White Claw led the charge. Arrows flew into the sky, one after the other, until the heaven looked as though it were spitting arrows. In gigantic arcs, spears soared upward, several of the weapons reaching the blackened clouds.
Again, lightning struck.
The warriors were more prepared for it this time, expecting such a response, and though the ground received the jolt, no living person was harmed. In truth, such a blast did the opposite for the people: It did much to give the warriors courage.
“Come forth, Thunderer,” shouted White Claw, repeating the same words that were sounding all around him. “Come to us man to man. And we will see who is the better, man or spirit.”
In answer, another lightning bolt hit the village, followed by a thunderous peal. Then came another electrical flash, another and another one after the other without pause, until the dayroared with the clamor of bursting dirt and the explosion of splitting rocks.
No one escaped unscathed. Dirt, rocks, debris flew in all directions.
It was a terrible thing to hear, a terrible thing to behold, and one might be of a mind to think that no human being could live through such a horror. And yet the people did. Few were seriously harmed.
Then, amidst such chaos, came another sound, a sweet sound. It was as though there were voices in the sky, raised in song. Looking up, White Claw stood in awe as three great birds drifted slowly to earth. They were white birds, though their feathers glistened like all the colors of a rainbow.
Such a sight should have alerted the people, for it is known amongst the Indians that a rainbow is a symbol of peace. But so deep was the rancor of the people, so involved were the warriors in their hatred, that none beheld the sight for what it was.
Instead, from the mouth of every person came the cry of war. “It is the Thunderer’s children. Kill them. Kill them. Now, while we have the chance.”
Perhaps, speaking in defense of the people, it should be stated here that there is no thinking amongst such an assembly; no thinking, no honor, no ethical inspiration. Such a mob, indeed, shares only the most base and ugly emotions of a race.
And so the people’s deed came to pass. With great valor the beautiful songbirds were killed, and to the shame of the people, each warrior counted coup over the dead.
When it was over, all the people dispersed except White Claw, who fell to the ground with his knife still clutched in his hand. For he, and perhaps he alone, realized the great wrong that had been done this day.
“But, Grandfather,”piped up one of the young boys excitedly, “did you not count coup?”
Sadly, the old medicine man nodded. “I do not believe there was a man amongst us who did not.”
“What a heroic battle,” said another boy. “Weren’t you afraid?”
“Aa, that I was. But I was not as afraid as I was caught up in an ugly emotion, one that took over my sense of what is the right thing to do, for this was not a deed of heroism.” White Claw sighed. “But I was young. Too young, I fear. For neither I, nor anyone else amongst our people, knew what terrible fate awaited us. And now I will tell you what happened. For the Thunderer is a fearful opponent, as we learned too late…”
“My children,”cried out the Thunderer’s angry voice. “These were my children. You have killed them all.”
The warriors stirred uneasily amongst themselves.
“You human beings are not fit to live,” bellowed out the voice, each word spoken with more and more gusto. The wind commenced to blow, and the clouds began to spit hail, and the Thunderer said, “As you have killed, so too will I kill you. Do not be deceived. I shall destroy you all.”
And so it began. What started with one thunderbolt became ten, then ten more, until perhaps a hundred of the deadly bolts had struck the village. Surely, this was it, this was the end of all, and the people scattered beneath such fury, scurrying here and there, searching for some cover that did not exist. Screams became commonplace, their howling pervading the village, and as each one sounded, it lodged deeply into the hearts of the warriors. For despite it all, the warriors knew now they had done wrong, and they realized too that it was each one of them who was to blame.
Just as the people’s fate began to look the bleakest, there came a silence. A deadening silence it was too. Beneath it, thepeople stopped, shivering. Women, even some of the warriors, quivered, waiting.
A voice came from overhead, a booming voice, yet one filled with compassion. “It is true that these people have acted shamefully.”
Could it be? Was it the Creator come to life?
The voice echoed with clarity, saying, “It is true that these people have killed something of great beauty. It is also certain that they must pay a price for their destructive ways.”
“Yes,” said the Thunderer.
“But perhaps,” bellowed the Creator, “these people should be punished in a different manner than that which you have intended.”
“Nay!” roared the Thunderer. “A life for a life.”
“Yes,” said the Creator. “A life for a life. But were there not but four of your children, my friend? Have you not already killed as many of these people?”
There was a growl from overhead as the Thunderer retorted, “No amount of killing is great enough to repair my grief.”
