A voice came over the speakers, louder than the music: “Protect the children! Protect the babies! Watch out for your sons! Sons, watch out for your mothers, aunts, sisters, and daughters! Protect the moon! She is the womb! Protect them all, at all costs!”
Applause broke out again once the song waned, and the children finished their performance. After a bit of quiet, ‘Sky World’, by Bear Fox, started playing. A single young lady, of about thirteen or so, took the stage, dancing in a mix of ballet and jazz styles. Her skin was a deep red, her hair jet black and braided to one side, the braid wrapped in a white ribbon. She wore a long white dress with feathers along the sleeves. She bent and moved just as he’d seen Kim do, like wind across water, a breeze across the trees. He smiled as he recognized the movements. Damn Kim was good. Somehow, some way, she’d taught this young lady to mimic her sway and style. You could have heard a pin drop. It was captivating. Everyone was so quiet in the audience, as if in a trance.
When the song was over, the stage went black. Then, a spotlight shone on the young dancer, who was now lying flat on the stage, eyes closed, her arms crossed over her body. Sounds of weeping and moaning poured from all the speakers, like hundreds of people falling apart in a funeral.
The narrator’s voice came on again.
“She danced the morning and night away. Her life was a celebration, but now, she dances no more. The darkness came. Someone took her life. Someone stole the sun and the moon and the rain and left nothing but pain. Violence. No warmth. No blood pumping. Just black ice and white snow in a world so cold. Just the loneliness of the grave. This was her last dance… Who stole the moon and hid it away?”
The curtains closed, and the energy in the place turned heavy, like a weighted blanket of dark clouds. Jack was sitting a few seats down from Martha and her family. He noticed her patting her eyes with a tissue when the curtains opened once again. The music this time was DJ Shub’s, ‘Indomitable ft. Northern Cree Singers.’
There had to be at least twenty children and teenagers on the stage, all clad in black tank tops and black leggings. The music was loud, contemporary, with a mixture of old time Native beats and new age electronica. Lights began to flash all across the stage, frantically blinking as the children moved in unison, in spasmodic motions that sent the crowd wild. It was amazing how they were all in sync, moving their arms and legs and heads like electronic machines. This went on for a few minutes, and then, they all stopped on a dime. The curtain closed and people jumped to their feet, clapping manically.
How in the world did you pull this off, Kim? By yourself at that.
He swelled with emotion and pride. All the time and energy she’d poured into this, including using some of her own money to pay people to help spread the word about the production. Furthermore, she and Martha had managed to get sponsors for the event.
As the performances continued, he felt like someone was watching him. He’d look around, but couldn’t figure out why he had that nagging feeling.
The curtains opened yet again, and in the background was a dusky sky, with the hues of sunset.
The narrator voice came over the speakers again:
“We celebrate the children. We celebrate the fathers. We celebrate the mothers. Tonight, we will talk about the moon. The womb. The girls. The women… Without them, there would be no children to continue the legacy. The traditions, and teaching of art, music, dance, and literature. Mothers were once little girls. Little girls grow into women. Not all of those little Native girls make it. Not all of those Native women in Alaska return home unscathed. To quote the Native Women’s Wilderness Group, ‘Our women, girls, and two-spirits are being taken from us in an alarming way. As of 2016, the National Crime Information Center has reported 5,712 cases of missing American Indian and Alaska Native women and girls. Strikingly, the U.S. Department of Justice missing persons database has only reported 116 cases. The majority of these murders are committed by non-Native people on Native-owned land. The lack of communication, combined with jurisdictional issues among state, local, federal, and tribal law enforcement, make it nearly impossible to begin the investigative process…’
The silhouette of a man appeared on the stage—a tall being wearing a head of feathers and regal Native attire. He shimmied and swayed to a simple, yet haunting, drumbeat then raised his hands toward the sky, as if crying out to God for help. At the end of the traditional dance, he walked off the stage roaring like a lion…