Time was short. At least that is what the Warden said when he had come to inform James Grey-Wolf that the chamber was being prepared. According to his calculations he had but a few hours left on earth. He sat cross-legged on the cold cell floor; his priest had visited him, and the Warden had kindly allowed a simple rosary to be left. James threaded the beads through his hands, the prayers coming and flowing effortlessly off his lips. After an hour he placed the beads around his neck and stood. He stretched his arms and fingers, feeling the tension in them. He gazed at the cell—it was crudely painted white, and he had a steel bed to the right. He sat on the edge and thought. He had been offered a last meal, but he had refused it politely. He had too much to prepare for; what he faced was difficult, for he knew not what awaited him, if anything.

He had been angry once and his mind unwieldy from it, yet now he was calm, the anger replaced with purpose and vengeance replaced by the desire for balance and justice, for he was an innocent man, framed for a brutal murder he had not committed. Yet the man who framed him was powerful, and witnesses and DNA were produced that seemingly showed James Grey-Wolf as the perpetrator of the heinous crime.

James got up from the bed and sat down on the cold floor again. As he lowered himself, he saw the paper sticking out from the coarse wool blanket. He tugged on it, and it slipped out. The envelope was plain white; inside was a single photograph that showed a green field and pond. James recognized it as his own land. Turning the paper over he read the words he already knew by heart: “Walked your land today, it’s a shame you will never see it again. I will see you tonight at the execution; you will find me in the upper right corner. I am most excited to attend.” It was signed “X.”

James did not let the letter from his enemy distract him. He slipped the picture back inside and shoved it under the blanket. Standing, he began to prepare himself. His cell was not large, but he would make the most of it. He bowed his head, and in his mind, he heard the beat of the drum. He then began to dance, lifting his voice in the chants of his people. He moved fluidly around the small space, lifting his hands and knees as he spun around. He continued this for almost half an hour. The dance was old, passed down from his grandfather’s grandfather; few outside of his family knew it, and even those who did were forbidden from practicing such a powerful dance.

The air around James began to seemingly crackle with energy, but he was unsure if it was real or just the product of his anxiety and wishful mind.

A few moments later he again sat on his bed. He fingered his rosary and began reciting the Lord’s Prayer. Over and over again he said it, the words giving him strength. He had been raised to worship the Nazarene and serve him; he still did. Also, from a young age he was taught secrets from his father, a medicine man of the Paiute. What he learned were the ancient secrets of his people, secrets that had long ago been shrouded in myth. However, he was warned to never reveal or practice what he had learned. One man had used this knowledge years before, a medicine man named Wovoka, and his use of the dance had almost unleashed war across the plains. However, James now feared he had no choice but to use the knowledge that was passed down to him.

He rested for the next hour, then by his calculation he had but 30 minutes till the guards came to take him away to the chamber of execution. As the clock ticked and time passed, he danced the dance of his people again. He danced until he heard the sound of the door being opened. The guards entered and shackled him; the Warden looked pained as they walked down the long hallway. James shuffled as he walked, his feet only able to take tiny steps. As he moved down along the path, the lights suddenly began to flicker, the hallway being plunged into darkness for a few seconds. The darkness flashed, and James looked about. For a moment he was alone, and the hallway in front of him was bathed in light. He saw a swarm of butterfly’s flutter about him; the light was so bright ahead that he could not see without squinting. He gazed ahead and made out a shape of something in the distance. A monstrous form emerged from the light, its cloven hoofs reporting off the concrete floor.

The massive form of a White Buffalo stepped out of the light and stared at James Grey-Wolf. James was frozen; the creature was wondrous to behold, huge with fur that was snow white, standing almost to the height of a man. It was silent. The walls of the prison and the guards seemed to melt away, grass grew under his feet, and he saw trees and hills rising all around him. He was outside; it was beautiful. He took a tentative step and felt the blades of grass beneath him. He ran and felt the sun on his face. He stopped and leaned over, his hands on his knees, breathing hard. He then leaned on a tree and looked in the distance. He saw a small pond and in the center of it an island sandbar, staked in the middle was a large pole and he saw figures dancing around it.

Curious, he walked over to the pond. It took a few moments, but he eventually arrived. He slowly stepped into the standing water; it was not deep. He then waded over to the island and stepped onto the hard soil. The four were dressed like medicine men from the past. James was unsure how he was where he was, but there were many legends of worlds within worlds and of some holy men who had strong medicine who were able to cross over and prevent their own deaths. Maybe he was in such a place? The men stopped and looked at him. He could not see their faces, covered in masks, but he felt like he knew them. They carried medicine sticks adorned with feathers and beads. One of the masked men stepped from the group and stopped. He then reached out his arm and beckoned James.

The light flickered again, and James was back in the hallway. The Warden looked mystified and said, “Must be having electrical problems,” he then told a guard to schedule an electrician to come down in the morning.

As they passed through the doorway and entered the area outside the chamber, the Warden stopped and said, “James, I feel terrible about this, I really am sorry.” James looked at the pained warden and said, “Don’t worry Warden, you are a good man, I will always remember the kindness you showed me, you will be spared.” The warden gave him a funny look, then said, “You ready?” James nodded and they entered the chamber. It was large, with a table in the shape of a cross in the middle, belts, and locks in place to hold the prisoner down. A window opened to the viewing chamber and was covered by a curtain. The vials of liquid used for the injection were being prepped, and the Warden led James to the table.

He was unshackled and the Warden motioned to the table. James lifted himself onto it and laid his arms on the crossbeams. An attendant then belted his hands and feet, drawing the leather tightly around his limbs. James felt a moment of panic but then calmed his mind and prepared himself. As he waited for the needle to be attached, he saw a shape above him.

A butterfly, small and delicate, fluttered around the room then came and landed on his finger. It stayed for a moment before ascending again and vanishing. Strangely, no one but him seemed to have seen it. The IV line was then placed, and he felt a stab of pain as the needle pierced him. The Warden then walked over and pulled the curtain. James gazed out, unable to see as the placement was done so the audience could see him, but he could not see them. However, he knew just where to look, the upper right corner, where X would be seated. James could almost feel his eyes on him and that crooked smile on his face.

The Warden, looking more pained by the second, walked over to James and held a microphone in his hand. “Any last words, son?”

James looked up at the Warden. The man had always been kind to him, and they had even spoken once, and he had confided in James that he believed he was innocent. James nodded and the warden held the mic close to James’ mouth. He then closed his eyes and paused, then said:

“The Old Ones fade and are no more, and no one calls their names. Our People vanish and come to ashes, and no one sings the prayers. We were once strong and many, I call the names of those before.”

James nodded at the Warden that he was finished and then paused again before he began to utter a low chant, a chant not uttered for over one hundred years. Its words flowed from his tongue, powerful and ancient. He continued and his voice grew louder. The Warden then signaled the attendant, and the three switches were flipped; the lethal cocktail began to flow slowly down the tube to James. As the chant continued, suddenly the lights began to flicker, on and off. To those in the execution room and viewing through the window several shapes began to take form. They blinked and shimmered into view, as they materialized, they were seen standing around the execution table. The lights continued to flicker, and the Warden gazed in shock to see the ghostly forms of four men dressed in Native American garb that seemed to belong to medicine men. The Warden took a step back as one of the men’s heads turned slowly and looked at him, the figure’s face obscured by a mask. They gazed at James Grey-Wolf, and each raised a medicine stick above the execution table. As James reached the end of his chant, there was a slight crackle of energy in the air. His body began to flicker, and shimmer, then he suddenly began to fade as if he was a film negative being exposed to light. A few seconds later the lights above again blinked and then James was gone, and nothing remained but the IV needle and tube dripping poison onto the now empty table.

The Warden and the guards were speechless; the ghostly forms were as well as James gone. One of the guards turned and asked, “What do we do?” The Warden shook himself from the shock and said, “Sound the alarm, lock down the prison.” However, the Warden had a sinking feeling that they would never be seeing James Grey-Wolf again. Unknown to them in the viewing chamber, a man clad in a dark suit was swiftly leaving and not looking back, the crooked smile long since gone.

James Grey-Wolf stood on a sandbar, across from him a beautiful pond stretched around him. A wooden pole was standing in front of him. James attached rawhide ropes to his body and winced as he felt the pain of the bone piercing his skin to hold the rawhide to his body. He finished and paused a moment and allowed the sun to shine on his face and warm his body. He wanted to stay here forever and enjoy this moment, but he could not. After a few minutes he opened his eyes, and he began to dance. As he danced around the pole and felt the sun he focused on his life, and he thought of the man who had placed him in the prison he had just escaped from.

As the sun moved across the sky James kept dancing; the evening arrived, and the rawhide had not yet broken. Suddenly James felt a presence and saw the ghostly forms of the medicine men around him. He fell and the bone was pulled from his chest. As he lay on the sandy ground James looked into the distance where the city lay and where his enemy lived. He then whispered to the wind and to his ancestors, “I live, know this, I will count coup on you three times, yet you will not see me, then when you least expect it, I swear by my ancestors we shall meet face to face.”

Byron Lafayette

Byron Lafayette is an LA-based author and Chairman of the Indie Film Critics of America. He has written “Of Existential and Monolithic Ideals” and “Abandon the Darkness,” with his upcoming novel “The Twilight Walker Chronicles” set for release. When he’s not writing, Lafayette enjoys exploring the city through street photography.

Author’s Note: I’ve always been fascinated by the historical intersection of Christian and Native American mysticism, particularly the real-life Ghost Dance movement, ever since I was young, and I discovered that I have Native ancestry on my mother’s side. This story builds on that interest, seeking to tell a modern, uncanny tale about an innocent man, who, out of desperation, must use the ancient secrets of the ghost dance and his people that has been passed down to him.