Fool's Crow Describes
Crazy Horse's Great Vision
A Sioux youth's account of Crazy Horse's Great Vision,
from the stories of his great grandfather

FOOL'S CROW DESCRIBES CRAZY HORSE'S GREAT VISION

IT WAS 1871, a year of pause and peace in the Lakota Country, when Crazy Horse went up alone to Bear Butte, the sacred mountain of both the Lakota and the Cheyennes, for a vision search. He chose the first half of the Moon of Making Fat, when the whole warm earth was waving green under grass made thick by the rain from the Thunder Beings, when the young antelope were playing among the hills, and the buffalo herds were like black earth clouds along the Powder and the edges of the Paha Sapa, the Black Hills. He wanted it to be so, at the height of all the good things of the earth and sky, the bobolinks and meadowlarks trilling from bush and grass clump, the prairie dogs whistling their alarm when his horse came prancing past their clusters of holes and mounds, the swallows hissing through the air by his head, the grasshoppers and butterflies flashing red, yellow, orange, and blue wings everywhere, and the warm, warm earth and leaf smell rising up like a heady perfume.

He was leaving a good warm lodge behind him too when he came, not the home of his mother and father any more, but his own lodge and his own woman, Black Shawl, one whom He Dog and Spotted Crow and others of his good friends had found for him in Big Foot's band. She was prettier than he had expected, but what was much better was the soft, quiet way she had taken control of his lodge, her voice like rippling waters, the least touch of her hands filled with kindness and love. Yet they were hands used to hard work, the fletching of skins, the cutting up of meat, the carrying of buffalo stomachs filled with water from the nearest springs or creeks, the endless sewing of buckskin clothes and rents in the wall of the tipi.

It was a new experience for the lonely man to see one seated opposite him at the cooking fire, day after day, while smelling the good food preparing, and seeing her look at him with that liquid, dark look so like and yet so stirringly different from the look of a mother. It was good also to feel that there would be no trouble over this one, for she came free of any jealous husband, and a sense of peace and all-goodness flowed through that lodge. And now, as he rode toward the mountain, he knew there was another life stirring within this new wife, soon to be a son or daughter.

There was another sense of goodness coming with him also, for he had become indeed Itanca, leader in the Indian way, one who watched over the camp as a mother prairie hen watches over her children-one who had become the protector, as the bull buffalo stations himself between the herd and danger. He experienced a wonderful pleasure in coming into the camp in the dawn or early evening, so quiet and shadowlike that even the camp dogs failed to notice him, bringing meat to a lodge where there was a widow or where the man was too wounded or sick to go hunting. And the herds of horses he ran down or captured from the enemy Crows or Pawnees melted away like the snow in the Moon of Tender Grass, because he always made sure that each family had an extra horse to pull travois with or one to carry an old woman or man when the trail was long and tiring between camps. So the glances that followed him from men and women and children were filled with a mixture of love and awe and wonder, like the lakes mirroring back the warmth and light of the sun.

Yet there was a strange and terrible uneasiness that drove him to go alone to the top of Bear Butte for a Hanblecheyapi, a vision search. Behind all the good things that had recently happened to him, back of the peace and warmth of the lodge and camp circles, the Wasichus hovered beyond -the great circle of the horizon like the ominous gray cloud of a coming blizzard in the Moon of Frosting in the Lodge. The cold of this feeling struck into his heart even on this warm summer day, and he tried to lift it off and gather hope from the beautiful things of earth and sky that surrounded him.

"Crying for a Vision," the Hanblecheyapi means in the Lakota language, and the heart of Crazy Horse was indeed crying to the Great Spirit, asking: "Why have they come, these people who destroy the earth and its life, who take the beautiful world away from the Indians and make it into a senseless place where the true things of the Spirit are forgotten because they put gold and the things it will buy first? What can we do to stop them?"

He remembered the tales he had heard of what had happened to the Santee Lakota to the east, to the Mandans, the Sacs and Fox, and the Iowas and Pottawottami. They dwelt now on little reservations in shacks of wood, not the proud tipis or birchbark houses of old. There they were servants of the white men, looked down upon and given cast-off clothes, while the terrible bottles of whisky and wine dragged them lower like a dark hand clutching the heart out of them, dulling the senses. Was this now to come to the Teton Lakota, a proud people who would also be beaten down by the endless waves of whites until the spirit was gone and they were a folk like death?

He shivered as he thought these dark thoughts and remembered then his father's words: "My son, when you go to the mountaintop to pray, cast aside from your mind all thoughts save thoughts of the Great Spirit, of beauty and of strength. Call on Him for help for your people and for yourself so you can help your people. Purify the very breath you breathe with thoughts of the spirit until your thoughts rise like the eagles into the sky, up and up to be one with the Sun and the One Who is Behind the Sun. Be humble as the earth before all things, and when you have left the voices the body listens to, let the Spirit of Being flow into you until the secret Voice whispers to you through the needles of the pines the meaning of your life and what is to be."

So he drove the darkness from his soul as the great bear drives the wolves from the carcass of the elk he has killed, and he galloped his horse to the last level spot on the side of the mountain where a little stream tinkled down over the rocks and a cluster of cottonwood trees hid a small vale filled with lush grass like a jewel, where the horse could be hobbled safely out of sight from a war party far below. Leaving his horse here, he took with him up the steep slope only his sacred pipe, a buffalo skin robe, some tobacco, a little food to be offered to the spirits, a bundle of the sacred sagebrush, four wild cherry sticks, and four small banners of yellow, red, black, and white to tie to the sticks that represented the four sacred directions.

The climb up Bear Butte was like climbing a ladder up into the sky, there being places where the rocks formed steps amidst the pines. He knew he was going to a spot where few other men had ever dared to go for a Hanblecheyapi, a place so sacred and so dangerous it was whispered that lightning from the Thunder Beings had struck down those who dared to stay there, so that most vision seekers made their quests somewhere on the safer slopes below. When he reached the top, the glory of the earth was spread beneath, the waves of emerald green grass rolling to the east and north and south as far as eye could see, while to the southwest the great dark bear humps of the Paha Sapa filled the edge of the sky like dark thunderheads. Here the wind was blowing a little song through the pine needles and a few ants and beetles were crawling over the rocks about his feet. It was as if he were alone at the center of the world, and his heart swelled as he turned to see the lovely green earth far below and the sacred circle of the sky coming down to meet the sacred circle of the earth. Here, if anywhere in the world, he thought, the Great Spirit can come to speak to a man who is a true seeker. Here, maybe, the white-throated swift, dodging over the rocky crest of the bluff like a sweeping spot of light, would carry his cry to the Above One and bring him back an answer for his people.

He made a circle about himself of the sacred pipe tobacco, made mainly of the leaves of the red willow and kinnikinnick, spread his sagebrush over the sharp rocks for a bed, and placed his yellow-, red-, white-, and black-bannered prayer sticks of wild cherry wood pointing to the four directions. The food and his loin cloth were placed outside the circle, but the buffalo robe lay beside the sagebrush for use when the cold winds of night would come. Next he took hold of the bowl of his pipe in his right hand and pointed the stem to the west, crying the sacred song: "Wakan Tanka onshimala ye oyate wani wachin cha !" (O Great Spirit, be merciful to me that my people may live!)

Then he walked out to the sacred pole on the west and cried again the song, but here he added a variation of his own choosing, singing "O Thou where the sun goes down, send me courage that I may be always brave for my people and protect them in danger." Then he returned to the center again.

Next he pointed the stem to the north, crying the usual song, but out at the north pole he sang also: "O Thou Giant of the North, give me of Thy great strength that I may help my people."

To the east, besides the holy song, he sang "O Thou where the sun rises, give me of Thy purity and wisdom, that I may be like the new snow and the fresh spring water in my heart, and that I may be wise like the great chiefs of old who led the people in the holy ways."

To the south, besides the holy song, he sang "O Thou producer of green plants and all good growing things, help me to grow in the spirit until I can lead my people where they will be safe from the Wasichus."

Now he pointed his pipe stem down to the earth, and sang: "O Thou Mother Earth, make me humble as you are when the feet of men walk upon you, yet give me your power to grow in the spirit."

Next he pointed his pipe stem up to the sky, saying after the sacred song: "O Thou Who art the Center of All Things that Are; come to me in vision that I may know what to do for my people."

Last he swept the pipe stem around in a complete circle and pointed it once more to the sky, crying: "O Thou Sacred One, Wakan Tanka, I send my spirit up to Thee. Send it back to me that Thy power may be within me, not for me, but for my people."

Having thus sent his cry to the seven sacred directions, he was going to start all over at the beginning, as all the old ones did, but a sudden thought came to him, and he cried in a loud voice, so that a bluejay flying by suddenly swerved in fright: "O Thou Whose voice calls to me in the leaves of the pines, I have cried to you for the seven sacred circles, but tell me what is the meaning of the two circles yet to come?"

And he trembled for a minute in sudden fear, for he knew none of his people had asked this presumptuous question before. Then he gripped his pipe bowl hard once more, swung it to the west as he had done in the beginning, and started once more to make his motions toward the seven directions, and his songs. But at the end of the seven, as before, he asked his question about the eighth and ninth circles, and this time he was not afraid any more.

So the sun swung across the sky and down until it ebbed its great red disk below the horizon, and the cool shadows of the night wind began to whisper through the pines. Now Crazy Horse drew his warm buffalo robe around his body, and dropped down upon the fragrant sage to rest, but holding his mind like a crystal drop of dew poised on the tip of a leaf as he lay relaxed. Whenever he felt rested enough, he would rise up once more under the circle of brilliant stars, sending his call out to the constellations of the west, the north, the east, and the south, then down to Mother Earth and up to Father Sky and finally, drawing the Spirit in the seventh direction, into his inner being. At times the wind grew stronger and colder, whipping and tugging at his buffalo robe and sending its keening through the pine needles, but his mind remained always flowing outward with his spirit like a river that could never run empty, so that the warm blood touched his outer veins and arteries, keeping the skin warm.

When the dawn came it was first only a faint haze of light on the edge of blackness, then a growing ribbon of light around the rim of the world, then a dull red disk that touched the eastern edge of the vastness of the plains, then a sudden blazing glory that sent its vibrant colors across the sky and around the sacred circle of the meeting of earth and sky. And he knew, though he could not hear it yet, that the Great Spirit was talking to him out of the heart of the sky, the land, and the light. The waves of grass that stretched to the edge of earth flashed brilliant green below him, the sky turned a blue he had never seen before, and in its center he saw an eagle dropping earthward like a plunging meteor. So he was like a little child who waits patiently until his grandfather speaks again of a marvelous story. All things that existed in the universe were trembling on the edge of his mind like a flood about to tip over a cliff.

So he prayed and sang now with a rhythm that was the rhythm of earth and sky, of wave and wind and cloud, of summer and winter and night and day, until all tiredness and hunger and thirst left him as if they had never been. Thus it went on through the hours that were no longer counted, but were only a smooth running like the wind, until late on the third day the great black thunderheads loomed to the west of him, forming armies marching eastward, until the Thunder Beings were talking above him in the darkening sky where the lightning flashed and flickered.

A shower of large hailstones came out of the sky, and a bolt of lightning leaped from the mountaintop only thirty feet from him, so that the thunder nearly broke his eardrums in one mighty clash, and then the hailstones were falling in myriads, but strangely none hit him or near him, and he felt as if suspended in space in the hands of the Great Spirit, so that he lay down as one tired would lie down in a bed at home after a hard day, but surrounded by peace. The fragrance of the sage grew in his nostrils until the odor was poignant with memories, and he fell asleep remembering the youth that had been Curly and the time the first vision came to him as he lay in the sagebrush under the cottonwood tree of long ago.

Now a sparrow hawk was fluttering above him, uttering its killy-killy cry, as they do when they hover in the sky. And the cry turned into words that pierced his mind like waves of light, because there was no sound with them any more, but he understood their meaning.

"Look down!" the voice said, "and behold what is to be!"

So he found himself standing on the top of Bear Butte in the sunlight, and his eyes were such that he could see very far away things in detail, as with the far-seeing glasses he once took from a fallen soldier. So he looked below and there was a town of the white people there, with many houses, and he saw them busy with their work like many ants, but he felt a coldness from them that he did not understand until he saw on the edge of this town some poor shacks where Indians lived. The Indians wore old castoff white men's clothes and their eyes were sullen like the darkness of a cloud where the Thunder Beings talk. He saw two of them lying still in the middle of the street where water puddles were, and there was about them the stink of too much whisky. An Indian woman was washing clothes in a backyard, by rubbing them on a rough board with soap, but there was about her all the weariness of the world, as if she could hardly move another inch. And he felt so sorry for her that he wanted to go down from his place near the sky and do the' work for her so she could rest. So he knew that the old spirit had gone from these people and a great sadness came over him that he could hardly bear, as if this sick thing was coming right into his heart. And he knew who had caused this thing to happen, and who had put the wall between peoples, holding one down while the others took whatever they wanted. So his anger flashed like the lightning and he wished he grasped a gun, or even a lance so he could plunge down to attack ' To die to save his people from this would be good. But the voice out of the light spoke again. "This had to be," it said. "But it will pass away, for all the people o f Earth must gather together like the geese that fly together in springtime.... Watch now, and be alert to see!"

He seemed to be breathing deeply then, as if he were sucking in the wind of heaven and his heart grew calmer, so that when he looked again, he saw not only the broken hearts and minds below him among his people, but also the few strong ones who somehow kept the spirit through all the bad times.'For there were old men and women there whose faces mirrored the clouds and the earth, and -whose eyes had the light o f the dawn, and he could see that they were passing on this spark to some few of their grandchildren.

Now as he looked below he saw that there were black ribbons across the prairies where before there had been only green grass, and going along these black ribbons were little many-colored bugs that moved with great speed. And when he looked closer, with his farseeing eyes, he saw that there were white people and even a few Lakota traveling inside these strange swift bugs, and he saw that there were few horses any more.

Then the darkness all over the earth seemed to be increasing, but there were loud noises and whistlings and screams within it, and he sensed that most of the males of the earth were fighting one another. And he saw the emptiness and pain and tears in the faces of families, including Lakota families, and knew that somewhere their loved ones were being killed.

There was a time after this fighting when people ran about like crazy and seemed to be accomplishing nothing except putting up more buildings. But he looked into the sky and saw that there was an increasing number of large things that looked like birds with wings, but were not birds, that were flying through the sky, and in the nighttime they had many little lights. Then again came a great darkness and again a feeling of the males of the earth fighting and dying, while the very air seemed to scream and the explosions were so great that they rocked the mountains and he saw a place of many houses disappear beneath a great smoke cloud as if it had never been.

Now there came a new time after the second great war, and he saw a new hope beginning to appear among the faces of his people, and some were gathering together for the dances in a new way, trying to keep the things that deaden the minds, the crazy water bottles and the drugs that destroy, away from these gatherings, so that here and there the surge of the spirit was so strong that some of the men were singing strong heart songs and the women were trilling as in the old days. They were wearing better clothes now and living in better houses, but he could see also that there were still too many little walls, and one great wall yet between them and most of the white people.

Suddenly all the people's faces disappeared, and he saw the whole world as if it were in darkness, but there was a dawn light coming from the east and before it the daybreak star approached through the sky. It was a star with nine points, and he knew these represented the nine sacred circles, including the two new ones yet to come. Then he saw the sacred herb beginning its climb out of the earth. It was eerie to see the fresh green rising from a place of death, for it grew where a dead tree had been and as the dawn began to turn the whole east to glorious light, the herb grew again into the Sacred Tree of his people, with the branches full of flowers and singing birds, and below the tree, spirit people and animals and birds were dancing and singing as if they had all the joy in the world but could not contain it.

Then, behind this world of glorious light, which he knew was the real world of the spirit, he saw the dark other world filled with people as if in a swamp or quicksand, but some beginning to reach their hands out toward the light, some seeing it and some not seeing it, as with men on the trail of a mountain lion, some seeing the little places where the paws bowed down a grass or herb and others not seeing these places at all, but only seeing the rocks and plants in a haze like one mass.

"Do you see it?" some people were saying to others. "Do you see that light coming? It is so wonderful!" But other people looked and shook their heads and their faces remained sad, or dull and ugly. They grimaced as a hermit does who has been shut in a cave of darkness for years and resents bright light which he is unable to deal with. Only slowly can his eyes and mind take in and understand any light.

The faces of the ones more ready were slowly turning to beauty and glory.' Then he saw that these people were already dancing in the spirit under the sacred tree, for the dawn of understanding was penetrating and they were ready. There were many different faces under that tree, so he understood that it was a tree too big for just his people alone, but included all races o f all men, white and yellow, black and brown or red. And their faces were full of laughter and joy. And they formed one circle o f one people, united though different in a strange and sacred way that he did not quite understand.

When he awoke on the high top of Bear Butte, it was early daylight and the sun had just tipped the horizon to flood the earth with light. Down the slope the rock wrens were singing as if their hearts would burst, chanting their varied "tu-to-tu, chrr-ee, chrr-ee, cheepoo, chee-poo, chee-poo!" with such joy that it seemed that what would be was now here. Weak from fasting, he had been allowed the gift of eternity. Time and space had dissolved. Only as his consciousness returned to the times of 1871 and the place on top of Bear Butte did he realize the long and hard stages ahead until the light would come.

When Crazy Horse told his vision to his father, the older man smoked for a long time in silence. He thought of the other hill where they had sat together, long before. He thought of the doe whose son nearly outran her. The man he called son had been given a vision greater than any he would have. And the son's understanding might one day outreach that of the father. So it was more to himself that he at last spoke, and also because the son must discuss his vision, for a vision too long unshared becomes like a child too long in arriving. Worm knew as he spoke that one day his son might see the vision more clearly than he, but now he spoke. And now his son listened.

"There is both good and bad about this vision. The bad is that you saw our people conquered and living in the square gray houses that Drinks Water saw. You saw the crazy water hurting many, and you saw the Wasichus running the lives of the Lakota as if they were the spotted cattle. But you saw also that some still carried the great dreams in their secret hearts, and sang them when they were alone, so that not all our people became like the black ants when the red ants make them slaves. Out of the darkness the light of a new day finally came shining, and then these bearers of the secret helped spread that new light to all peoples.

"This I see we must do. We Lakota are the most powerful of the Plains tribes. We must try to make allies of other tribes and raise all our strength to stop the white men, even though, in the long run, we cannot win. We must because the story of our courage and our fighting will be sung down the years ahead to give heart to all the Indian peoples, for they will know our warriors died bravely and we will show that the Wasichu can be defeated. And there must be some among our leaders whose honor and courage stand out like shining stars in a dark night, keeping the spirit alive among the few until the New Time comes. Gather around you, my son, while there is still time, all the young people you can. Tell them the stories of the great dreams and the great heroes, and be yourself, while humble, one to whom they can look for guidance, one who speaks always with the straight tongue, one who is never afraid, and one who fights always for justice for his people regardless of what may happen to himself or what others may say."

Again Worm smoked and was silent, while his son bowed his head in deep thought. Then the old holy man spoke for the last time: "The great hope is that one day there will come to us white men and other peoples too, seeking the wisdom of our people, seeing the circle of earth and sky, seeing the hoop of all men under the Great Spirit. For a while we will not dare talk to most white people about these things, for they will laugh at us as the silly young jackrabbit laughs at the wise coyote, because he thinks that since he can run faster he can always escape.

"But your dream tells us there will come a time when more and more will see the wrongness of the ways of the Wasichus, even among their own people. More and more will see they are out of touch with the Great One above, even though they bow before him and say their prayers, and have buildings where they worship Him. More and more will see they have lost the circle and must find it again, and that the Indian peoples can help them, for we are of the earth and sky and some of us will never forget this. And when we help them, all men that are still alive after the times of trouble that must come will come together in One Circle and we will be one people, filled with the glory of the spirit. So did the vision of White Buffalo Calf Maiden promise us, and so also does your vision.", Be brave then, my son, and take hope, even when the darkness comes, for does not the sun always rise again after even the darkest night, and does not the beautiful warmth of springtime come again with its flowers and singing birds even after the coldest winter?"

Crazy Horse had always been interested in the youth of his tribe, stopping to speak to them with words of encouragement at their work or games, and joining in telling them the great stories of the people. But now he became far more active than before at this, so that the younger Black Elk, or Fire Thunder, and many another boy, and sometimes girls too, would come to his lodge, to sit in the sacred circle with the firelight playing over the bronze faces and the dark eyes both intent and shy. Though his voice was quiet, it was also vibrant, and he used his hands when he spoke as the eagle uses his wings to signal to his mate, so that there was something about those evenings around the fire that was full of magic. The magic of the great dreams and the great hero stories and songs were woven by those moving hands and that quiet voice until every eye was gleaming and the dark sinewy hands of the listeners tensed in the firelight like warriors awaiting an overdue signal...

Great upon the mountain: The story of Crazy Horse, legendary mystic and warrior by Vinson Brown, Macmillan Publishing Co., New York, NY 1971 p 100 - 118

Frank Fool's Crow told Vinson Brown this story of Crazy Horse's Great Vision, which he had heard from his grandfather.

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