Heart of the Storm

"The vice president of the United States needs to die. Now!"Rogan Yalua Soquili, known as Fast Horse, was insistent as he stood triumphantly outside the circle of twelve NativeAmerican women. Their rapt attention fixed on the Cherokee mÉtis medicine man, they sat in their ceremonial garb. Rogan placed his hands on the strong, capable shoulders of Blue Wolf, a Shoshone woman near his own age of forty-five."Make it happen," he declared, his voice booming.The Sierra Nevadas in early June took on a shadowy, menacing aura as midday thunderclouds grew above them. Rogan looked around gleefully. They were nestled within the Eagle's Nest, his compound built high in the mountains, on a cliff. The wooden walls provided them sanctuary as they stood on the hard-packed earth. It was the perfect place to carry out their task. The air around them leaped and throbbed with living energy.In the center of the women's circle, a light feathery mist began to gather. It moved counterclockwise, never touching any of the participants. Rogan watched, mesmerized, as the wispy cloud became darker and began to resemble a doughnut whose hole was closing. Cauliflower-like towers grew upward from the sluggishly swirling clouds, and when flashes of lightning occurred, Rogan's jaw dropped in awe. Surely, the ceremonial Storm Pipe and these women were connected to the most powerful magic he'd ever seen. Excitement coursed through him.The women chanted as one, their voices rising and falling as the thundercloud built with the whipping wind. Rogan's hair fell across his face, but he didn't feel it. His eyes were on the cloud invoked by the sacred pipe Blue Wolf held in her hands. With each chant, the intensity increased and the thundercloud turned more malevolent, eventually shooting skyward to thirty thousand feet. It was coming from the pipe; Rogan could see the energy flowing out of its bowl.As he stood behind her, he dug his fingers into BlueWolf's sturdy shoulders. The rhythmic chanting ebbed and flowed, ebbed and flowed. The very pulse of the building storm responded to the women's voices, which rose in a powerful crescendo.Rogan's order echoed throughout the cedar structure on the side of the mountain. Standing in the west, the position of death, he kept his firm contact with Blue Wolf's elk skin-covered shoulders. Like a bolt of lightning, heat and electricity coursed through his hands, leaped up his arms and shimmered throughout his tense body. Keeping his knees slightly bent, Rogan closed his eyes, took a deep breath into his abdomen and then slowly released it.The thundercloud manifested by the pipe and the women was inspiring to Rogan. He'd never seen anything like this. Oh, he knew ceremonial pipes were powerful, but to create a mighty thunderhead in a matter of minutes...that was awesome. Lightning continued to radiate from the dark, churning mass far above them. Most of the electricity, millions of volts, was held within the cloud. Rogan knew that the powers involved with the pipe would not allow any of it to harm the circle of women. It would be contained within the building storm overhead.Rogan gazed around at the seated figures. Their knees touched one another to maintain physical contact. In doing so, they became the container for the Storm Pipe's power, and helped direct the energy and the building of the thunderhead.Blue Wolf lifted a very old pipe made of catlinite, its red bowl glowing in her hands. The smooth, polished oak stem was decorated with small seed beads depicting a thunderstorm with a She began to sing a ceremonial song to invite the lightning that flashed above them. Her hands grew hot and felt as if they were burning; they were merely responding to the power amassing through the powerful ceremonial pipe.The women gripped one another's hands at the right moment, as the electrical charge within the churning clouds swirled, growing in strength. The two sitting next to the pipe carrierMcKenna, Lindsay is the author of 'Heart of the Storm', published 2007 under ISBN 9780373772254 and ISBN 0373772254.