My Name Is Cree

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My Name Is Cree Page 16

by T. K. Richardson


  “You’re wanting me to help you leave us?” he asked, never taking his eyes from the far-off mountain.

  “I want you to help me fix this, so your week away from me isn’t for nothing, so they’ll leave me alone – leave us alone,” I said. “I won’t do this without you, though.”

  He closed his eyes for a brief moment, the wind pushing his long hair over his shoulders, like a black flag flying in the wind. Something in his eyes brewed of hurt and loss, of battles he couldn’t win, and battles he had to win now. He looked over at me, a wave of emotion in his eyes, on his face. “I will not help you leave, Little Foot. I’ve watched over you for a long time. It goes against my oath to see you in danger. I’ve fought for you, and you never knew it, never knew I was there,” he said, “I can’t do it.”

  “But the way I see it, you’ll be right by my side. I won’t be alone. I won’t be in danger.”

  “Together?” he asked, the look in his eyes was more than a question about my plan and held more than words could speak. It was loaded with commitment, with promise, with purpose.

  “Together,” I said and leaned against him.

  He put his arm around me drawing me to his side, the weight of his presence warding off the chill, repelling the wind, shielding me from the uncertainty ahead. I hoped he would accept my idea and the elders would consider it a wise move. If so, it may change the course of everything.

  Chapter 25

  A clear cold night with a million dazzling stars above us and a blazing bonfire in the middle of camp called to us. The beat of the drum sounded, and the percussion reverberated through me. “Do I look right?” I asked, looking down at the dress with little shells hanging from it. Songbird insisted I dress for the ceremony for Birch, and brought me something of hers. A jingle dress in each hand, she let me choose. I looked down at the straight dress that hung to my calves, a muted tan color with shells all over it, cinched at the waist, tied in back. My hair in a single side braid.

  “You look right,” he said and paused, his eyes lingering on me. “Very right.”

  He opened his wood trunk and lifted his headdress, straps, and moccasins, laying them on the bed. The feathers were beautiful, the beadwork small and intricate, all of his regalia was elaborate, and must have been very time consuming to make.

  He hesitated and I looked away. “I’ll meet you outside,” I offered, my cheeks feeling warm.

  My dress shimmied and jingled with every movement and I stepped into the cold night air, my hand inadvertently reaching for my braid, my fingers sliding down, resting on the strip of leather holding it in place. I glanced down at the dress, not able to recall when I had worn one before. I traced my memories, and nothing came to mind. It felt nice hugging my body, but strange and impractical. I glanced down at my moccasins, and a small smile formed on my lips.

  Looking up I saw Songbird standing near a small group of people of maybe seven or eight. Running Bear stood next to her, his composure somehow different now. His attire not as detailed as Three Scars’, but still beautiful. The greys and blacks, and whites of his feathers all swirled together making a cohesive and striking array.

  I walked toward the fire, not looking for anyone in particular. The flames licked high into the night, hot tongues of shimmering heat reaching toward the stars. I looked up, the clear night sparkled with dozens of tiny diamonds, twinkling like a bedtime story. Heat wafted toward me, but as each shimmying step took me closer, the warmth rolled out like a billowing furnace. I stopped. Staring into the flames I thought I heard my name called through some sort of echo, but more in my thoughts than anything audible. I blinked and looked over my shoulder, a glint of light out in the trees, beyond the camp, flicked and went dark. I waited, wondering if it would shine out again, but nothing stirred.

  “Cree,” he said. I flinched and turned to see Three Scars standing before me, his regalia stood strikingly beautifully against the black of night. Dark black feathers mixed with white and red, a red stripe across his nose, his coal eyes, reflecting the fire across from us.

  “Wow,” I said, and smiled.

  “What were you looking at?” he asked.

  “Hmm? Oh, I thought I saw a flash of light over there, but it’s not there now and it’s probably nothing,” I said. He glanced toward the area and looked back at me.

  “I’ll have a look,” he said.

  I touched his arm, and said, “It’s probably nothing.”

  The drums sounded, a deep bong ringing through the camp. Three Scars walked toward the tree line, his back straight, his posture tensed, his regalia moving in the breeze. I stared after him. He blended in to the dark, and I no longer distinguished between him and the night surrounding us. Cold chills prickled over me followed by a rush of heat.

  Cree, get your bow… It felt so urgent, so deep in my gut. I glanced over my shoulder where the drums beat harder, the people gathering thicker around the circle, their dancing already moving to the rhythm.

  Now.

  My heart sped up and I turned toward the tipi and ran at full speed, my dress ringing out, but somehow silent under the boom of the drums. I flung the flap open, grabbed my bow, my hand gliding over the worn wood, sliding right into grip. I stole back out of the tent and ran toward the tree line some 40 feet from where I last saw him. The fire lit the area enough to see shadows and I heard the crash of tree branches, the guttural thud of flesh landing hard, the roar of hate and heat and thrashing underbrush.

  The drums beat louder.

  I slid up next to an oak, squinting my eyes to see. I lifted my bow, ready. Three Scars and another shifter, rolled in the dirt, their fists crashing into each other, their bodies tangled in a brutal clash of wills. The scent of sweat reeling in the air. The scent of… I tilted my head. A familiar smell, a terrible scent, a reminder…

  My attacker.

  My heart beat quick and I steadied my gaze, trying to distinguish Three Scars from him, but the dark of night blurred their forms. They stepped apart, their bodies angling toward each other. The scent of the attacker’s sweat wafting toward me, reminding me of who he was. I watched him move, his arms jerked, unnatural, his form rigid and awkward. The attacker leapt at Three Scars, knocking him to the ground, his broad back a target I couldn’t miss.

  The drums beat harder.

  I drew my bow back, taught.

  One breath in. Hold it. Release the arrow. Breathe.

  My arrow sliced through the black night. I squinted following its path. It sunk into his flesh, deep, hard. He screeched out a loud howl, pain coursing through him. I lowered my bow slightly. The arrow landed too high on the right shoulder, above his lungs and heart, a survivable wound. He spun around, looking for the source and slammed his fists to his sides, the pain coursing through him, my arrow protruding from his back. His eyes, frantic, frenzied. My breathing slow, measured.

  The drums quieted.

  Three Scars didn’t move.

  The attacker’s eyes flicked in recognition as his gaze rested on me. He roared, and stepped in my direction, and then forced every ounce of energy at me. His steps shaking the ground, my dress singing out with the vibration. The distance between us vanishing. I lifted my bow, quick, steady. I aimed, drew tight, held my breath, released.

  My arrow sliced through the air – a perfect trajectory to his chest. A kill shot.

  I blinked. In a split second the attacker swayed right, as Three Scars lunged at him from behind, my arrow sliced into Three Scars’ arm as he landed full weight on the enemy. “No!” I screamed. As the word left my mouth, a rush of wind flew past me, my body flying up into the air, massive arms slinging me high, and whisking me away. My bow fell somewhere behind me, my breath lost in the wind, my sight blinded by the night. My face pressed against a broad chest left the sound of someone’s heartbeat in my ears replacing the scream pouring from my lungs. “Three Scars!”

  Wind swept over me like waves in the ocean, the distance between me and him deepening. The vision of my arrow slippi
ng into his flesh replaying in my mind, making my stomach revolt. The jostling of my body, the wind blasting me, the arrow…

  He stopped, and I felt the massive form shift and change beneath my weight. His protruding muscles, diminished. His bare arms, now sleek. “Little Foot, it’s ok. It’s me, Runs With Wind,” he said, setting me down. “Are you hurt?” He stepped back to appraise me. I bent over, my hands on my knees. My mind racing. “I shot him,” I said, the words falling from my heart. “I shot him,” I whispered, my voice lost somewhere between needing to wretch, and needing to know if he was ok.

  “It was only a flesh wound. He’ll be fine,” he said, his voice unsteady, unsure. I glanced up at him. I dropped to my knees, my hands trembling, my arms weak. “It’s not a flesh wound,” I said, my mind swirling.

  “I think you landed your first arrow,” he offered.

  “Not a kill shot,” I said, shaking my head. “Too high.”

  “I don’t know about that. I’ve never seen better.”

  “Is it over? When can we go to him?” I looked up.

  “We need to wait a few more minutes.” His stare searched beyond me, scanning the trees, not meeting my eyes.

  I tried to stand, my knees feeling unsteady. I reached for his hand and he helped me up, my dress jingling in the silence. I breathed out but needed to vomit. My balance felt wobbly and I steadied myself against him, not sure I could stand without falling over. The dress jingled and I looked down, blood splatter peppered the front, soaking into the leather.

  Runs With Wind looked at the blood stains, and lifted his eyes to mine.

  A clear long call pierced the darkness and I nearly fell to the ground.

  Chapter 26

  I stood still, hands laced together in front of me, my head lowered.

  He was quiet and avoided acknowledging my presence. His upper arm bound tight with white strips of cloth. The arrow vanished and the gash stitched shut. The drums were quiet now, the people, solemn. Their curious eyes glancing at me and Three Scars. The elders formed a circle, discussing something. Likely me and Three Scars, the attacker, and who knows what else.

  I stole a glance at Three Scars. His anger rolled off him in waves, and I recoiled within myself. I questioned every step leading to this. I looked over at him, like he could answer every question I had, but turned away. His rigidity was too much. I closed my eyes for a second. Evaluating my moves and trying to find where I went wrong, what I could have done better, and wondering where my bow was. I felt bare without it.

  I looked up and saw Songbird across the camp, her eyes on me. I tilted my head and silently said I was sorry. I glanced down at her dress, now ruined.

  The elders approached us, their concerns and questions evident in their expressions. Their movements were slow, purposeful. “Tell me, son. What lead to this?” he asked Three Scars.

  “I went to check the perimeter and he attacked me. I would have seen him sooner had he already shifted, but he hid behind a tree and waited for me to approach. He shifted and attacked. I defended myself,” Three Scars said.

  They looked one to the other and nodded. The elder took a breath and folded his hands in front of him and lowered his head slightly, almost like he was apprehensive to question me.

  I swallowed and wondered if I was on trial.

  “Little Foot, when did you find them?”

  “I watched as he went to the tree line and fade into the shadows. I waited, and then something inside me, like a gut feeling, very urgent, pushed me to get my bow. I looked over at everyone by the fire, and the gut feeling just got stronger. I got my bow and ran into the dark.”

  The elder narrowed his eyes and turned to the other two elders, a silent question floating from one to the other.

  “Little Foot,” the second elder said, “how did you know who to aim at?” his eyes narrowed slightly, feathering the fine skin around the corners.

  I looked up, confused.

  “It was dark, the two men were fighting, both looking so much like each other. I’m curious, how did you know? Was it a guess, or just a gut reaction, or was it something else?”

  I looked at Three Scars and back to the second elder.

  “I could smell him,” I said.

  Three Scars’ eyes flicked to me.

  “I’ll show you,” I said. I ran over to the tipi and pushed my way inside, retrieving my old flannel shirt. I returned with it balled in my hand. “He smelled like this, so that’s who I aimed at.” I handed the shirt to the second elder. “Besides, it wasn’t a kill shot. I aimed too high – above the lungs and the heart.”

  He glanced down at my dress, questioning.

  “It’s my blood,” Three Scars said. “The second arrow was her kill shot, and he moved at the last second. I was in forward motion toward her while attacking him from behind. The blood followed my motion and,” he waved his hand at the dress. The elders’ eyes followed his gesture, again looking at the dress.

  I felt sick.

  The elder lifted his eyes to me, then shot a quick look over his shoulder to the other elders. He turned back, a hint of merriment in his eyes. “Little Foot, if I didn’t know better, I would think you were a warrior born to us. I see what Birch said of you is true, very true.” He stepped back as though he were about to walk away. “But I also agree with his concerns…” he lifted his hand to his forehead and looked at me. “Your bravery is very dangerous.” His eyes shifted to worry, “but this threat tonight will not return, and this is a good thing.” He looked at Three Scars and dipped his head in approval.

  The first elder turned to the people. “Build the fire, we continue our celebration in memory of Charging Eagle. Nothing stops this. He deserves it.” They turned and walked toward the drums, and others threw a few more logs in the center of the fire, sparks flying free like lightning bugs on a hot night.

  “I’m going to go change,” I said and walked away. The thought of his blood on my dress was too much for me.

  The drums beat a low rhythm and the smell of flatbread cooking over hot rocks floated through the air. My mind swirled with thoughts, with images, with words, with smells that wanted to overtake me. I picked up my pace and jogged, hoping for an escape.

  I slipped inside the small space, a reprieve from everything beyond the canvas walls and quickly untied the dress, letting it fall to the floor at my feet. Standing alone, only a thin under shirt separating me from the cold. I stepped out of the leather circling me and stood back, staring down. Its stains were evidence against me. A crime I could never forget. I shed his blood. Three Scars now suffered three times for me. I recoiled within myself. The image of the arrow sinking into his flesh replaying in my mind.

  I knelt down, my head swirling, dizzy, my legs weak. My stomach churned, fighting against my conscience. I lifted my hands to my face and hot tears seeped through my fingers. My bare shoulders trembled against the cold within me.

  The tipi flap opened, and a slight breeze entered.

  I wiped the tears from my face and turned so he couldn’t see me. I wouldn’t let him see me cry. Wrapping my arms in front of me to cover my bare shoulders, I reached for my flannel on the bed of skins and stifled the guilt that swarmed over me. A warm hand lay on my shoulder, and I caught my breath, lowering my head in case tears escaped. My shoulders shook slightly, my will not as strong as I hoped. The shirt I clutched fell and I lifted my hands to my face hoping to hold in the tears. They seeped past my fingers, escaping, the arrow searing my heart as deep as it penetrated his arm.

  “You fight like a warrior,” he said, his voice low. “And I am proud we have fought together.”

  “I almost killed you,” I whispered. “I almost…” the words trailed into tears and sobs that made no sense.

  His arms circled me and he lifted me to my feet, turning me toward him. “You didn’t almost kill me, Cree. We move faster than that,” he said, his voice soft. He pulled me into an embrace and I sobbed into his chest, his shirt soaking up my guilt. I felt small in hi
s arms, small in so many ways.

  “I don’t believe you,” I said.

  He leaned back and looked down at me. “Cree, how do you think he avoided your second arrow? It’s true. We’re pretty fast.”

  I shook my head. “You become what I need and what I need right now is forgiveness, so you’re just saying that,” I said through half-sobs half-words. He circled his arms around me tighter. “And you didn’t even talk to me out there. I get it. I almost killed –“

  “Little Foot, look at me.”

  I shook my head.

  “Hey, I didn’t talk to you because it’s hard for me to see you in danger. Hard for me to protect you from who we are, and…”

  “And who I am?” I finished. “I can’t even look at you. I’m so sorry.”

  “You didn’t almost kill me,” he said again, almost sounding like a laugh.

  I looked up to see amusement in his eyes. “You didn’t almost kill me,” he said, his voice soothing.

  I turned my head to see his bandaged arm, a slight tinge of red seeping through the white strips. I rested my face to his chest. “Did your regalia get ruined?” I asked and sniffed. He laughed, his chest vibrating beneath my cheek. “No, it’s fine. Of all things to ask about, Cree.”

  I wiped my face and leaned back. “I don’t know how to be different. I just see what I think needs to be done and I act. I really need to work on that. But what should I have done differently? I keep going through it in my mind, and I just don’t know,” I said, the words tumbling out too fast.

  “Next time, ask for help. Let’s just hope there won’t be a next time.”

  I looked in his eyes. I think we both knew there would be a next time.

  Chapter 27

  My fingers traced the edges of the white letter in my pocket. Snow melted on the south side of camp opening circles of dry ground where patches of grass sprang up. I stepped over them, allowing them to reach for the sun. We walked with the elder under a shaded oak grove, some arching up and over us, others leaning unnaturally against smaller cedar trees. The path opened into a stretch of meadow, still several inches deep with snow. The sun warmed my face and Three Scars’ hand folded over mine felt natural, right. I glanced up at him and thought of his strength. I smiled slightly at the memory of the first time I saw him on the path. He quickly looked at me and smiled, squeezing my hand.

 

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