Billy Buckhorn and the Book of Spells, page 1
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© 2023 by Gary Robinson
Front cover art by Chevron Lowery, chevronlowery.artstation.com Cover and interior design: John Wincek, aerocraftart.com
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want to thank my best friend and significant other, Lola, for her support in all things. I couldn’t do this work without her. She has been my biggest supporter, by my side for many years. No words printed here could express my true gratitude.
siyo (hello). Please note that this is a work of fantasy fiction. I’ve blended elements of Native American culture and history with fictional tribal culture, religion, and history. Some parts have been adapted to protect the secrecy of certain medicine practices and ceremonies. Others have been invented to create a more interesting and dramatic story. I point this out so some critical readers won’t dismiss the book because it lacks accuracy—and also, so other people won’t think I am revealing too many Cherokee cultural secrets.
Everything mentioned on the pages of this book regarding Cherokee medicine, history, and culture has previously appeared in nonfiction books,* so nothing new is being revealed to the public here. This includes books about the Cherokee syllabary; books about Cherokee medicine formulas, spells, and medicinal plants; and similar works. Hundreds of handwritten pages of Cherokee spells are available from Yale University’s Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library.
Additionally, the magical texts that were recorded in Cherokee books of spells many generations ago have been declared to be “ritually dead” by Cherokee medicine people themselves. That is, their powers to heal or harm anyone have expired over time and are now null and void.**
Finally, the term medicine is often used differently in a tribal context than it is used in mainstream American society. In addition to referring to a healing process, the word can also mean “power” or “a person’s ability to affect nature as well as other people’s health and behavior,” as in “She has strong medicine.”
Wado (thank you).
_______________________
*Bibliography of sources can be found at the end of the book.
**Alan Kilpatrick, The Night Has a Naked Soul: Witchcraft and Sorcery among the Western Cherokee (Syracuse, NY: Syracuse University Press, 1997).
PROLOGUE
Call to the Original People
CHAPTER 1
Summer’s End
CHAPTER 2
The Thunders Speak
CHAPTER 3
The Birdman
CHAPTER 4
Abnormal
CHAPTER 5
Turning Point
CHAPTER 6
Shape-Changer
CHAPTER 7
Abnormally Bizarre
CHAPTER 8
The Intertribal Medicine Council
CHAPTER 9
Pumpkin Pie and the Crystal Cave
CHAPTER 10
Tunnel Vision
CHAPTER 11
Talking to the Dead
CHAPTER 12
Heavy Darkness
CHAPTER 13
The Beast
CHAPTER 14
The Gathering
CHAPTER 15
The Sun Priest
CHAPTER 16
What Next?
CHAPTER 17
Slithering Forth
CHAPTER 18
The Missing Piece
CHAPTER 19
Out of Body
CHAPTER 20
The Spell Is Cast
CHAPTER 21
Of Men and Monsters
BIBLIOGRAPHY OF SOURCES
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ecil Lookout awoke abruptly with words from a dream message still fresh in his mind. It is good that you have remembered the old ways, practiced the traditions, and recited the prophecy after all these many years, the message said.
A few members of Native Nations still managed to hold on to ancient traditions and pass on ancient prophecies. In Cecil's tribe, the Osage, it seemed that only his family continued to remember wisdom imparted by elders and ancestors some thirty generations ago.
The eighty-year-old elder sat up in bed, listening quietly in case there was more to the message. It had been so long since he’d last heard from the ancestor spirits; he had to be sure he’d heard what he thought he heard. Or was it merely his imagination? The lines of communication between the land of the living and the land of the dead could become faulty after long periods of disuse.
As the Keeper of the Center and the leader of the Intertribal Medicine Council, it was his responsibility to hold fast when others had ceased to believe, when others had given up hope and taken the easy path of religious and cultural assimilation.
But not Cecil or his grown son Ethan. Not his grandson Cody, or his granddaughter Lisa. They had stayed the course and remained true to their calling. And hopefully, not for the thirteen members of the Intertribal Medicine Council scattered among the various tribes.
Cecil sat on the edge of his bed, still quietly listening for more, either an external or internal message. He’d give it a few more moments.
Then it came, penetrating his mind.
The time of fulfillment has come.
There it was! Of course, the message had to be verified through ceremony, but Cecil was certain it was a true and accurate communication from the ancestor spirits.
It was just before sunrise on an August day known as the first day of the Full Green Corn Moon. Cecil rubbed the sleep from his eyes as his thoughts turned to the immediate task at hand.
“Cody!” the elder called to his grandson, who was still asleep in the house’s other bedroom. “The time has come! The command was delivered! I need your help!”
“What did you say, Grandpa?”
This response came from the other room more as a moan than a question. Moments later, Cecil’s fifteen-year-old grandson burst into the elder’s bedroom.
“Did you say what I think you said?” the boy asked with excited anticipation in his voice.
“Yes, you heard right. The voice of the ancestor spirits spoke to me just now. We must prepare.”
Cody knew that meant Cecil would need his ceremonial headdress, eagle feather fan, and beaded moccasins, all of which were kept in a cedar-lined closet near the back door. The teen had been training to take over his grandfather’s position as the Keeper of the Sky Stone’s centerpiece for the past two years.
He was now both excited and disappointed that the call from the ancestors had come today. Excited because of its significance, disappointed because it meant he would never take his place in the thousand-year-old tradition of the Keepers.
Cody retrieved the ceremonial regalia from the closet, carried the items to his grandfather, and helped him dress.
As the old man began dressing, he said, “Repeat the signs that we, the Original People, have already seen.”
“First, the light-skinned strangers arrived on Turtle Island,” Cody said, “bringing their cravings for domination. Second, the foreigners spread like locusts across the land, devouring everything and everyone in sight. Third, the Original People were hunted almost to extinction, our means of physical and spiritual sustenance stolen. Fourth, the very essence of existence was threatened as the Red, White, and Blue Nation unleashed an explosion of unholy power on the Yellow Nation. Fifth, the Eagle flew from Earth and landed on the moon. Sixth, a Black man was chosen by the people of the Red, White, and Blue Nation to live in their White House. And seventh, the Crown Disease spread across the face of Mother Earth, decimating the world’s population.”
“Very good,” Cecil said. “Now, according to the prophecy, what will unfold next?”
Cody collected his thoughts before speaking.
“Ancient forces will awaken,” he said. “The veil separating the worlds will become thinner. Inhabitants of the Underworld shall rise up, become manifest here in the Middleworld, and try to take control yet again. Spirit beings of the Upperworld will join the Chosen One to combat the dark forces here in the Middleworld. The future of mankind will hang in the balance.”
“Very good,” the old man said. “And our Native American brothers and sisters will be called on to return to their ancient traditional teachings to help support and empower the holy beings to subdue the denizens of the deep.”
But Cody was left with one unanswered question.
“Who is the Chosen One?” he asked.
“Ah, that is the question,” the elder answered. “That is yet to be revealed. We must begin the search and remain patient until they are found.”
Unsatisfied, Cody nevertheless remained quiet. His grandfather always seemed to know best.
Fully cloaked in his tribal regalia, Cecil headed through the kitchen toward the back door. Followed by his grandson, the elder stepped out into the backyard of his modest home. The elder’s house was located on Ohio Street i n St. Louis, very near the western shore of the mighty Mississippi River.
Generations of Keepers of the Center before him had dedicated their lives to staying in this region of the country, long part of the original homelands of the Osage tribe, also known as Niukonska, the Children of the Middle Waters.
Next door to the elder’s house stood a centuries-old man-made earthen mound known to the locals as Sugarloaf Mound. In reality, it was the last remaining mound built by his people hundreds and hundreds of years ago, one of dozens of mounds and flat-top earthen pyramids that dotted the nearby Indigenous landscape.
Before ascending the grass-covered slope, Cecil turned to his grandson.
“I am proud of you, Cody,” he said. “You have remained faithful to your duty. After we’ve finished this morning’s ceremony, I want you to call your cousin Lisa and all your cousins so they know what has happened this morning.”
“Yes, Grandfather,” the young man replied. “I will do as you ask.”
Then, aided by his grandson, Cecil climbed the slope of the grass-covered structure and made his way to the center. Turning eastward toward the rising sun, the old man cast his vision across the river.
With Cody at his side, Cecil began the fulfillment ceremony with a prayer to Grandfather Sun in the Osage language, as he’d been taught by his own grandfather, asking for a blessing upon his family, a blessing on the spirits of his ancestors, and a blessing on his descendants yet to be born. He asked Creator for extra guidance and assistance on this significant day for himself.
Finally, he sat down cross-legged on the mound and asked for the Thirteen Ancestors to appear to him and speak the words of fulfillment, if that was truly their intent this day. Then the old man closed his eyes and waited.
Slowly, an all-encompassing vision faded into view, completely engulfing him. While his body sat on the ground, his mind and spirit body were caught up into a whole other world. In this other world, he stood in the middle of a circle of Native men and women who were seated on buffalo robes, looking back at him from inside a tipi. Without counting, Cecil knew there were thirteen of them from different tribes, each dressed in their own particular ceremonial regalia.
The glowing translucent form of an unspeakably old Native man, dressed in ancient tribal regalia, stood and approached Cecil. The man spoke, using only his mind.
“The time, foretold a thousand years ago, has arrived. The signs have all come to pass. The milestones have all been reached. And the Thunder Beings will soon select the Chosen One. As the Keeper of the Center, you must call the Intertribal Medicine Council together, locate the Chosen One, and prepare to reassemble the Sky Stone.”
It was an event Cecil had waited his whole life to witness. It was the message generations of Original People had known was coming but had probably forgotten.
Confident that they’d been heard and understood, the thirteen visitors faded from view.
As the designated Keeper of the Center, it was now Cecil’s job to carry out the command. He must call the Keepers and the other members of the Medicine Council together. The Keepers would bring their hidden and guarded sections of the Sky Stone together. Then, when the Fire Crystal was fit into its place in the center, the reassembled Circle would activate, empowering the Chosen One to fulfill his destiny.
After his supplication, the elder lingered on the spot for a short while, basking in the aura of the spiritual energy created by the spiritual appearance. In his mind’s eye, the elder could see beyond the river a few miles farther to the northeast, to the remains of the ancient mound city now called Cahokia, the largest Native American city ever built.
That city had been the spiritual center of a religious and cultural movement that had spread among the Indigenous peoples of North America, one that had never been witnessed before or since. One of the results of that phenomenon was the construction of thousands and thousands of earthen ceremonial mounds in an area that stretched from the Gulf Coast to the Great Lakes and from the Atlantic Ocean to the Mississippi River and beyond.
Known as Solstice City to its original twenty thousand inhabitants, the centerpiece of that vast cultural kingdom a thousand years ago had once been home to the “Son of the Sun.” This demigod, known to some as the Falcon Priest and to others as the Sun Priest, was the human representative of the Upperworld on earth.
he muggy August air clung to Billy Buckhorn’s brown Cherokee skin like a wet blanket. He and his best friend, Chigger, were night fishing on Lake Tenkiller in eastern Oklahoma. This region, part of the western branch of the old Cherokee Nation, was filled with rivers, creeks, and lakes all nestled between heavily wooded hills.
“Drop that light down closer to the water,” Billy said in a loud whisper.
Chigger let out a few more inches of rope until the camping lantern almost touched the water’s still surface. “How’s that?” he asked.
“Just fine,” sixteen-year-old Billy replied.
Chigger, also sixteen, tied off the rope and picked up his fishing pole.
Night fishing was one of Billy’s favorite things to do in the summer. Well, really, he liked fishing any time of day or night, any time of year. And hunting too, for that matter. He liked Cherokee bowhunting the best. Billy had learned these skills from his Cherokee grandfather, Wesley.
From somewhere off in the distant darkness along the lake’s shoreline, the boys heard the snap of a breaking branch and a rustling of leaves.
“What was that?” Chigger whispered nervously. Unlike Billy, he wasn’t such a big fan of night fishing. Or doing much of anything at night that involved being outside in the dark, because of all the scary old Cherokee legends he’d heard. But he’d follow Billy anywhere, anytime.
“Probably just a possum or badger hunting for food,” Billy replied calmly.
Chigger picked up a flashlight from the seat next to him. Turning it on, he pointed its beam in the direction the sound came from. A pair of glowing red eyes peered back at him from the lake’s edge.
“What the—!” Chigger exclaimed with a jump, dropping the flashlight into the lake.
“Not so loud,” Billy demanded in a loud whisper as he watched the light sink out of sight. “Now look what you’ve done.”
“There was somethin’ evil looking over there, watching us!” the scared Cherokee boy declared. “It could be one of the Water Cannibals my grandparents talked about, come ashore to hunt human flesh.”
A Water Cannibal was one of the many supernatural creatures said by traditional Cherokees to live in the Underworld and come up to the Middleworld from time to time.
“You’re letting your imagination get the better of you again,” Billy said, clearly impatient with his gullible friend. “It was a possum, just like I said.”
Peering down through the water, Billy was more concerned with his drowned flashlight than the harmless animal on shore. As the light floated toward the lake’s bottom, Billy thought he momentarily saw the moving form of some underwater creature he hadn’t ever seen before. I’m tired—maybe my mind is playing tricks on me, he thought.
“Their eyes glow red when you shine a light in them,” he said, continuing his logical explanation for the shoreline illusion.
“Oh,” Chigger replied sheepishly. “I knew that.”
The two boys had known each other since the first grade. Most days after school they had played together outdoors. In those days, Chigger’s dad worked at a plant nursery near the shores of the lake. On Saturdays he’d often taken the pair with him to work on the plants, trees, and shrubs the nursery grew.
Of course, the boys had often ended up playing hide-and-seek among the long rows of greenery. And their favorite fishing spot was the inlet of water where they were now. It was near the old nursery, which had gone out of business years ago.
Chigger’s fishing pole jerked in his hands.
“I think I’ve got a bite!” he whispered excitedly.
They always whispered when they were fishing. Even though the water muffled human noises, Grandpa Wesley taught Billy that it was best to avoid sudden movements or sharp sounds. Such things could spook the fish.
Chigger yanked the line up out of the water. He found nothing but a water turtle hooked on the end of it.
“Ah, another turtle,” Chigger said. “That’s the third one tonight! They musta chased off all the fish.”
