The Buffalo Soldier

The following is the true account of a shamanic journey that took place the second weekend of November in LaCrosse, Wisconsin. The journey was part of a workshop sponsored by the Foundation for Shamanic Studies. Special thanks to David Peck for sharing his adventure with the group. And a very special thank you to Homer Winslow.

The journey into the lower world occurred without incident. It was simple and easy, just as it had been a hundred times before. A slow descent along a cavern-shrouded, meandering river, opening into a mist-covered lake surrounded by dense, primordial forest. Stepping onto the moss-covered shore was a step backward in time, to when the world was new and fresh and unspoiled. The dewy scent of green hung graciously in the moist air, warm despite the coolness of the surroundings. The silence was powerful. It invaded every crevice of the hidden forest.

Then came the thunder. Not from the cool, gray-blue sky, but from the gritty, mulch covered ground. The earth shook. The air pulsed with the rhythmic beat of hooves pounding harshly against the decaying ground. The avalanche of sound marched closer, like a freight train speeding through the blackest of nights. But the shift of frequencies to indicate the train had passed never came. The sound grew louder until the noise consumed the darkness. Finally, as the echoing threatened to consume the pristine splendor, a burst of yellow-white light clapped the ferocious noise to an end, and the majestic creator of the thunder appeared.

The beast stood at least seven feet from the ground to the rounded hump over its front shoulders. Deep, old, knowing eyes peered out of a massive, stately head, peaked by sharp, black horns and drawn downward by an obsidian beard. Its dark, brown-black coat shimmered like a gold tapestry in the ethereal light.

"You seek a spirit for aid," the Buffalo said without words.

"Yes. That's why I have come. My intent for this journey. But you're not one of my power animals."

"Oh, but I am. I have been with you for a long time. For ages. Come with me."

A flash engulfed the mist-shrouded scene. Another thunderous clap and the blackness returned, but only as a brief prelude to a windswept plain. Parched, crimson, sandy soil extends to the horizon in all directions. The stark, flat, desolateness is only broken by an occasional rocky outcropping or nomadic sagebrush dancing across a sun-glazed floor. The area is barren except for a lonely soul wandering the endless landscape in search of comrades long departed to their original home.

"Who are you?" a tattered, thin black man asked. His soiled cavalry blues are a sharp contrast to his sun-bleached white beard. "Where did you come from? And why is there a Buffalo with you?"

"My name is David. And this is Spirit Buffalo. We've come to help you. To help you to move on. What's your name?"

"Homer. Homer Winslow."

"Why are you still here, Homer? Why are you wandering this deserted place all alone?"

"I'm dead," Homer retorted sharply. "I know that. But I can't leave. I can't move on with these feelings in me. And I can't find a way to get rid of them."

"What feelings, Homer? How did you die?"

"Homer," Buffalo began, "was a Buffalo Soldier."

Homer nodded his head graciously, then tipped his blood-stained cap.

"Buffalo Soldiers," Buffalo continued, "were a battalion of black men who were forced to fight with the cavalry against the Native Americans in the Indian wars. Homer was killed in battle and scalped."

"And we were the best," Homer said angrily. "The best fighters. We didn't want to be doing it. We had nothing against the Indians. The Whites, they made us fight. But if we had to, damn, we were going to be the best. And we were. We were better than any of the lazy cowards that pulled us into their war."

"Yes. You were," Buffalo said. "I was there. I saw it. And the Indians, they knew it, too. They had more respect for the Buffalo Soldiers than they did for all of the white men."

"They did?"

"Yes, Homer. They did."

"But nobody else did. The whites treated us worse than they did the Indians. We did our best for them, but they didn't care. Nobody cared then. Nobody cares now. It's all forgotten."

"That's not true, Homer. Not any more."

"What do you mean?"

"Climb on my back, Homer. You will see. And by seeing, you can let go. You can let go of your resentment and anger. Then you'll be free to move on. You see, we, the Buffalo, and you are very much alike. The Buffalo has been a giveaway animal. We have given freely of ourselves, knowing what our place was at the time. We didn't feel resentment. We, like you, Homer, are Animals of the Sun."

Buffalo dropped to his forelegs and Homer climbed on his back. In a mighty, graceful leap, Buffalo was back on his feet. A thunderous gallop stirred up a cloud of dust and the scene changed. Gone was the desolate plain. Gone was the parched air. Gone was the glaring sun. Now, a muted, placid blue sky reflecting an indirect, soft yellow sun glowed around them.

"See, Homer," Buffalo said, nodding his horned head towards the granite monument.

Homer squinted to make out the words.

"It says In Memory of the Buffalo Soldiers," Homer said.

"Yes, Homer. In memory of the Buffalo Soldiers. You have been remembered. Your courage has been recognized."

"It has," Homer agreed solemnly. "We have been remembered," he continued as tears welled up in his tired eyes.

"Look into the clouds, Homer."

Homer wiped his eyes and looked away from the monument towards the sky.

"Watch the moving pictures and words, Homer."

A black speck on the horizon grew, and transformed into colors and light.

"It says, Dedicated to the Tuskegee Airmen, the Black Wings, trained in Tuskegee, Alabama."

"Yes, Homer. The Black Wings. They were black fighter pilots in a war that took place long after you died, in machines you never dreamed of. They were fighter pilots in World War II. They were the best. They never lost one of the bombers they escorted."

"Then things are being set straight?"

"Yes, Homer, they are. It's time for you to go home."

"Yes, it is, Buffalo. I'm tired. Tired of the pain. Tired of the anger."

"Watch the sky again, Homer."

Homer looked up. Buffalo crouched, then bolted upward. The tranquil blue tore open, and in layers peeled away. The darkness in the rent gave way to the most intense yet soft white light Homer had ever witnessed. They approached the light.

"You can go home now, Homer."

"But you're not coming?"

"No, Homer, it's not my place. Not my time."

"But?"

"It belongs to you, Homer. You have earned it."

"But my story. It needs to be told." Homer tilted his head downward. "David? Will you tell it?"

"Yes, Homer. I will tell your story. I promise."

"Go now, Homer."

"Thank you, Buffalo," Homer said. "Thank you, David."

Homer climbed from the back of Buffalo and slipped into the light.

"It's time for me to go back to my place," Buffalo said.

"And I to mine," David said. "I have a story to tell."

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