hands in the air, she swayed like a reed, all the while maintaining the driving staccato rhythm with her feet. The girl opened her eyes and stared, oblivious to the gun.

“You don’t stand a chance against my prayers,” she said. Her body didn’t break its hypnotic motion.

“Step away,” Erin said.

“You don’t stand a chance against my love,” the girl responded in a breathy voice.

Erin edged past her as the girl danced in place, hands twirling patterns in the air. Erin craned to see over the crowd.  Across the club, on the stage, a lanky teen with no shirt adjusted the rack of toms on a shiny red, silver, and chrome drum kit. He looked up and wiped a sweaty lock of long thin hair out of his eyes with his tattooed forearm as she approached.  Recognition flashed in his eyes; the look of a deer before bolting. 

“Curly! Cops!” he yelled to someone on the side of the stage.

The suspect’s childhood name according to the bio. The ancient sepia toned picture of Crazy Horse, a grizzled but regal old man, entered her mind’s eye.

Erin turned to intercept the group of people bustling away from the stage. Girl in black jeans, CD in hand. Guy in leather jacket holding a guitar. Guy in vest, white t-shirt. No weapons. No suspect.

They orbited around a short, hefty native teen as they moved toward the sales table. He looked at least three hundred pounds, wore big wide leather pants, a studded spiked belt, and wristlets like an eighties metal star. A single long braid snaked from his close-cropped hair.  It was him.  She remembered his voice from the CD; deep and guttural, an angry bear growling over heavy, dark cadences.

“Heads up,” Erin said to Avenco. “I see him. He might make a run. Notify HQ, I have a positive ID.”

“Got it,” Avenco said. She pictured him waiting outside the back exit, grim, zen-like expression on his face.

“Federal agent, step away,” Erin said, pushing a dancer aside. “You,” she said to the suspect watching his hands, “Slowly now. Hands above your head.”

Oblivious dancers circled past, their mutters and mumbles bouncing off the old wood paneling.

“Get in here, Avenco,” she said into her microphone.

“Coming,” he said. “No response from HQ or Squadron Thirty Seven.”

Erin focused on the suspect. She felt like she was trying to arrest a queen bee without alerting the hive.

“Carrying any weapons?”

“No,” the suspect murmured.

“Where’s your ID?” she asked patting him down.

“Don’t got none,” he said slowly. His voice was soft, nothing at all like the disc.

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 dread-locked 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.

“Lets 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 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, again.” 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.

“The Ghost Dance has spread from the reservations to our cities, to our youth,” another strange new voice in her head said. It sounded like the President. “The suspect is a clear and present danger to the United States of America.”

Erin raised her gun and centered Crazy Horse in her sights. The hefty teen looked at her.  He stood upright and unflinching, his hands still cuffed behind his back.

I don’t want to do this, Erin thought. This man is unarmed, restrained, and surrounded by dozens of agents.

“Do your job,” the voice commanded. She felt blood trickling from her nose.

“I forgive you, sister,” Crazy Horse said. “But what you do makes no difference. This time your soldiers are few and we are many.”

Erin pulled the trigger and watched the bullet fly as if she were watching a movie. Crazy Horse’s body jerked back. He fell onto a dancer and slid to the floor.

I just shot a cuffed suspect, Erin thought.

“No, you were only doing your job,” the voice answered.

From the corner of her eye she saw dozens more Squadron Thirty Seven  agents pacing the club. She realized she was the only non-helmeted figure left standing.

Flashes went off. Who was taking photographs? A black helmeted figure stepped in front of her. “Lieutenant Fetterman, Squadron Thirty Seven ,” he said. She recognized the voice as the voice in her head.

“I don’t believe what is going on here,” she screamed. “I can’t believe what I just did. You made me do this. How?”

“You served your country well. It is time to rest now.” She suddenly felt tired and wanted to sleep. “You’re going to be all right.”

A dry breeze swept over her. For an instant she saw Old Chief Crazy Horse and a band of dancers in the grassy field. A buffalo lay on its side in the grass. Crazy Horse bent down and picked up a writhing little beast. A newborn. He wiped the blood off it, revealing white hair and skin. A white buffalo. Crazy Horse smiled.

Lieutenant Fetterman grabbed her hand and the image disappeared.

Fetterman led her out of the club. Erin found it hard to walk, hard to keep her eyes open.  Dozens of Squadron Thirty Seven agents stood motionless and silent among the fallen teens in the street. Fetterman was careful not to step on any bodies as he led her across the street to a personnel carrier.

Helicopters hovered overhead. On the far side of the street, camouflaged marines dragged bodies to somewhere outside her view.

Fetterman gently pushed her into the waiting arms of a marine inside the personnel carrier. Inside she could hear a little better over the choppers’ mechanical whir.

“This her?” the Marine asked.

Fetterman nodded and walked away, toward the club. Erin could barely keep her eyes open. She felt her memory fading, her thoughts confused.

“What happened in there?” the Marine asked.

“It is beginning,” Crazy Horse said in her head.

“This war will not be fought with guns,” Erin mumbled. The crow cried from somewhere overhead. Erin understood its message.

“The buffalo have returned,” she said. “We shall live again.”

"The Ghost Dance" was previously published in Electric Velocipede #8

See Daniel Braum's Web site at www.danielbraum.com