The Soul of an Animal (word count: 1259)

I have seen the buffalo’s dream and in it we all die. Not in a psychological sense or cultural sense, no, a very corporeal death. The buffaloes have a secret dream that tells their story and I came upon it unexpectantly. It all started when you gave me that buffalo skull for my birthday. It was half painted blue on the right side and red on the other. A single swastika was painted on the forehead in black. Its horns were bleached white and it had a single eagle feather hanging from its right socket.

At first I was in awe of its obvious symbolism. The feather was a tear drop crying for its breed’s soon extinction, if not crying over its own death. The swastika a symbol of victory. It was a good day to die. The red representing the First Nation’s people and the blue narrowing down that the artist was of the Sky People. The white horns seemed to mean nothing so I paid them no attention. I was so wrong and I paid dearly for it.

I hung it over my fire place as I wanted it to be a conversation starter. I spoke so convincingly of its aesthetic virtues and symbolism. Being that I am of the Anishnabae people, no one dared question me or call my bluff. People are so nice that way. They let us believe in our own delusions until we are put in a psych ward and then their supposed truths come out. “I heard he was abused as a child so it’s no wonder he ended up going mental.” “No, he drank too much. It was only a matter of time before he lost it.” And my favourite, “He was grieving too much over the loss of his parents that he lost touch with reality, poor dear.”

If only any of those were true, it would explain away everything neatly and I could live with myself. The truth is darker and harder to believe and was revealed to me in a vision.

I do not believe in ghosts or gods or supernatural explanations. I know what you are thinking, “Who ever heard of an Indian atheist?” Well let me be the first to break the stereotype you had of us. I participated in the dances and sweats but only as a cultural practise to honour our traditions. To keep them alive in a world that is hell bent on assimilating all cultures into one. I would dance and think about what needed to be done on the house before the winter. I would go to sweats and feel rejuvenated afterwards like a good sweat bath does. I am telling you this because I want you to know, that I wasn’t looking for some type of experience. I was in my right mind when I found out about the buffalo’s dream.

I went to sweat that morning like I always do. The sweet smell of sage and steam were wafting out of the lodge. I stripped naked and crawled in humbly, asking for justice and peace for all my relations. The door closed behind me and I sat silently waiting for the chants and prayers to begin.

A drum, unlike any I had heard before started to be pounded across from me. Water drums have a deep sounding gong. The tightly stretched canvas of a buffalo or deer hide will be higher and sharper. This sound was quick and deep like a fist punching into a slab of meat. This rhythmic beating continued and I tried to look across the rocks to see who was playing. The steam was intense and I felt like I was going to pass out. I took a deep breath to calm myself and get acclimatized to the heat. When I was calm enough, the rocks glowed enough so I could see a naked woman wearing my buffalo skull tapping a bloody heart with her fist.

She began to sing and I didn’t understand all the words but I was able to make out some of it. The gist of story was that the buffalo have always been here. They helped the Creator flatten the land with their dance. They stretched out the east from the west and the north from the south. They gorged out rivers and lakes and made way for new friends to live with them. But their new friends were always hungry and cold. Always wanted more and more from them. They stopped speaking to us and held their dance in private. But we hunted them down. They made a truce to give up their bodies in exchange for peace. Everyone agreed and we lived this way for years but now they were being murdered again with influx of newer friends. This was the end of the truce. They would no longer gorge the earth to create but to kill everything. The blood would run from their horns and fill half the earth and fill half the oceans. The eagle feather represented the pact they made with all the near dead animals to take back what was rightfully theirs. They would not negotiate. They would not lose.

My heart beat faster than the drum and I crawled looking for the opening. I asked mercy from the Creator. The buffalo woman laughed and sang faster. They would not lose. They were eternal and we were the corn husks. Tough but we would burn.

The steam began to boil my skin and I felt it begin to blister and puss.  I curled into a ball and yelled for mercy and forgiveness. What forgiveness had I shown? What mercy had I given? I screamed as my flesh burst open all over and I felt the horn of the buffalo pierce my heart.

I opened my eyes and I was in my living room with the buffalo head staring down at me. I was still in the foetus position and my skin was red and sensitive all over. I cried with every movement to get to the bathroom. I ran the coldest water I could take and nursed myself back to some semblance of health.

The moment I could move I grabbed the skull and threw it in the car. I drove out to the woods and was about to bury it when I heard the hooting of an owl. I saw the glowing eyes of a bobcat. And there shining unnaturally were the horns of a buffalo. I threw the skull at it and made it back inside my car before the bobcat jumped on the hood. It snarled and jumped away when the buffalo rammed the car two feet sideways. I started it and raced home to warn people of their impending doom.

I stopped in front of my house and triple checked that no animals were around. I dashed to the door and fumbled my keys into the lock, barely making it inside after seeing a bear charging at me. It thudded against the door and I pushed against it to make sure it didn’t get in.

I grabbed the phone from the kitchen mount and called you at work. I left an incoherent voicemail because out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of a white glistening horn.

You came home and I was hiding in the closet of our bedroom. I was crying and holding the buffalo skull tight to my chest, singing a song. “We shall overcome. We will not fade away. We will live again.”

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