Eternal warrior

I’m told a story several days back, here in Eastland County, by a man, on some land, not too far away from where I now stand. ‘That his great grandfather was walking through these woods we’re standing in now, way back, noticing the tip of a feather protruding from the ground. Sticking up through the leaves, like a stalk of grass, between two ridges of rock.

The tip of a feather.

His great grandfather dug down, this now man said, discovering an Indian war bonnet, then below, this man looked me in the eye, the remains of an Indian beneath the bonnet, wearing it, seated astride a warhorse, the horse still standing, also, very much dead, from many years of waiting there, between two vertical shelves of rock. ‘Ready to lead his warriors into battle inside the far banks of eternity.

Surely that would be heaven, for a warrior.

The setting, a forest of tall oaks on a steep hillside of house-size boulders, flaking off the east side of the rise above a stream, like Edsels sliding off the edge of an overpass. The stream would’ve been live water, back then.

Are we standing in a Native graveyard, a portal to something better? The karma felt right, though words are only words, are only words, are only words, after all, I’ve recently learned.

He said to me, as we moved up the path to another tale, “The grave was desecrated back then. They didn’t know any better. The war bonnet is an heirloom in my family, even now…”