 The Ghost Dancer By Arline Chase Long after the swirling muddy waters struck, long after even the pain dropped away, Rowan clung to the tree limb in the water. He was bruised, scraped, and bleeding. But he was alive when the branches caught in a tumble of rocks, alive when he stumbled ashore. As he crawled up the bank, he felt light-headed, as if he floated along the treetops. Below him, he could see someone crawling across the stony shingle. Rowan watched the boy claw toward higher ground with broken bloody fingernails. Safe above the trees, he watched the traveler shake with fever during the night and wander across the hills by day. For three days and three nights Rowan followed, glad to drift free where no pain could reach him. Somewhere below Rowan the body collapsed and lay still. Three Blackfoot warriors, one of them mounted on a Nez Perce stallion, moved into a small clearing. They talked and laughed among themselves, bragging about their successful hunt. The warrior riding the stallion was older than the other two. He carried a rifle and had a skin bag full of bear meat slung across the horse’s withers. The other two rode pinto ponies. "Is it far back to our village, Horse Catcher?" the youngest asked in the language of the Blackfoot. "What will they do if they catch us here? "It is not far, brother. The bluecoats can’t catch us. Control your cowardice. Fear has no seat by our fire." "I am not afraid," the youngest warrior said with a shiver. "It is only that I sense a spirit in this place." "Leave the ghost world to the shamen and stop lagging." The leader held his rifle level above his head and urged his horse forward. "You and your tales of spirits!" Floating above them, Rowan listened and understood. He watched the Indians cross the clearing. He saw the ponies stop, snorting and dancing when they caught scent of the body below. The youngest warrior dropped to the ground and knelt to examine the boy as he lay face down on a drift of leaves. Only when the Indian turned the body over did Rowan realize the blank blue eyes of the boy below were his own. Rowan stared up at the Indians who were arguing in a language he couldn’t understand. When the youngest warrior offered him water the pain struck. Before he could control it, a moan escaped his lips. In vain, Rowan tried to remember where he was going, where he had come from. But in his mind the past was covered in shadowed mist. All he remembered was his name and the time he had spent floating above the trees. Now he was back, he was found. But his spirit had wandered lost in a vision, though his soul had returned to his body. Rowan knew he never again would be the same.
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