“Sit and rest with me,” one of the women said. Appearing about my age, and a few inches taller than me, her smile was infectious and her offer more than welcome. Glad for a small rest, I joined her. I leaned against a fallen tree and pulled my knees up, circling my arms around them.
“I’m Sarah, or Rushing Wind,” she said.
“I’m Cree, or Little Foot, whichever you prefer,” I said and smiled.
“I like Cree,” she said and seemed pleased.
She looked over at Three Scars. “He’s a hard worker.”
I followed her stare and watched him work, his shirt laying over a tree branch, his muscles flexing and straining as he lifted larger logs and tossed them onto the fire burning nearest them. “What do you know of him?” she asked.
I looked down at my dirty hands, and then up to her. “Just that he’s been nice to me.”
She nodded and a hint of sadness touched her eyes. “He’s been alone for a long time,” she said, being careful with her words. I looked over at him again. “His wife passed away a few years ago. He’s been pretty much to himself after that.”
I looked at my hands again, not knowing what to say. “You are good for him,” she said and touched my shoulder. “You give him purpose.”
“He’s been nice to me, but I’m concerned my presence is a burden for him,” I said.
“No, I don’t think so” she said and glanced at him. “Don’t get me wrong, he’s the fiercest warrior among all the men. They look to him for guidance. He’s not one that many men would cross. But I don’t believe he thinks that of you.”
I looked at her, and then to him, thinking of the look I’ve seen in his eyes, the deep growl on the path, and the way he went after the man by the river.
“Who was that man by the river?” I asked.
She was quiet for a minute. “He didn’t tell you?”
I shook my head. “Hmm…” she paused, “he should tell you that story. It is not mine to give away.”
“I understand,” I said.
We both stood up, and she smiled at me before she went to another pile of branches and I went back to mine. It gave me time to think. I wondered how she died, wondered how deep the pain flowed in his heart, wondered about the attacker yesterday and who he was, and wondered about my own role in this temporary situation.
Hours passed, the piles burned, and the flames died down. My muscles ached, but I enjoyed being productive and contributing in clearing the area. Three Scars walked over and looked at my dirty clothes. “Nice work,” he said and motioned for me to follow. “We’re done for today and we have the wood needed for tonight.” He looked at me appraising, like he wondered if I still wanted to attend the planned event.
We walked through the woods, the breeze stirring the branches above us. I kept glancing at him and then back to the path. “What is it you want to ask?” he questioned. I shrugged my shoulders, and walked a bit faster, then started jogging, maybe running away from my question, or running away from my fear of asking it altogether. He quickly overtook me and stopped directly in front of me, blocking my path. His broad shoulders towered above me, a wall of muscle blocking my way. I came to a quick stop and looked at him. He leveled those dark eyes at me, like they could draw out the deepest truths and the darkest secrets.
“Ask,” he said.
“Who is he?” I asked. “At the river…” I finished and looked away, avoiding his gaze.
“I will tell you tonight after the bonfire. Right now, I will show you where the showers are. Fair enough?” he asked. I nodded and he stepped aside and turned back toward camp. We walked through the forest in silence. The majority of snow had melted, and signs of spring popped up everywhere. Beneath a cluster of oaks hundreds of acorns spread in every direction. I stooped down to inspect a few. There was no mold on them, they had not sprouted, and they smelled clean with no sign of decay, so I scooped up as many as I could. Untying the knotted shirt, and piling them inside, I cradled the acorns in the fabric. It was a good find, and once they were blanched, they were useful.
“What are you going to do with so many?” he asked.
“They’re for the people, for coffee,” I said.
He nodded. A slight smile peaked at the corner of his mouth.
“I’ll take them to the tent when we get back,” I said.
The silence was soothing, and the breeze pushing my hair away from me felt like velvet. I looked forward to the shower he mentioned and the bonfire with his people.
Chapter 7
I leaned against a log and faced the fire, pulled my knees up and stared into the flames. The orange and golden tongues flicked and danced against the black of night in a rhythm all their own. I draped my cape over my knees like a little tipi against the cold night air and felt the cadence of the fire, the heat it offered in waves, and the calm it brought through it all. I glanced over at Three Scars who sat on a log next to Two Braids. He cut his eyes away from me and focused on the conversation with his friend. I looked back to the fire and thought of him holding my hand through the night.
On the far right, beyond the circle of fire and the outer ring of people, were two round drums, worn leather stretched taught over each, one larger than the other, and two men seated before them. One lifted his drumstick and struck the first blow. The deep baritone sounded, reverberating through the night, echoing through the wind, through the trees, through me. The next drummer struck the taught leather drum hard, and then together the two men brought forth a rhythm from somewhere deep in their souls, in a way a sad call, and at the same time patriotic.
Several of the warriors rose to their feet and approached the fire, the cadence reaching them, their rhythm moving in a pattern to the beat, their dance a toe and step, hop, toe and step, hop. They moved forward and circled the fire, their steps natural, their dance ancient.
More warriors joined, their heads and backs slightly bent forward, their toe and step and toe and step, then turn and they danced with the deep drum sound. Three Scars joined them, his eyes closed, moving with the rhythm. He danced from the heart and through his movements I saw his ancestors from the past. Unashamed. People of the land. People of the earth.
The drums stopped, or paused, and then another cadence was struck, a different song. The women rose to their feet, the men staying in the inner circle closer to the fire, the women staying on the outer perimeter. Their dance was nearly the same but with more movement, more lively, their smiles revealed their joy. The similar step and toe and step movement repeated around the fire.
I leaned further into my cape and absorbed it all, something deep inside me aching, unearthing memories from long ago...
The drums slowed their beats, lightened their strokes, and brought the dance to an end. Slowly they filtered back to where they sat, their solemn expressions a mirror of past pain, current struggles, and hope for the future.
Three Scars scanned the area and found me sitting even further away than where his dance ended. Instead of returning to Two Braids he walked over, his head slightly bent, his eyes focused on me. He nodded and sat on the log about three feet from me. I straightened up slightly.
An elder began to speak and repeat their oral history, his ancient voice calling back to the past. He told the story of the nations who dwelled in the region of the river and how they came together to form the Tore Nation. They were several nations but formed one. Stories of their ancestors and the way they came to this land. Stories of the settlers coming and how the nations banned together to survive and continue their nomadic ways. The legends of their grandfathers and their histories.
I drank in the stories, learning of their nation from its beginning to now.
“Now I will tell of our legends,” the elder said.
Three Scars tapped my shoulder and I looked up.
“Tired?” he asked.
I shook my head.
He appeared guarded, worried maybe, but nodded his head once. I adjusted my position, resting my chin on my knees, w
atching the fire, listening. The elder continued.
“The Forest People, or Bigfoot as some call them, were here before us, but they welcomed us. We made a pact to stay neutral, to stay away from their land, and they would stay away from our land. Our ancestors painted the rocks by the river depicting the Forest People, warning future generations to stay away from their land, but one young woman was rebellious, she chose to cross into their land. The Forest People, tall and hairy, took her and made her a bride. They told her she was theirs and would always stay with them. But after a long while she found her way back to our people, her belly swollen with child. The child was born, and he was large, but when he grew up, we called him the Hairy Man because he changed from man to forest person and back again. He married one of our women and they bore children, and the shifting from man to beast continued until all male children were born like him, like the hairy man. And all have the propensity to change like he did. The Forest People have stayed to their own lands, but every so often they get brave, they want the woman back, and they look for her, they come close to our lands and our borders calling her name, but they don’t find her, so they retreat. So, we tell our children to stay away from the river, especially at night. It is a warning for all, and the painted rocks still stands as a barrier to our land and to their land. A barrier to our kind and to their kind.”
The elder paused and the air felt thick, heavy.
My thoughts went to my path here, crossing over forbidden land. Was it their land? The Forest People? Quickly my mind remembered in vivid detail the river yesterday, the teeth on my neck, the helpless feeling… I looked down, away from the fire, away from being in the moment, and shuddered inside. I wrapped my arms tighter around my knees and bent my head. What if the legends were true? What if the attacker was a shifter, a forest person who shifted back to human form at will and he wanted to take me as a way to get back at the Tore people for something, or for taking back the woman who left them?
It made sense, and at the same time made zero common sense.
A hand lay over my shoulder, and I shuddered, looking up quick. Three Scars tilted his head an inch to the side, his eyes imploring. He motioned to the tipi and I nodded, ready to go, retreat, rest. He stood up and held out his hand. I glanced at the hand that brought me such comfort through the night and then met his eyes. They were softer now, almost kind. I reached up and he closed his hand around mine and held on for a second then lifted me up. His arm fell to the side and he placed his hand on the small of my back, leading me away from the group.
We walked into the dark, through the tents, circled the camp, and he scanned the forest as we went. The further from the fire the colder it became, like ice pressing itself onto my skin, slowly seeping to my bones. I shivered and stepped closer to him.
Inside he lit the lantern and struck the fire to life. He eyed me and then dropped his gaze to the floor, like he wanted to say something, but changed his mind.
I looked at my pack. “I’ll step outside for a minute,” he said, and hesitated. He pushed the flap open and stood sentry while I changed into my leggings and his t-shirt. I sat on the bed and pulled the blanket over my legs and when he stepped back inside, the cool air snuck in with him. “What did you think of our celebration?” he asked and glanced at his t-shirt draping over me.
“I loved it. The dancing was great, the fire was warm, the people were friendly…”
“Any questions?” he asked.
I shook my head.
He looked bewildered. “None?”
I shrugged slightly and looked past his questioning stare to the white canvas behind him. He paused and stoked the fire. It rose higher, and then leapt into a steady flame. White smoke swirled up, blocking his face from me for a split second. “You have no questions?” he prodded. The smoke dissipated and I studied his face, chiseled and bronzed from the sun, worn yet young, rigid yet holding a bit of tenderness.
“Did I cross over their land on my way here? The forbidden land. Is it theirs?” I ventured. He shot a wary glance my way but said nothing. “Three Scars?” I scooted to the edge of the bed, pushing the blanket to one side. “I saw someone watching me on my way. From the time I crossed the river until I met the elders on the path, someone was following me.” It sounded like a plea, and not anything like I wanted.
“Hmmm…” he said, “Maybe they were shadows. The forest can trick your mind into seeing what is not there.”
I stood up, the blanket falling completely off me. “No, it wasn’t shadows. I know what I saw, but who I saw was different from…” I said more to myself than to him. Looking away from him, trying to figure it out, I felt like the answers were right within reach. I just had to know which way to look. I closed my eyes remembering the large form. Too large to be a man, too small to be…
“What do you mean different? Different from who?”
I tore myself from the past and refocused on his intense gaze. I shook my head, clearing away the unanswered questions. “I’ve seen their tracks all over my area,” I said.
“Whose tracks?” he asked, guarded.
“The Forest People, or Bigfoot, or the Hairy Man. I’ve seen them. They’ve been gone for over two years, but before that I heard them, heard the tree knocks, seen their tracks again. Their presence was common knowledge among the dwellers, though we never spoke much of it. And who I saw on my way here, was not them. I know the difference,” I stated.
He leaned back appraising me. For a moment I thought he’d question my integrity, after all, the stories we heard around the fire were legends, and I just claimed them to be true, or at least part of them.
He breathed out, something like a surrender, and looked at me. “Are you serious when you say you believe these stories of ours are true, and that you have your own stories as well?” He sounded like he didn’t believe me, and I couldn’t blame him. It wasn’t something the dwellers spoke of often, but Birch knew the truth. At least I think he did.
“Very serious,” I said.
“Hmmm,” he mused and leaned back, something of a smirk on his face. His dark eyes watched me, like they were soaking in part of who I was, like he was waiting for me to recant my confession.
I stepped around the fire that separated us, as though I could push the truth out of him if I were closer. “They don’t bother me. After a while they didn’t come on my property anymore, either. It was after I met Birch and he was concerned for my safety being so high up on the mountain and all alone, but after that they stayed away,” I said cautiously, trying to convince him.
He held my steady gaze and stood up, his eyes holding some secret I couldn’t pull free or see clearly. He nodded and stepped toward me, like he was prodding me to continue.
“I once came across one of their young ones without knowing it. The three tree knocks warned me, so I stopped and turned back, then I saw him running fast away from me.”
His eyes flashed, alarmed. “Where was this?” he asked too quickly.
“I was looking for deer tracks, and I think I crossed onto their land. Maybe a quarter mile from my cabin,” I said more as a question, than an answer. Why was he concerned where I saw them? I crossed my arms over my chest and turned away from him, heat bubbling up to my cheeks, angry he questioned my story and disbelieved it, yet being prodded to continue. I spun around and looked him square in the eyes. “Look, I don’t need you to believe me, or to question me. I know who they are and where they live. I know where they drink from and where they sleep. If you don’t believe me, that’s fine,” my voice rose a few octaves and I wanted to bolt out of the tipi and away from the myriad of emotions crossing over his face. From disbelief to unbelief, from smirking to worry…
He put a hand on my shoulder, heavy and firm. I exhaled, knowing I had nowhere to run to, and a big part of me didn’t want to leave, but another part of me – a bigger part than I was ready to face, wanted answers to everything. I felt he held those answers, and I wanted to root them out, to put the questions I had to re
st, to know the truth. And to hear that truth from Three Scars.
“Continue,” he said, his voice soft. I turned to face him, to see if his eyes were as kind as his voice, to search his expression for any trace of accusation or unbelief. His dark eyes imploring, his expression transforming into a shade of kindness. His small smile asking for forgiveness.
I breathed out the tiny bubbles of anger and closed my eyes for a second. Would I ever get what I really wanted? I shook my head slightly as the question rolled through every part of me. My life was upside down, my home far away, Birch was missing, my forest seemed to be vanishing and with it went everything I loved.
“Little Foot,” he said, his voice low and even. “Don’t be angry.”
I blinked back hot tears and brushed away a smidge of moisture from my cheek.
“I have not known someone like you before. You speak of unearthly things as though they were very normal.” He glanced down at my thin frame, and then to my hair, and then my eyes. “And someone like you, someone not of our people, speaks as though she were one of our people. This is why I question you. Not because I don’t believe you.” His eyes softened and he squeezed my shoulder slightly before moving his hand away, stepping back once.
I looked away and turned toward the fire.
“Not long ago,” I said and watched the fire dance in the ring of rocks, “there were people up near my cabin cutting trees, and biologists worked with them making sure they didn’t disturb the area. One of them asked if I had seen anything out of the ordinary. I asked what they were looking for and he wouldn’t come out and say it at first. After a short time, he said they were looking for… I can’t remember what he called them, but he said they’re searching for an unidentified North American Ape.” I shook my head remembering the sunny day, the teems of people around my quiet little forest, the loud noises, and the worry when he told me they were searching for a large animal.
My Name Is Cree Page 6