Fascinating Authors

A chill wind began to blow. Paul started to walk quickly through the cathedral pines, and then ran, unsure where he was going but needing to burn off some of the panic. The wind gusted and raged.

Over the wind, he heard the roar of the beast. Its howling shook the ground and Paul ran faster, hoping his heart would burst and send him into oblivion.

A dark mass flowed over a large hill and poured onto the neck of the peninsula. It was a stampeding herd of buffalo, headed for him.

Paul turned and ran back to the spot where Black Elk had vanished. Iced with fear, his legs moved like sticks governed by a puppeteer. He didn’t stop when he hit the water, and neither did the animals bearing down on him.

As the waves reached his chest, a man on horseback scooped Paul up like a kitten. He was a bare-chested Indian, larger than Black Elk, broad-shouldered, with two long braids flying back in Paul’s face. Paul hung onto the man’s waist and looked down: the black horse was galloping on the surface of the water, straight out to sea.

Something loomed ahead. At first Paul thought it was a small rocky island, but the closer they got he could see that it was manmade: an oil platform. Bewildered, he held tighter as the rider put heels to the horse. The horse’s leap sank Paul’s stomach as they landed on the helicopter pad of an oilrig.

The Indian dismounted and yanked Paul off. He noted that the man wore only loose dark pants with a drawstring. It was no longer night but bright daylight with the sun nearly overhead. The man left his mare standing and walked to the edge of the helicopter pad, looking to each cardinal direction, the four quadrants of sky and sea. Then, the Indian addressed him.

“I am Sitting Bull, chief of the Sioux Nation. I killed my first buffalo at the age of ten.”

Paul had no comparable résumé. “I come with very little,” he muttered, staring at the legendary hero.

“No, you come with too much. There’s a worm in your heart, polluting your blood, spreading disease. My friend Nick Black Elk spoke of this.”

Before Paul could be called a traitor by yet another Indian, he congratulated Sitting Bull on the battle of the Little Big Horn.

“Yes,” Sitting Bull replied, “I rubbed out Custer. I did what the times called for. But in death I walk out of time. My heart has changed. I enter the world and bring you this news: the earth is good, the sky is good, all crying, all laughing are one now. There are no more tears, only wonder upon wonder.”

Abruptly, Sitting Bull turned and walked to the pad’s east quadrant, no longer looking out to sea but straight down into the water.

Paul couldn’t imagine why Sitting Bull had carried him out to an oilrig, except to condemn the white man’s rape of the world’s natural resources.

Sitting Bull said, “Your thoughts bear much poison. Even here on this beautiful day, upon the hump of this marvel, you seethe with hate.”

“I’m not feeling hate, only anger that I once worked here.”

The summer before law school, Paul had worked on a rig off the Louisiana coast. He lasted a month. A noisy, dangerous place, Paul felt intimidated by the roughnecks, by their swagger and strength.

Sitting Bull answered, “So, I see you disliked the work and the men who struggled for their families; suffered separation. Men who were warriors.”

“What about the exploitation of the earth?” Paul asked impatiently.

Without looking up, Sitting Bull said, “Did my people and I exploit the buffalo?”

“Of course not. That was your food, your life.”

“Is not this substance, dark beneath the waves and earth, your sustenance?”

“We have a foolish need. We’re slaves to it.”

“Then my people must have been slaves to the buffalo, for we died as the buffalo died.”

“You utilized the meat, the bone, the hide—”

“This oil you scorn makes the resources of the buffalo look poor in comparison. I tell you, I walk out of time, and now I see any time with the eyes of a visitor. And I see marvels of clothing, shelter, protection of the weakest. I walk over this structure, I watch its blood go out to your people, yet you hate that which gives you life and comfort. I look deep into the water, deep into the earth, and I do not see the poison you speak of. The poison comes from your heart, not from the blood of our earth.”

A few witty rejoinders came to Paul, but he stayed quiet. Tentatively, he padded over to the edge and looked down into the blue-green water beside Sitting Bull.

Sitting Bull said, “If one of my people had such a dark heart, I would take his life and scalp.”

At last, the Indian raised his head. He walked over to his mare and began rubbing the animal’s rich black coat with both hands. “Come here,” he commanded. “Feel this.”

He pressed Paul’s right hand against the horse and slid it along her coat. For a while, both men rubbed down the mare with their hands.

“You feel that bit of oil?” Sitting Bull said. “It’s good. You’re grooming with just your hands, as great towers like these groom your entire world.”

Paul surveyed the complex tangle of ducts, piping and drill rigs, and imagined the roughnecks roaming about. He wanted to tell Sitting Bull that the fat-cat oil execs would love to have him on their advertising payroll. But the fierceness in Sitting Bull’s eyes, along with the mention of scalping, kept him sober and his mouth shut.

When Paul stopped grooming, he studied the superstructure of the oil platform and drilling apparatus on another modular section, all connected by catwalks.

Again, Sitting Bull walked to the edge of the platform and looked down as he spoke, studying the water. “Watching you these many years, I saw you were not only foolish, but hateful. Nick Black Elk believes there’s still hope. I doubt it. You are nearing the autumn of your life, yet you despise this great gift, rich and fat like the liver of buffalo.”

Paul followed Sitting Bull to the edge and peered straight down, trying to see what so captivated the warrior chief. Without warning, Sitting Bull grabbed his arm and leapt off the platform with him. Paul squeezed his eyes shut and held his breath as they slammed into the water and sank. When he thought he would burst from the pressure of holding his breath, he exhaled.

He heard Sitting Bull laughing. “Go ahead, breathe, and look around.”

Paul obeyed, for it seemed that following Sitting Bull’s command meant his survival. As his fear diminished, he breathed normally, and found himself near a giant cement leg. It was encrusted with live coral, and passing before him was an army of small fish. They flicked and dove while larger fish swam in search of dinner. The water was still blue green, but darker, as Sitting Bull dragged him around the rig’s substructure, pointing out the marine life from seaweed to sharks. The old Paul, myopic and cynical, looked for leaks and examined the artificial reef for weakness, but instead found a living underwater garden, beautiful and flourishing.

They swam some distance from the substructure, yet the waters still teemed with life. Aiming at the surface, Sitting Bull swam with greater urgency, gaining speed until they both leapt like flying fish from the ocean back onto the platform.

The black mare, her hooves clicking on the steel-plated pad, came up alongside the Sioux chief and nuzzled his neck. Sitting Bull caressed her as he spoke.

“The fish down there enjoy this rock with legs. They flourish beneath the waves because of man’s creation. Standing on this great platform, all I feel is abundance. From the earth, oil flows like water and blood to your villages and cities.” He jumped onto his horse. “Take my hand. There is still another world you must witness, one you’ve despised and feared.”