Whistleblower in the Morning’s Mist - by Brian Thomas Armstrong

Whistleblower in the Morning’s Mist

by Brian Thomas Armstrong

The Whistleblower’s flute plays its shrill song as it echoes in the morning’s mist of the surrounding woods outside the giant intricately painted canvas Teepee.

The sand painting on the ground inside the Teepee is almost finished as the dark Otshee Monetoo that hides within me is partly ejected through my guts as I heave black bile from my mouth to the ground and the sand painter stifles an inner groan as he destroys the intricate colored masterpiece he has toiled over.

The peyote tea was strong medicine and I have forgotten how many days it has been since I entered the sacred circle within.

I hear the shrill whistle of the Whistleblower outside the Teepee as I recover from my retching – shreeeeee shreeeeee shree shree shreeeeee shreeeeee, the only reality that is left to me is here, and I focus on the small fire that crackles in the middle of our circle and keeps the tea warm, flaring in puffs of colored smoke as the Shaman tosses strange fragrant powders into the flames.

A young couple tries to leave the circle of the giant tent but they are stopped at the door and sternly told to sit back down and return to it lest they break the strong magic, and risk a black cloud raining down misfortune on us all for angering and disrespecting the spirits that were called upon by the Shaman.

How long has it been? How much longer can I last? Are they killing me?

Once again the Otshee Monetoo that hides within me is partly ejected through my guts as I heave black bile from my mouth to the ground and the sand painter stifles an inner groan again as he once more has to destroy the intricate colored masterpiece he has toiled over.

Once again I hear the shrill whistle outside the Teepee as I recover from my retching – shreeeeee shreeeeee shree shree shreeeeee shreeeeee.