Tommy Cheis
Owl Man Goes Down
I, the Chiricahua fireman, fork the fourth glowing stone with elkhorns through the east gate and into the pit, then enter, close the deerskin flap, and sit with my brothers in the domed sweat lodge atop Burro Peak on the winter solstice.
Wearing only gym shorts and headbands, we’re silent and solemn. When our diyin ladles water over the glowing rocks, steam billows. Visibility shrinks. Heat takes breath away, then higher forms of consciousness.
The drum sings. Hearts adjust to its rhythm. Eddie flicks a pinch of juniper on the stones to dazzle like constellations in an indigo sky. Then he sings songs from time’s origin. Eagle wings flutter. Deer hooves rattle. I close my eyes and fly.
Round One. Earth.
The Four Great Ones—Mangas, Cochise, Victorio, Geronimo—rise from a hole in the desert. Each at the peak of his powers but horseless. They walk up, point into the future, and whisper in unison. You must endure four Rounds, Will Oak. Each will teach you a lesson. I beg them to pick someone else.
They refuse. Dah guh teh, says Mangas. I knew your family.
I know of you, sir. You were our greatest strategist, but too trusting.
There’s balance in everything. You’re learning to strike it. Listen. You’ll be visited by four ancestors. Each will introduce a monster you’ll have to fight. Eagle, Bison, Antelope, then the worst. A giant Owl-Man. You scared?
And then some.
Good. If you weren’t you’d be crazy or dumb. This is a test. Learn what you can. Apply the lessons when it’s showtime. In battle, against the Canadian rare earth miners, came here to Ndebenah to dig up our ancestors’ bones. Understood?
Yes, uncle.
Mangas disappears like he was never here.
And then it’s on. Eagle swoops and tries to eat me, but with guidance from Geronimo I wrap myself in deer intestines and club him to death.
Bison tries to gore me, but Victorio teaches me to cover myself in dirt, spider webs, and stars, then tear out his heart.
Antelope uses his eyes, trying to burn me, but Cochise helps me use smoke and arrows to run him until his liver explodes.
Mangas returns. As the eldest, I come last. Finish Owl-Man off, and you’re good-to-go. A cross between a man and an owl, forty feet tall and brandishing an obsidian knife, flutters and lands. Owl-Man squares off with me on a barren rock slab under a blazing sun. Buzzards circle. A knife appears in my hand.
You have something I’m gonna eat, Owl-Man says. Your land. Even if I have to kill you first.
You can’t eat our land, Owl-Man. It’s who we are. It’s where our people lived, died, and are buried.
Try to stop me, he says, then slashes from the east.
Lightning flashes. Thunder booms. His blade goes over my head.
Then he cuts from the south.
Lightning flashes. Thunder booms. His blade misses before me.
Then he stabs from the west.
Lightning flashes. Thunder booms. His blade flashes to my left.
Then he strikes from the north. Lightning flashes. Thunder booms. His blade slips by my right side.
Unscathed, I remove my loin cloth.
My first cut, a slash from the east, opens Owl-Man’s abdomen.
My second, a sweep from the south, slits Owl-Man’s throat.
My third, a hack from the west, slices away Owl-Man’s genitals.
My fourth cut, a poke from the north, punctures Owl-Man’s heart.
Owl-Man shrieks, falls into four giant pieces, and vanishes, leaving only crimson splotches on hot
rock.
The Chiricahua veterans I command—Vic, Eddie Phil, and Chuck—have repulsed three assaults from the private military company hired by the Canadian rare earth firm illegally drilling on our reservation to eject us. They call themselves RedWater. A name like blood. As if taking on that name grants them power, creates fear in us. But what I hear is the laziness. The belief in the propaganda they’ve been fed. And just like their lazy name, RedWater is just as bad at their jobs. We’ve suffered no casualties but inflicted many on RedWater despite being grossly outnumbered, for we know our land and our reason why. I’m not worried; I’ve got Eddie and Chuck on overwatch. Quiet, professional men who honed their sniper skills in other wars started by white me. Vietnam for Eddie, Iraq for Chuck.
RedWater troops, shocked at my silent, unexpected arrival, ring Redwater’s new CEO, Baylor West, a former Delta Force soldier. They’re surly and raw. They’ve never lost a battle before. I feel hate dripping off their skins. They stink of shame and menace and want to slake their vengeance on me.
Baylor senses their bloodlust and does nothing to cool it. Our hatred is mutual, visceral, present. “Are you surrendering?” he asks, sweating profusely.
I’m calm and dry. “You’re funny. Did you know no Chiricahua chief has ever been captured?”
Baylor, who’s just shy of seven feet tall, with a hooked Roman nose, frowns. “What about Geronimo?”
“He and Naiche surrendered to spare our people. But they could have fought to the death.”
“You planning to do the same?”
“Depends on you. When Mangas walked into the enemy camp to negotiate, he was martyred.”
A baby faced RedWater trooper says something to the equally baby faced trooper beside him. They sneer at me, looking ridiculous.
I point them out to Baylor. “Tell your love birds I killed my first man before he skied from his mother. I’ve killed more than the sum of their years since then, and I’m just getting started. Any more disrespect, I’ll stake them across an ant hill.”
Baylor hisses at them, as if they’re dogs. The two go silent.
“Buck?”
I recognize a trooper I served with in Kabul. An E-5 Green Beret then. Good soldier. A better guy than any of the RedWater troops.
He looks my way, avoids my eye.
“You can’t spend whatever RedWater pays you if you’re dead. Go back to Jenny. Live out your days in Helena.”
Buck hangs his head, says nothing. He knows I’m right.
His comrades look nervous.
I turn back to West. “Why work for the Canadians, Baylor?”
“America’s fallen, Will. The country’s full of potheads, academics, and communists.”
“How’s Canada any different?”
He gives that some thought. “If anything, it’s worse up north. But they pay very well.”
“Makes you a mercenary, Baylor.”
He shrugs. “I guess I got tired of bleeding for peanuts.”
“Why do you have to bleed at all?”
“This is tedious. What’s it going to be? Peace or war?”
“I’m getting there. Just answer me this: do you really think everything’s for sale?”
“Did your mother teach you differently?”
I fought for control. “Best we leave mothers out of this. Let’s talk justice. I want some.”
“Justice is a fairy tale, Will. It gives the downtrodden hope while suppressing revolts.”
“Marx’s opioid?”
The reference sails over his head. No mean feat. He’s seven feet in boots, maybe three hundred pounds.
“Money and power are real,” he lectures. “They suffice. I offer you both. But I need your answer now before my offer’s overcome by events.”
“First let’s talk cats.”
“Huh?”
“You killed Ndoicho. My bobcat. I declared war on the coward responsible.”
“Hmm. I hate felines. But he fought well. You can hold on to that.”
“Then there’s my wife.”
“Who?”
“Don’t play dumb. Stanley.”
“Stanley?”
“How many Stanleys do you know? The CEO of the mine that hired you.”
“No shit. I thought she was single.”
“We married four days ago. After she ordered the mine shut down and fired RedWater and you.”
He smacks his forehead. “Ah, right. You made her see the light. But I couldn’t allow her to close the shop. I have principles, Will.”
“So you kidnapped her.”
“I’d rather say Stanley’s in my custody.”
“And raped her.”
“She told you?”
“Yeah.”
“How?”
“She sent me a text before you destroyed her phone.”
Baylor rubs his chin. “Rape’s such an ugly word. Can’t we just say I applied inducements to procure her consent?”
“A beating? Ropes?”
Baylor shrugs. “Stanley had multiple orgasms. It must sting to know your wife’s a cheater not a week into your marriage.”
I pause, blow air through my nose. Calm returns.
“Here’s my counteroffer. Single combat to the death.”
The last of Baylor’s troops shuffle in. I don’t even acknowledge their appearance. With Eddie and Chuck holding tight beads on them, and a further dozen Chiricahua vets scattered around the compound, all invisible to RedWater, melted into the environment, I don’t even consider the enemy a threat.
Baylor nods agreement. “Agreed. Weapons?”
“Knives.”
“Stakes? It all comes down to land and women, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah. So here it is, Baylor. If I win, RedWater dissolves.”
“And if I win?”
“The Chiricahua Apache Nation surrenders and blesses every shovel of dirt the mine digs from the land Creator gave us.”
Baylor squinted. “What about Stanley?”
“Either way, you let her go. She’ll make her own decisions.”
Baylor laughs. “You could have been a billionaire, Will. Instead, you’ll die for pride and my sloppy seconds.”
In my heart and mind are drums and songs. Round One begins.
Stripped to the waist, Baylor and I face off on a rock slab under a college of prowling night owls, encircled by RedWater troops aglow at the prospect of my gory death. “Stand and deliver, Will.”
“You can still walk away, West.”
“I’ll eat your heart afterward. That’s an Injun thing, right?” Baylor, huge, muscular, dangerous, circles smoothly to his right. His knife knows him.
I put the blue stone hanging around my neck into my mouth, then circle after him. Lightning flashes in the east, where Vic observes. His hand and knife a blur, Baylor slashes from that direction.
I duck. Thunder booms. Baylor’s blade mostly goes over my head but the edge nicks my scalp. My blood runs into my eyes.
Baylor sweats. “Close. Matter of time, Will.”
Lighting flashes in the south, where Stanley is captive somewhere and our horses are bivouacked. Baylor darts from there. With a vicious upstroke his hissing blade nearly slices me pelvis to throat but leaves only a slice on my chin.
My blood drips onto my chest.
Thunder booms again.
Baylor’s winded. All that muscle burns oxygen. Weakened from the stress of maintaining focus, his footwork isn’t as crisp. His balance shifts to his rear foot. “Gonna use that knife, chief?”
Instead of taking Baylor’s bait, I let him work against himself.
Lightning flashes in the west, emblazoning an electric forest across the sky, from roots to leaves all hotter than the sun.
Baylor feints right. Crosses under my blade. Stabs where my heart beats.
I rock backwards. Baylor’s blade flashes by my side.
Thunder booms a third time.
Lightning flashes in the north, blinding me.
Baylor bulls forward and jabs his knife point without finesse at my liver. I sense Baylor’s strike and slip sideways. My abdomen is welted. I bleed from three places.
Thunder booms a fourth time.
But my vision returns.
“Come on, Will.” Baylor is hoarse, struggling for air, lumbering at me from the north. “Let’s finish this.”
“Or not. A new day’s at hand. The battle’s lost and won, but I feel generous. Let me inveigle you into a draw, Owl-Man. I’ll let you run.”
“Never. You once accused me of cowardice. Were you projecting?”
“I fear nothing that crawls, walks, runs, flies, or swims, Baylor. You’re a fabulist full of false bravado. You’re at ten percent strength. My Chiricahua will be fighting when the mountains crumble to dust.”
Baylor pulls a second knife. It gleams in the New Mexican pre-dawn light. “Double or nothing, Will?”
“How much blood suffices for a psychopath? OK. I gave you an out. What are the stakes now?”
He slashes crosses in the air theatrically. “I’m thinking a Kulturkamp. Something for the ages. Allegorical like Animal Farm. Let’s write an ending to our story. In blood, Will. Stanley’s passe. It’s you I want. You’re an uppity redskin standing in the way of progress and costing me money. I’m jonesing for closure.”
Knife between teeth, I strip. I’m losing blood but I’ve never felt better. “Last chance to walk away, Baylor. Once we start, I’ll neither give nor ask quarter.”
“Nor I. Stand and deliver.”
“This is for my cat, my brothers, my wife, and my ancestors. But I’m no brute. I’ll send you on quickly.”
Between stories and dreams, desires and memories, is there a border? Baylor circles while I stalk him. Past. Present. Future. My tutelage is complete. It’s the last battle I will contest forevermore.
My first cut, from the east where soon the sun will surmount the Mogollon Rim in the Gila Wilderness, slashes Baylor from hip bone to ribcage.
His pale pulsing intestines slither through torn fascia, emerge as if the flesh pocket’s giving birth, then dangle wetly. His boots are drip-painted in blood as if by a macabre Pollock understudy.
My second cut, a sweep from the south from where our embedded reporter, a Buffalo Soldier descendant, will carry news of our victory, slits Baylor’s throat to his vertebrae. Blood cascades from the maw in his neck. His demise is nigh but he’s still a colossus. My third cut, a hack from the west where we received Four Rules for life and death from Creator, made with a blade sharp as frozen obsidian, slices through Baylor’s trousers and flings away his testicles.
Baylor backpedals. Falls to his knees. His blue eyes dim.
The entire RedWater contingent, awed at my handiwork, drops its weapons, performs an about face, and marches into nothing so quickly it is like I dreamed them. The last to go cuts the ropes binding Stanley to a Ponderosa pine in the blind draw where Baylor left her, alone, in pain and fear.
I whistle to my thoroughbred.
Moon trots over, bearing Stanley, a child of her water inside her, into the sun. She slides down from the saddle and clings to me, face against my chest, hands “Is it over?”
“Not yet. It’s your turn.” I paint her face and hands with white clay, dust her with pollen, then give her my knife and get out of her way.
She is reluctant but her eyes shine. Young and ancient, she wields the blade and stabs from the north where an Albuquerque news station, fed by the drone overhead that Chuck put on autopilot, broadcasts our story to the world. She punctures Baylor’s heart. When she yanks the knife loose, Baylor’s life force pours out in great gouts.
Owl-Man drops face down in a black blood pool. The ground shudders. It is done. Stanley and I cry as if our tears will sluice away the gore in and on us. But they do not. I undo a lariat, tie a hangman’s knot, fasten it around Baylor’s neck, and loop the end around the saddle horn. Then we mount Moon.
Placing hooves carefully, he labors south under the weight of four.
My warriors, spared, ride after us in column.
Balance is restored.
The Great Ones salute and cross to the other side to rest until the next disturbance.
Or the end of the world, if they choose. It’s their prerogative. And theirs to judge.
“Owl Man Goes Down” is a contemporary recapitulation of the heroic arc of our Chiricahua cultural figure “Child of Water,” the son of White Painted Woman, who goes out into the world to slay four Monsters threatening to kill the Chiricahua People. The most difficult monster to kill is giant Owl Man, who represents darkness, deviousness, and death. Killing Owl Man makes the world safe and brings to close a chapter of fear, uncertainty, and danger. In the same manner, on the surface level, Will Oak’s choice to face and defeat Baylor, who represents mining and the threat it poses to Native and indigenous people worldwide, is an expression of the necessity of using violence to protect good when faced with the apotheosis of evil.
Tommy Cheis is a Chiricahua Apache guide, medicine leader, and Cochise descendant. After traveling extensively through distant lands and meeting interesting people, he lives with his horses in the Cochise Stronghold of Arizona. His stories (will) appear in Another Chicago Magazine, Puerto del Sol, Nonbinary Review, New Limestone Review, Collateral, Line Literary Review, ZiN Daily, After Dinner Conversation, and more than thirty other publications. A 2x Pushcart nominee and COL Darren L. Wright Memorial awardee, his work appears on the CLMP Reading List for Native American Month November 2024.