The taxi moves slowly over the holes in the dirt road. John feels no connection to anything here, which is both comforting and unsettling. A feeling of foreboding begins to grip him as the car pulls up outside the chief’s rickety old trailer. John hesitates to get out of the car. He stares at the door in front of him, as the hair stands up on the back of his neck. Something is wrong.
“You want me to wait?” the driver asks, looking back at John through the rearview mirror.
“No, I’m good, thanks,” John answers him automatically, giving him a fake smile.
“Ok, Dude, good luck,” he states.
What the fuck is that supposed to mean?
John pulls the latch on the door and it swings open as he grabs the government-issued duffle bag with his name on it. The feel of the heavy green canvas, and the black letters emblazoned on it, ground him and give him strength. He throws the door open all the way and steps out of the car.
Just go in, man, John tells himself.
He takes a step forward as he throws his bag over his shoulder and the car pulls away, leaving a trail of dry dust in its wake. If it wasn’t for the old man inside, he would be in that car, putting as much distance between this place and himself as he could. He turns back to the door in front of him, squares his shoulders, and approaches it. He climbs the two wooden steps and tries the knob. It’s locked.
What the fuck? he thinks. He never locks the door during the day. Just in case, somebody needs him.
“He’s gone, John,” comes a man’s voice from behind him.
Shock shoots through John, as his body freezes with his hand still clutching the doorknob. John slowly turns to look at the man who’s standing behind him. It’s Sheriff Black. He’s been a sheriff for as long as John can remember, and he knows everything about everyone, but can’t do a damn thing about it.
“What are you talking about? Where did he go?” John asks, refusing to believe what he’s trying to tell him.
“He’s dead, John, he died last week. He went in his sleep, just like he was supposed to, nice and peaceful,” Sheriff Black tells him gently.
“No, he can’t be,” John says, shaking his head slowly.
The pain in his throat is excruciating, a lump has formed closing off his windpipe, and his vision is narrowing, as if he’s going to pass out. The ground is beginning to swirl under his feet.
“Yes, I’m sorry, son. I know this must be really hard for you. But I have the key, I figured you’d come back after boot camp to see him. Here,” the sheriff says pulling out a single key from his faded uniform pocket.
“I don’t want to go in,” John says flatly as he drops his hand from the door.
“There are some things of Chief Standing Bear’s that I thought you might want,” the sheriff tells John sympathetically.
Everyone on the reservation knew that the chief had taken John under his wings when the boy had started to follow him around so many years ago. Chief Standing Bear was the only person that gave John hope in life, made him think he could become the man he wanted to be. If it wasn’t for his relationship with the chief, John would have ended up just like everybody else on the reservation.
“The only thing I want,” John chokes out through his constricted throat, “is his white feather.”
Tears well up in John’s eyes as he fights to remain in control of his emotions.
“Ok,” Sheriff Black answers him softly, “I’ll get it for you.”
Everyone knew about Chief Standing Bear’s white feather. They all thought it had magic in it, magic to heal.
John moves down the steps, with his head bent. When he reaches the bottom of the two longest steps of his life, he moves aside to let the man pass. He opens the door and John turns his face away, he can’t bear to look inside.
Why??!! Why him too? Why do I have to lose everyone? God, why do you hate me so much that you take everyone I love?! The pain sears through John, burning him, until it’s the only thing inside of him. He wants to drop to his knees and scream out with the force of it. But he doesn’t. Some unknown strength, something so powerful he knows it’s not from him, drips slowly through him giving him the strength he needs to remain standing tall.
A moment later, Sheriff Black comes out with the feather in one hand and a rawhide necklace in the other.
“Here you go, son,” Sheriff Black hands him the feather. “And I think Chief Standing Bear would have wanted you to have this too,” he says, handing him the necklace.
“What is it?” John asks quietly as he opens his hand for Sheriff Black to place it on his palm.
“It’s the chief’s bear claw necklace. He had it for as long as I knew him. I know he didn’t buy it. I’ve heard stories that when Chief Standing Bear went through his right of passage, he went into the woods for four days. When he came back out, he was bloodied and cut up real bad, and he had that claw,” the sheriff says pointing to the long talon in John’s hand. “He never talked about it, and nobody ever asked him what happened. Even back then he was different,” Sheriff Black finishes, letting the words trail off with understandings never spoken of.
“Thanks,” John says, as pain grips tighter around his heart. He closes his hand tightly around the piece of the chief that held his most sacred and intimate secrets.
“Come on, son,” Sheriff says, putting his arm around John’s shoulders. “Chief Standing Bear was so proud of you, John. It
