Dark Matters_ Ghost Dance (Book 2) - Christie Golden [47]
"What is it?" asked Paris.
For a long moment Chakotay didn't reply. He stared at the dancers as if transfixed. Then slowly, with pain in his voice he replied, "The Ghost Dance. They're doing the Ghost Dance."
"What's the Ghost Dancer*
Chakotay turned to look at him, his dark eyes picking up the red glint of the flickering flames. "In Earth's nineteenth century, there was a great deal of conflict between the European settlers and the natives of the Americas. There arose a leader named Wovoka, who prophesied that all white men would be swallowed by the Earth, and all dead Indians would emerge and enjoy a world free from their conquerors. It would be a new era for the native peoples. His followers performed something called the Ghost Dance, in honor of the dead who would arise. Participants would dance in a circle, just like this one. Word of the Ghost Dance spread throughout the
western part of the United States, and it alarmed the white government."
"Did Wovoka advocate violence?"
"No, quite the opposite. He expressly stated that his followers weren't to make any trouble. But the whites were still worried. The famous Indian chief Sitting Bull was killed because he was believed to be an instigator of an impending rebellion. His followers were rounded up and placed in an encampment near Wounded Knee Creek."
"That sounds familiar," said Paris.
"The Lakota Indians weren't worried. They took the ideals of the Ghost Dance a step further. They made sacred shirts, believed to be bulletproof."
Paris knew about bullets, and he didn't like the way this story was going. "But they weren't bulletproof, were they?" he asked, turning to watch the dancers.
"No," Chakotay replied, his voice soft "They weren't. In December of 1890, a shot was fired within the camp and the soldiers began shooting. They massacred some two hundred unarmed men, women, and children. Those who tried to escape the battle were pursued and killed. All because of the fear stirred up by the Ghost Dance."
He didn't say anything more. He didn't have to. Paris watched the figures moving in the firelight and desperately hoped that history was not about to repeat itself.
The rain had finally stopped, but slogging along in sopping wet domes was still far from relaxing in a holosim of a glorious, sunny, dry afternoon. But loni
was used to it, and strode purposefully along. It was their leader, Ezbai, the soft Interceptor, who seemed to be suffering the most.
The tiny bundle in her arms whimpered. She cuddled it close as best she could and made soft noises. They needed to transport, and soon. They had brought nothing that was fit for an infant to eat. But they were still within what was called the forbidden parameter-too close to the primitives to risk utilizing high-level technology. They might be discovered.
The baby was very healthy, and anger again rose inside her. He kicked, and filled his lungs. "No, shh, shh," she urged softly. The cry of an irritated and hungry baby would give them away quicker than the hum of a transporter. The noise pierced her ears. His little body heaved with his wails. As one, the group picked up their pace to a trot. Soon, now, they would be able to transport.
He kicked, angry. His small right foot waved in the air. This was what he had been sentenced to death for, equinus of the ankle, varus of the heel, and adduction of the forefoot-an affliction that would be remedied by a doctor in a matter of minutes.
She hated them.
Dirty, stinking, feebleminded primitives. Why did the Alilann do these recovery missions undercover, sneaking to the sacred mountain, gathering up the children, taking care that they left no trace of footprints? Why not boldly stride in, snatch the helpless children, and force the Culilann to give up their barbaric ways? All the talk of maintaining peace and harmony between the two castes made her sick,
never more so than at moments like these,