Frank N. McMillan III - The Young Healer

This story is dedicated to the First Americans, in all their many nations and peoples, down to every generation, in profound respect for, and in appreciation of, their historical spiritual wisdom and moral bravery in declaring to the world that all created beings on Mother Earthher two-legged, four-legged, and winged children, and her forests, mountains and riversare one family.

Frank N. McMillan III

The National Association of Elementary School Principals Childrens Book of the Year Contest winner is carefully selected by a panel of national book experts. The Young Healer is a chapter book winner. It is a unique tale that will capture the imaginations of young and old.

M y name is Feather. Yes, thats my real name. It was given to me by my grandfather, my tunkashila, as the Old Ones still say. His name is Spotted Eagle. Grandfather is Lakota. So is my mother, Ann Yellow Horse. Some history books call the Lakota people the Sioux Indians. Grandfather doesnt especially like that. He says Sioux is only a made-up name. According to him hes Lakota, pure and simple, a member of the Lakota nation, an OglalaOne of the People.

My fathers name is William Hughes Anderson. And hes from Massachusetts, which makes me half Lakota and half whatever people from Massachusetts are, I guess. I have Moms straight, dark hair and Dads green eyes. And Im tall for my age, like Dad. My full name is Feather Frances Anderson. Feather is not a bad sort of name; its just, you know, different. The kids at school are finally used to it. It took them awhilebelieve me.

All the way to third grade. Now I think they kind of like it. I know I do. Im proud of my name.

Dad doesnt live with us anymore. He moved out the summer after my little brother, Peter, was born. Then came the divorce. That was four years ago. I was seven. I still see him sometimes. Hes an anthropology professor at a college outside of Boston, but he doesnt come back to New York very often. Usually hes working in the Amazonian rain forest or someplace like that. Mom says he always runs away.

To tell the truth I do have another name besides Feather, but I cant tell anyone what it is. At least not yet. Grandfather also gave it to me. Not long ago, in fact. Its a special Lakota name. Usually Grandfather just calls me Takoja, which means grandchild. Im not supposed to tell anybody my new name until Im older. Im not exactly sure of the reason why, but Grandfathers pretty insistent about it. And he ought to know. Hes a medicine man.

Moms an attorney and very practical. And she sure doesnt go by her real Lakota name. She opted for just plain Ann Anderson. She says Grandfather is too old-fashioned. But I dont think so. He just thinks differentlyin a good way. And hes done things most people dont even dream about. He lives in the spare bedroom in our apartment and he always tells me stories. I love him a lot. Hes over eighty years old. Exactly how old, I dont know. He doesnt know either. He says the government didnt keep very good records on the reservations back in the old days.

Grandfather says he was born on a winter morning so cold that water froze inside his parents cabin. Thats cold. He also says people have it easy nowadays. When he was a boy, his kunshi (his great grandma) told him that when she was small, the Lakota people often had to eat their own moccasins or tree bark when the snow was deep and the buffalo were scarce. I cant imagine ever being that hungry!

Grandfather has lots of stories. Most are happy, but some are sad, like the one about his own grandfather, Iron Crow, who was killed by the soldiers at the place called Wounded Knee on a day when the ice was thick and the ponies were starving. Iron Crow was outside his lodge fighting to protect the helpless onesthe elders and young childrenwhen the soldiers shot him. Grandfathers voice gets all gravelly when he tells that story. It makes me sad, too, especially the part about the children. I wish Id known Iron Crow. I dont think there are too many people like him around anymore, except maybe for Grandfather.

Im typing this on my laptop in my room. Grandfather told me it was important to tell stories, even if no one was listening. Tell it to yourself, then. So I am. Its not like I have tons else to do right now, because Im only allowed ten minutes of phone time a day since Mom took away my internet privileges. Texting and Facebook are totally off limits for the time being, too. The truth is Ive been severely grounded because my friend Emily and I cut class the other day, and Mom caught us! But that was because I thought I saw Mrs. Green, this wonderful strange character I met with Grandfather that morning my brother was so sick that they took him to the hospital when, well, Grandfather and I played hooky as Mom calls it. And when I told her that it was just that the mysterious Mrs. Green was a major part of everything that happened that day, all she said was I dont want to hear it.

Mom said grounding me hurts her more than it hurts me. Yeah, well, thats her opinion. Mines a little different. And she also said that while she loved me and was proud of what Grandfather and I did that day, I still had to learn a lesson about skipping school.

Personally I prefer to think of it as an adventure Grandfather and I hador better, a quest. Actually Grandfather said we went on a vision quest, just like young Lakota warriors did in the old days when they ventured out alone into the wilderness. In a way I suppose thats what we did, except you could say we went on a modern-day vision quest right in the heart of New York City.

Its not really a long story. Basically we went shopping, ate pizza, rode in a magic taxi, talked to a bear at the Central Park Zoo, did an ancient tribal ceremony on top of the Empire State Building, snuck into my brothers hospital room, and healed him as he lay dying. Nothing to it. And along the way, we met a bunch of awesome people, including Mrs. Green, and a few who were well, lets just say they were a little less awesome.

It all started last week on a typical, boring school day, a typical, boring morning that led to the most amazing day of my life. The day they said I saved my brothers life. The day I got my new name. My new secret name.