“The outsiders are coming. You see the sign?”
Something tight seemed to be across his chest. “I see the sign,” Long Neck said.
“Are we ready?”
Deer Run nodded, one hand holding his stick, the other hand at his waist, where his long knife rested.
“Yes, brother, we are always ready.”
• • •
Heather had to admit that yes, it was amazing. The field was wide and had some sort of low grass covering it, with some trees in the far distance, and other trees nearby. She had never seen such a field in the middle of the mountains.
The three young men were clustered around, looking at Cal Zeller’s hundred-year-old guidebook. “Well?” Tony demanded. “Does it say anything about an open field like this?”
Cal was excited. “No, not at all. I can’t believe it. Look around at how big this damn flat field is . . . and in the middle of the mountains. It shouldn’t be here!”
Steve scratched at his beard. “What does the guide say about the trail after it passes the waterfall?”
“That’s the thing,” Cal said. “The guide says the trail ends at the waterfall and pool. It says nothing about the trail continuing down to this field. And you’d think a field this big would have been noticed.”
Heather turned and looked up where they had just descended. The mist was rising up and wider. She was a journalism major at school and only took the minimal science courses to get ahead, but she knew deep in her bones that the mist didn’t belong. The weather wasn’t right, not with the sun up high and bright, to have a mist like that suddenly appear.
And if the mist didn’t belong, neither did they.
Feeling like that didn’t make sense—they were in the middle of the White Mountain National Forest, for God’s sake—but none of this was making sense.
“Guys, c’mon, let’s leave,” she quietly said.
Cal looked up at her. “Are you nuts? We just got here.”
“But Tony promised that we’d head back up after we got here. I want to go back to the main trail, get out of here before the sun starts setting.”
Tony had a look on his face that Heather recognized, of the boyfriend who didn’t want to appear like a wuss in front of his buds. Steve nudged Cal in his ribs and said, “Yeah, this place is cool. Let’s check it out.”
Tony said, “Heather, I know I said we’d head right back, but this place shouldn’t be here. None of the maps or guides describe this place. I agree with Cal, we should explore some.”
“What do you mean, explore? It’s just a field.”
Then Steve whistled. “No, it’s more than just a field.”
Tony said, “Huh? What do you mean?”
Steve pointed. “Look. There are people over there.”
Heather felt something seize in her chest at seeing the shapes approach them. “Guys, I don’t like this, I don’t like this. We might be trespassing. I want to go. I want to go now.”
Cal said, “We’re in a national forest. How the hell can we be trespassing? C’mon, let’s go.”
The three young men laughed with each other and started walking away, leaving her behind. Tears suddenly came to Heather’s eyes. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t fair. She looked back up at the mist growing bigger over by the waterfall and trail. Something tugged inside her, to turn around and quickly walk back to where the mist was, where the trail was. Even in the mist, she was sure she could find the trail, and leave this field and her companions and those men over there behind.
Tony looked back at her, a pleading look on his face. She knew what the look meant. It was asking her to be a good girl, to come along, not make waves. Tony was asking her not to embarrass him in front of his friends.
It was asking a lot.
She took one more look at the mist and the trailhead, kicked at a stone on the ground, and followed the three young men across the field.
• • •
Long Neck strode forward and then stopped, watching the outsiders approach. Deer Run stopped next to him.
“So they come.”
“So they do.”
“It looks like they may have a woman with them, by the way one of them walks.”
“It matters not,” Long Neck said.
The men had sacks on their back and wore odd, tight-fitting clothes that were quite colorful. They had facial hair and their skin was that of the outsiders, pale and flabby.
The outsiders stopped, just a few strides in front of them. The woman hung back, as was proper.
“Wait here, brothers,” Long Neck said. “I will talk to the outsiders and challenge them to a game.”
Another brother called out, one called Fleet Foot. “Suppose they say no?”
Long Neck laughed. “They have no choice, do they?”
• • •
Heather watched in fear and fascination as the tallest of the six men stepped forward. What the hell was going on? They looked like Native Americans but she knew that there were only a couple of reservations in New England, mostly for casinos, and there were none in New Hampshire or nearby Vermont.
The man had a long neck, his face fierce-looking, dressed up in native garb with a knife at his side. There were feathers and beads in his braided hair. There were lines of paint along his cheekbones and forehead. He carried a long stick, curved at the bottom with a small basket made of rawhide or something, and then he stood still and started talking.
He waved his free arm in a long arc, and then held up his stick and talked some more. He held up the stick, and then a ball-shaped object.
The sight of the stick with the basket at one end stirred something inside her.
And yet not a single word he said made sense.
• • •
Long Neck paused after issuing the challenge, examining each of the male outsiders looking back at him. Fleet Foot spoke up again. “It looks like they are fat and weak. I wager they have no interest, or if they do, we will defeat them without breathing hard.”
Long Neck turned back and snapped at his brother. “Have you forgotten the story of Azban? Then stay quiet.”
Fleet Foot shifted as the other braves laughed at him. The story of Azban the Raccoon was an old story of the tribe. Azban was a proud raccoon that challenged a waterfall to a shouting contest. When the waterfall didn’t respond to Azban, the proud raccoon dove into the waterfall to outshout it. But the raccoon was swept away to his death, because of his pride.
Long Neck had never forgotten the story and its meaning.
He called out again to the outsiders. “Well?”
The three men started talking to one another, and Long Neck understood not a word.
• • •
Tony said, “What in the hell is that all about?”
Steve shifted his feet. “I think Heather is right. I think we need to get the hell out of here. I don’t know who these guys are, but I don’t like it.”
Cal suddenly laughed. “Hey, I know what’s going on.”
“Then pass it on, will you?” Heather demanded, looking at the six strong Indian men, standing in a line, all staring at them with a scary intenseness. “I don’t like this at all!”
“Sure,” Cal said, grinning. “They’re reenactors.”
Tony said, “Like those guys who dress up as Civil War soldiers on the weekend?”
“Absolutely. Reenactors. And they do more than just dress up. The real hard-core types, they wear clothing that’s made exactly like it was during that time, with no zippers or metal fastenings. They wear the same kind of shoes, carry the same kind of weapons, and eat the same food from back then.”
Heather looked at the six men staring back at them, the tallest one seemingly the leader. “Cal . . . what were they jabbering back there?”
“Some sort of Indian language, I’m sure. Remember when I said ha
rd-core? I’ve read that the real dedicated ones, they leave behind their cell phones and iPads, they sleep on the ground, they don’t shower, and they stay in character. They get so hard-core that while they’re reenacting, they speak like they were a Southern or Union soldier from the 1860s, and they pretend to be ignorant of anything twenty-first-century.”
Heather shook her head. “I’ve heard of Civil War play soldiers like that. Have never heard of Native American reenactors.”
“Oh, sure,” Cal said. “Lots of different reenactor groups have cropped up in the past five or ten years. In Europe, there are reenactors that are involved in groups re-creating the Napoleonic Wars. Others go back to World War I or World War II. Why not Native Americans?”
Steve said, “But only six? Where’s the rest of ’em?”
“Oh, I bet they have an encampment somewhere on the other side of the field,” Cal said.
Heather still didn’t like it. “So why are they here?”
Cal laughed. “It’s obvious, can’t you tell? Look at what they’re carrying.”
Heather slowly nodded. It was obvious, after all.
• • •
Long Neck was getting tired of the outsiders talking to each other, especially the woman. What right did she have to talk before warriors such as he and his brothers?
He stepped closer, held out his stick. “Come now, answer me!” he demanded. “Will you accept the challenge? Will you? Will you show us what kind of men you are, to play the game of little war?”
Still the outsiders gaped at him, fat and sloppy, and for a moment he thought his cousin Fleet Foot might be right. Maybe this group of outsiders, maybe they will turn down the challenge.
Long Neck wasn’t going to let that happen.
He held out his stick to the outsiders, chose one in the center, and threw it at him.
• • •
Heather saw the tall Native American throw a stick at Cal, who caught it and examined it. He ran his hands up and down and turned to the other two male hikers. “Check this out! You know what this is?”
Her man Tony stepped over, took the stick, and held it up in the air. “Looks like a what-do-you-call-it. Stick that shepherds use to pull their sheep around.”
“Like a crook?” Steve said.
Cal shook his head and took the stick back from Tony. “No, guys, Native Americans didn’t have sheep back then. This is a lacrosse stick.” He rotated it in the air and held it up again. “Lacrosse was a Native American field game, and this must be a stick from back then. See how it’s curved toward the end? They didn’t use a big basket like they do today. They found a good chunk of wood and held one end over a smoky fire, so it would curve into the proper shape. Hell, back then the tribes would have games that lasted day and night, involving hundreds of Indians, covering miles. They’re reenacting a lacrosse game from hundreds of years ago.”
Heather stepped closer, and Cal said, “Hey, you used to play lacrosse in high school, didn’t you? Tony said something about that to me.”
“I did, but we sure as hell didn’t play with homemade gear like that.”
Cal turned and smiled at the six Native Americans, stick in his hand, as he twirled it back and forth, back and forth. “I played lacrosse back in high school, too. That’s what they’re doing here, guys. They’re challenging us to a game. With the kind of gear they had back then.”
Heather stepped back. “No! I don’t like this! We need to go . . . we don’t have time to play a stupid game, all right? It’s getting later in the day, it’ll be dark in a few hours. We’ve been out in the woods for two days, my back hurts and my feet are tired, and . . .”
She fell silent. The Native Americans, still silent, gazed at her with contempt. Tony, Steve, and Cal looked at her as well. Cal was grinning.
“And what, princess? What else is bothering you?”
Heather saw the pleading look again from Tony, asking her, Please, please, don’t embarrass me.
“C’mon, Heather,” Cal pressed on. “What else is bothering you?”
She pointed. “Hundreds of Indians would play lacrosse back then, from different tribes. Why are there only six of them here?”
Cal shrugged. “Why not? Like I said, I bet their encampment is somewhere on the other side of the field . . . and maybe six is only the number that are free right now. I’m sure they’re doing other things, like making camp, cooking, hunting. C’mon, is that what’s really bothering you? The numbers?”
She kept quiet. She knew what was bothering her. It wasn’t right, it didn’t make sense, and all right, it scared her. Okay? Those men over there outnumbered them, were lean, muscular, and so very serious looking. Plus besides those homemade and crooked lacrosse sticks they carried, they also had knives at their sides, on what looked like rawhide belts.
She wanted to leave.
She wanted to go.
She didn’t want to be here.
“Oh, go ahead, play your stupid goddamn game. But count me out.”
Heather moved back and sat down on a rock.
• • •
Long Neck saw the lead man of the outsiders step forward, grinning like a fool, moving the stick back and forth, saying something in their jabbering language. He dropped his colorful back sack to the ground, and so did his two companions. Long Neck strode forward, ball in hand, and tossed it up in the air. It fell to the ground and with a series of yells, he ran forward, struck the ball, and passed it to his cousin Fleet Foot, and with a sharp jab of his hips, he slammed into one of the outsiders, pushing him to the ground.
Shouting with joy, he slapped the ball again and ran to the nearest scoring branches in the ground, glad to see the outsiders fumbling and bumbling as they raced to catch up.
Oh, it was such a delight to be faster and better than your opponents.
• • •
The game went on, with three of the Indians playing against Tony, Cal, and Steve. There were tall bits of branches or saplings that were stuck at either ends of the field to serve as goals. The other three Native Americans sat underneath a pine tree, long legs stretching out, shouting encouragement to their friends. The three guys had dumped their packs to help them run and play the game, but still, they couldn’t move as fast as the Indians. Damn, those guys were good . . .
Heather shivered as she sat still on the rock. It looked like the guys were having fun, though Cal was shouting a lot, his face red, as the three Native Americans practically danced around him. Okay, maybe it would be all right. Maybe.
But she felt cold.
Why was she feeling cold?
It was a Sunday in late June. The sun was starting to sink to the western horizon, to the near range of mountains, but it was still high enough to warm everything up. And why was it so damn cold? She felt like she was about a couple of minutes away from shivering.
She took out her cell phone, checked it. No bars. No signal. Not surprising, considering how far north they were and how remote these mountain valleys were. She touched the screen, and—
It was dead.
What the hell?
The damn thing shouldn’t have died just like that. She had at least a couple of more hours of battery life left, but it was like the moment she had turned it on, the power had been sucked out. Or drained. Or . . . taken away.
She put the cell phone back in her pack. Rubbed her arms.
It was so very, very cold.
A hand grabbed her shoulder and she screamed.
• • •
Long Neck turned at the scream of the outsider’s woman, then laughed at she stood up and nearly fell. The shaman was standing next to her. A moment ago he hadn’t been there, and now, like all shamans of power, he had suddenly appeared next to the woman. He was talking to her, holding his holy sticks and burning sage in front of him, as he explained to the woman what this game of litt
le war was all about.
Cat Smile knocked another one of the outsiders down.
Long Neck laughed. Explaining to the woman was a waste of time, but still, the shaman persisted.
• • •
Heather jumped off the rock, turned and yelped again, and backed away. Another Indian was standing in front of her. Where in hell had he come from? He was shorter and much older than the other six Native Americans out there on the field. His hair was black and streaked with gray, pulled back in a ponytail. He had on a robe made from some sort of skin that smelled awful, and there were a knife and small bags hanging at his side. There were also tattoos on his face and arms.
In one hand he held some feathers, and in the other, he held a piece of smoldering brush or leaves that had thin trails of gray smoke going up in the air.
“Jesus, you scared the crap out of me,” Heather said.
The old man started talking, in a deep, husky voice, moving his hands around. Heather stared at him. His face was wrinkled, with a long scar running from one ear, down to his chin. It was thick and ragged, as if it hadn’t been stitched right. And as he talked and his mouth moved, she couldn’t help but notice that his teeth were either broken, black, or brown. It looked like he had never visited a dentist in all his life.
His talking grew louder, more animated. She stepped back. The tattoos, the wrinkles, the bad teeth . . . a tiny, very young voice inside her that was suddenly quite frightened said, This guy’s for real. He’s no reenactor. Heather, young lady, you better get out of here, and right now!
She turned, waved frantically, and said, “Tony! Tony! I’m leaving! I’m heading out!”
Tony was within earshot, his shirt now off, sweating profusely, his hair matted. Steve and Cal had taken their shirts off as well. “Why? What’s wrong?”
Without moving, she jerked her hand back, making a pointing motion with her thumb. “This old man here is freaking me out, Tony, and I won’t stay a minute longer.”
Tony wiped at his sweaty face. “What old man?”
Heather turned, started shivering.
The old man was gone.
There was at least a clear space of fifty feet in every direction, with no place to hide, but the old man was gone.
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