Remoy Philip

writer. creator. producer.

Sioux Sacrifice

Sioux Sacrifice
by Remoy Philip

The dawn was pregnant with nervous energy. The sun had not shone, but light was beginning to bathe the day. He was atop her. Sweat covered them both in a glaze of pure fear. Fear of the day; the day was his sacrifice. His prick hardened in her. He Grazing Bull. His eyes were focused on her as he rhythmically moved through her energy while she fearfully, eyes closed, received his message. Her arms scarred in checkered mystical reserve for the god of the day held tightly to his body making sure not to lose him. She wished to tear his flesh. The day was growing quicker, aging faster and faster. Soon they would lose each other for an eternity in the day. The tipi around them held their heat; held their energy. She kept her mouth closed only to taste his skin, but her voice uttered no cries. The cries would be later used to worship her god; the god that brought life to the both of them along with the world around. One last thrust of love he gave her, and they both received in worship of the world around them. She shook, he shuddered. Their skin both leathered in a brown molasses and both covered in markings each to their own gender which harkened them to the Sun. His on the wrists were scars, marks, artistry which made him eligible. Hers were marked all up her arms and soon her voice would also be participating. Sweat salty to the taste.


The day had begun. The men and women were anxious in preparation. The sun was steady and ready in receiving where in time it would again grant the world blessings of creation. The cottonwood with stars at the end of each appendage had been torn from its roots as a war torn savage. Now it had been rebuilt, reappointed, in the center of the world as a tool, an altar for pure worship. The dance circle was complete. They held sage. For the last three sun-ups these men had blown through pipes, whistles of the bones of eagles in singing to the gods. Constantly they blew as they danced. Throats dry as the sun-torched valley they stood in. Their eyes focused on their deity. Their divine was golden and burned with a golden fire. And then, they danced some more. The sun would then relent and give them one more day. But this was the fourth day. The eminent climax relied on one more faithful sunrise and even more faithful men. Grazing Bull was soon to be a medicine man, but for this season he appointed himself as a dancer. He gave himself up to be sacrificed. He was the faithful lamb; colored from head to toe in various stripes and swirls of reds and blues. His eyes were never diverted. Neither was his mistress’s; their appointment was not here not now. They both along with the faithful around were here to worship and prostrate themselves.

Grazing bull lay with face to the sun and back flat to the floor of the earth in the center of the dance circle. His jaw rattling as his teeth dug in deep to the cottonwood branch. He could taste the life that only the earth could bring. The earth was breathing for him. The medicine man crouched over top the sacrifice. The women danced in motion with whistles and lungs exploding in song around the circle. Patience was necessary. Bull's teeth gripped tighter. His eyes quivered in the present existence of fear. Release. The eagle's claw was black and held a curvature of three inches with a thickness of an inch and a quarter. Straight into his chest, above the heart went the first claw. Grazing Bull went numb, but the pain was ever more real digging into his muscles tearing at every sinew that life had given him. His body, his DNA, his life forever altered. One more turn at reality. The second claw dug at the left chest. Blood trickled. Red ran down the blue stripes of paint in accordance to his ribs. His eyes bled tears. His voice uttered no cry. His lungs pulsated nervously; every breath in gathered up pain that was then echoed in release of breath. Numb in shock Bull was helped up to stand straight. He stood as only the living can. The leather cords that were attached to the claws were pulleyed to the reborn cottonwood and were now attached to Grazing Bull. He was no longer man. The cottonwood was no longer the tree. They were all the earth's; and the earth belonged to the sun. The chords were tightened pulling, tearing, changing the muscle and skin. The body, his body, where hours earlier was engorged in his lover's naked love, taking her faith and giving her his, was now being transformed, being given to the Sun. Lifted higher and higher until his feet hung six inches off the ground. The cries of worship never died. The eyes never deterred. Straight at the sun they stared; pupils frustrated, closed in fear of the oversaturation of light. They were here for one thing and accepted their promise, their gift, and their gratefulness. They needed the earth, they needed the sun, and with this understanding they gave up of themselves. As the time progressed, moved forward as only time can, the skin tore. Bull struggled to free himself. Bull shook so his body would break from the new earth. The tree would and should be the victor. The claws broke through. The body was torn. Down the bull fell. The bloodied body lay prostrate where they put sage on the wounds. The Sun soon would fall and the season would begin. The song would die and life would continue till its time to die. The Sun would rise the next day, thankful and appreciative for its members who chose to worship the majesty of the power it held. The golden earth would turn green and life would give way to hope of more, where the birth of time would never cease to end.

Be Relentless,