The Warding Arrows of Kimimela

SHOUTOUT TO VARSHA VIMAL BECAUSE HER BIRTHDAY IS COMING UP!!!!!!!

HAPPY BIRTHDAY VARSHA!!!!!!!!!

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14 days earlier:

They were coming for him.

No, correction: They had already come for him.

But he wouldn’t let them arrest him! He couldn’t! He was Sitting Bull and he had done so much for his tribes to be arrest now!

The Indian Police had barged into his house early this morning, demanding to arrest him for creating violence. Sitting Bull was still sleepy from being awakened at such an early hour, but as soon as he realized who was in his house, his mind cleared up instantly.

He refused to go with them, and started to shout. He figured that he wouldn’t go that easily, after all, he was the great Chief Sitting Bull! He had united the Sioux tribes to ensure the White People wouldn’t take over his land, and his people need him! He wouldn't go down without a fight.

The police dragged him outside, where a crowd was beginning to gather. A young man that the Sitting Bull knew very well had yelled in alarm as he saw what was happening. He took out a long rifle, and shot one of the police officers, who immediately fell down, blood pouring out of his wound.

People screamed, and an Indian police yelled something that Sitting Bull couldn’t make out. Then, in response, he took his own rifle and aimed it at Sitting Bull, and pulled the trigger.

Sitting Bull felt something hit his chest hard, and then red blossomed like a deadly rose on impact. He staggered backwards. 

The police fired again, and Sitting Bull felt something hard come in contact with his head. The bullet drove itself deep into his brain, and he fell, the last thing on his mind before everything went black was at least he had resisted arrest.

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The golden sun rose from the ground, the signal of the start of a new day. The sunrise was like a stunning conflagration, blazing with reds and oranges that melted away to the deep blue of the sky. And yet it had a delicate feel to it, like a precious painting that one does want to get dirt on. It was the kind of beauty that the world would only have in the 1890s, before mankind came in and ruined the natural wonders of the world.

Along the banks of Wounded Knee Creek, were several makeshift camps of the Native American tribe, the Minneconjou Sioux. The leader of this tribe, Chief Spotted Elk, who is also known as Big Foot, sat in one of the camps, gazing out at the lines of people surrounding him, all bearing the symbol of American troops.

Even with the freshness of the new day, tension was strung in tight cords, any tighter and it would explode.

Spotted Elk whispered something in prayer as the White People’s troops moved in. He had thought that they were safe when he moved his tribe to Pine Ridge Agency to practice the Ghost Dance, which was originally promoted by Sitting Bull.

Spotted Elk clenched his fists in anger at the thought of this deceased friend, shot in cold blood by the Indian Police.

He had thought that the Ghost Dance would give the land back to his people and drive away the White People. He didn’t know it then, but he couldn’t have been more wrong.

Now the White People’s troops were upon them, cornering them at Wounded Knee. They advanced quickly, and their leader stepped up.

“Big Foot, come with us and give us your weapons without complications and we will not harm you.” The man’s voice was cold, like it was laced with steel.

Spotted Elk ran ideas through his mind, looking for something they could do to resist arrest. But he could not think of anything.

There were about 700 white men, and only 350 Siouxes, half of which were women, children and elders. He could not take them into battle.

Without saying anything, Spotted Elk reluctantly handed over his rifle, all the while glaring at the men who invaded his land. His tribe followed, handing over their weapons as well. 

As Spotted Elk turned around, waiting to be arrested, a bang sounded, ringing out into the still morning. 

A gunshot.

He whipped his head around, but could not figure out where the sound came from. It was like time freezed for a minute, and then the world erupted into chaos.

His people immediately rushed forward to reclaim their weapons, firing and yelling for their hometown, and the opposing side loaded theirs. But Spotted Elk did not move, only stood there in shock. And that was how he stood until a bullet buried itself into his stomach.

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Native American bodies littered the floor, with few American ones scattered in. Wounds were morbidly displayed, the flesh ripped open, blood gushing everywhere. Many people had missing limbs and organs.

The women and children did not know how to wield a weapon, so all they could do was run.

A little boy, no older than 9, looked around in fear, trying to find his parents. He screamed and cried, but there was no answer. His tears blurred his eyes, and through the haze he searched among the dead bodies, hoping and praying that his parents wouldn’t be amongst them.

Bullets whizzed past him, and one skimmed his leg. He cried out in pain, collapsing onto the ground.

“Mama! Papa! Help me!” He screamed as loud as he could, but no one could hear him over the roar of war.

An elder woman who was very well respected came up behind him, and grabbed him, carefully avoiding his injured leg.

“Come, Little One,” she said into his ear, trying to be heard over the ruckus of war. “We must flee.”

“NO!” The boy screamed in response, thrashing and kicking with his good leg at her but her hold on him never wavered.

“My family is out there! My sister, who is only 3 and my parents! My Mama and Papa…” He stopped for a second and looked up at the elder in hope. “Have you seen them?”

The elder winced, and nodded. “I have.”

“Please tell me! Are they alive, are they okay? Can you take me to them?”

“I cannot. It would be best for you to not see what has happened to them, for they are in a better place now.”

At this, the boy started crying, his tears streaming down his dirty cheeks and washing them clean. He didn’t even struggle as the elder picked him up and ran into the woods.

The branches and bushes scratched them, and the boy bit back cries of pain whenever his injured leg came into contact with twigs.

“Here,” the elder panted, breathless. “This will be a safe place to rest.” 

The boy didn’t say anything in response, only whimpered.

“What is your name, Little One?”

“A-Akecheta.”

“That is a beautiful name. They called me Kimimela.”

“My Mama said my name meant ‘warrior.’” He looked prideful, but then remembered that he would never see his family ever again. He started crying again.

“Why?” Akecheta sniffled, his once innocent eyes staring up at Kimimela. Now they were clouded with murder and bloodshed.

“Why what, Little One?”

“Why must the White People come in and kill our people, who have done nothing to them?”

Kimimela looked down. “I do not have the answer to that. We can only pray to our Lord that this bloodshed will end soon.”

“It hurts.” He whimpered, looking down at his wound.

“Let me see what I can do.” The elder took a nearby leaf and wrapped it around Akecheta’s bleeding wound.

“You are a very lucky boy that the bullet only grazed your skin, had it entered it the outcome would have been much worse.”

“But I don’t feel lucky.”

“I know, Little One, I know.” 

Kimimela closed her eyes, praying, and then she took a nearby stick and drew in the dirt.

“What are you doing?”

“I am drawing the Warding Arrows, to ward off any Evil Spirits that may come in your way.”

“What about you?” Akecheta asked, scooting closer to her.

“Do not worry, Little One. It will protect me as well.”

The two sat there, holding each other, as the bloody battle ragged on.

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Akecheta awoken to the sound of footsteps. Kimimela was already awake, quietly looking outside of their hiding place.

“What is it?” Akecheta crept beside her.

“Shh, I am sure it’s nothing.”

But it wasn’t nothing.

Voices approached, speaking in a language that Akecheta did not recognize. He huddled with his back to a tree, hoping that the strange men would pass. But they didn’t.

They barged into their hiding spot, and pointed their guns at Akecheta and Kimimela.

But it was their skin color that angered Akecheta. They were White People, the people that had murdered his entire family.

Kimimela gasped, and threw herself in front of Aketcheta.

“Run, Little One! Run like the wind!”

“But what about you?”

“Do not worry about me, I am old and will not live to see many seasons anymore. You are still young!” 

“No! I cannot have another person I love die!”

Kimimela smiled at him, the smile dripping with sadness. “I will catch up. Just run, and remember that I will always be with you, no matter what. The Warding Arrows will protect us!”

Reassured, Aketcheta ran, Kimimela giving him the distraction he needed. He heard several gunshots behind him, but dared not to look back.

She will be okay. She promised me!

He ran until he could not run anymore, and collapsed onto the grass. He looked around him and found a small hole that only he could fit in, and sat there for a while, until he remembered Kimimela.

How will she find me if I am hidden so well? I should go look for her, the White Men must be gone by now!

And so, as tired as he was, he got up, and headed back in the direction that he had come.

He found their hiding spot, but as soon as he approached it he knew something was wrong. 

There was blood everywhere, the red spots vibrantly standing out against the lush greenery.

“Kimimela?” He quietly called, but there was no answer. He crept inside, and then froze, his eyes unable to look away from the horrible sight before him.

It was Kimimela, laying on the floor, her arms and legs twisted in unnatural positions. There were big, red, gaping holes in her sides, back, and one in her leg. All of them had dark, dried blood crusted around. Her beautiful black hair that had strays of grey had turned a sickening shade of red, and her kind brown eyes were open, staring blankly at the trees above her. 

Kimimela, sweet, caring Kimimela, was dead. She was killed, no, murdered, in the most gruesome way possible. 

It was like they played with her, seeing how long she could last with her wounds before she bled out and died.

She was murdered by the same people who had murdered Aketcheta’s family and friends.

He screamed, no longer caring if someone heard him. He had lost everything dear to him, and the word “life” to him was just that. A word.

With no meaning.

“YOU SAID YOU WOULD CATCH UP! YOU PROMISED!” He sobbed.

“Why didn’t you keep your promise?” His voice was laced with raw emotion.

Akecheta remembered the look on the White Men’s faces before they barged into their hiding spot.

They had no emotion in it, like killing people was nothing more than a task that they must complete.

He howled with anger, as his mind formed one single thought: He would take revenge. It didn’t matter to him how many White Men he killed, but he needed to do something, anything, to avenge what they had done to his peaceful tribe.

Akecheta quietly snuck out of their hiding spot, but not before closing Kimimela’s eyes. Even with all of her wounds, he wanted to think that she was in heaven now with his family, looking down on him and guiding him.

He was a small boy, and he used this to his advantage. He vaguely remembered the steps Kimimela had taken from the battlefield, and he repeated them.

The war was still going on, and many more Native American bodies littered the floor. Akecheta went to the nearest one, and picked up the soldier's fallen rifle.

He had never touched a rifle before, but he had watched his father fire one enough times to know exactly what to do.

The gun felt heavy and foreign in his small hands, but the thought of his loved ones gave him renewed strength.

Aiming it, he yelled with all his might as he pulled down on the trigger, and the shot boomed out, mixed with all of the other shots. He watched as the White Man he was aiming for fell, blood spilling onto his back.

He tried to hold steady, but the recoil still pushed him back a step, right into the pathway of a bullet.

It was behind him, so he didn’t see it coming, but he felt it as soon as it pierced into his skin.

It wasn’t like his earlier encounter of a bullet, where it had just grazed him. This time, it was like the pain was spreading from his insides, tearing him apart piece by piece.

He screamed as he fell, landing on the exact spot where the bullet hit him. He wasn’t dead yet, no, but he could feel his life force leaving him, just as his blood was pumping out of his body.

It was pain like he had never felt before, and he prayed for another bullet to end his agony.

Soon, he felt his eyes closed as he welcomed the darkness, but then he saw a light shine from within. It was blinding, and he walked towards it, until he came across a golden door with the Warding Arrow symbol on it. It opened for him, and inside it, stood his Mama, his Papa, his sister, and Kimimela, all waiting for him.

“What did I tell you, Little One? The Warding Arrows have worked, they have warded off all the Evil Spirits. You will be safe here, Little One. There will be no more Evil Spirits.” Kimimela smiled at him, standing at the front of the group.

Aketcheta laughed, and ran to them. Together, they stepped through the golden door, to another world, a better world, where the Warding Arrows kept all the Evil Spirits locked out.

Author's Note: This is a real event in history called the Wounded Knee Massacre, and the Chiefs that I had included in this story (Sitting Bull and Spotted Elk) were real Sioux Chiefs. However, Aketcheta and Kimimela were fictional characters. Also, sorry in advance if I got any of the details wrong, I tried my best to get everything accurate but it's possible I missed something.