by Paul Sating
“Why not?”
Mitzie cast a skeptical glance via the rearview mirror. “What’s so special about this place?”
Patch sat back again, turning his gaze away. “We’ll let George explain that.”
Neither of them challenged him. Serenity’s respect for Patch had grown quickly. If he wanted someone else to explain things, as he promised George would, then she would wait. For a little while.
But that respect for Patch didn’t balance her inherent fear of what waited in that expanse of nothingness. She surveyed the passing wasteland that stretched out from the highway. The lack of life in that perpetual brownness was depressing. Just a flat surface of cacti and Mexican poppies as far as the eye could see.
When she was little, she used to get excited to see them whenever her father could be bothered to take them out of the house. The yellowish orange leaves, each so different from another, looked like a slice of the sun to her young eyes. Packed away in some obscure box in the back of the garage, her mother still had a drawing or two of Serenity’s best attempts at replicating the poppies in crayon. They used to be so beautiful to her. When had that stopped?
“Guess this is it?” Mitzie asked, pulling Serenity’s attention to the muddled spread of houses in front of them.
A thicket of small buildings rose out of the horizon. The structures, illuminated under the high sun, looked as if their recent past was painted in neglect. Two drooped like lilies that hadn’t been watered in far too long. The wood paneling of each was uniform, as if everyone bought their building materials from the same place. The incessant sun sucked out the original color. Graffiti decorated a few of the other buildings. Several were missing windows. It was a village clinging to life yet asking to put it out of its misery. The most disturbing part of it was the acceptance of decay.
“Go slow through here,” Patch advised from the back seat. “Kids’ll run out in front of you without ev’n looking.”
Mitzie crept to the first pair of large, vacant-looking buildings hugging the road, serving as a line of demarcation. Beyond them, the reservation opened into a large circle of homes. A flagpole, abandoned by its flag, rose into the sky from the center. Cars, years beyond serving as reliable transportation, baked under the sun. A small cluster of children, all less than eight years old, gathered to the side, watching.
Mitzie parked. “I hope this is okay?”
“It is,” Path reassured her.
“What now?” she asked, shutting off the engine.
The car's interior temperature rose dramatically, making Serenity’s skin prickle. Her back stuck to the vinyl car seat. They had to do this quickly because Ida Dorsey could be fooled, but not for long. She sent a prayer into the desert sky, asking it to send a breeze. It wasn’t listening.
Serenity jumped at a light tap on her door. A man in his early fifties, with long hair streaked black and gray, leaned down to her eye level. Even in the stifling heat, he wore tight blue jeans and a long sleeve, plaid button-down shirt. A black felt cowboy hat shielded his brown skin from the sun. The hat was in much better condition than the rest of this place. The skin under the man’s eyes sagged as if caving to the demands of life, yet he had a hardness to him, an unwavering defiance.
“Hi,” she blurted, not knowing what else to say.
The man examined her. All her mental energy focused on not moving under his scrutiny. This felt like a test she should have been prepared to take but wasn’t.
Then, in a single phrase, the pressure evaporated.
“Hello, Patch.” The man leaned at an angle to speak through the window, cracking a smile at the back-seat passenger. “It’s been quite a while since we’ve seen you out here. The fact that you’re here with two outsiders has me concerned.”
“As it should.” Patch struggled to sit up, yanking on Serenity’s headrest to pull himself up. “Is George around?”
Serenity assumed this man was George but now saw how ridiculous that was. George would be Patch’s age. This man, even as old as he was, was a good twenty years younger. It was so difficult to tell with old people; they all just looked…old.
The man pulled open Serenity’s door and extended his arm.
“Young lady,” he said in a friendly voice that betrayed his austere expression.
“Thank you,” she said, stepping out of the car and straightening her pants to distract herself.
The examination from this man hadn’t stopped. Every visible person on the reservation watched. Serenity imagined even more people who were out of sight watching too. She stood still, like a desert hare trying to blend in.
Their host opened the back door and offered Patch his hand. It broke Serenity’s heart to see Patch struggle so much just to get out of a car.
“Bones don’t work like they used to.” He laughed it off and hobbled toward the large building before them. “Give me a few minutes and I’ll be as good as new, once the joints loosen up.”
The man laughed and slapped Patch on the middle of his back. Serenity winced. Serenity and Mitzie fell in behind the two men as they led without a look back to their companions.
They entered an open room without walls. It was the entire building, and dozens of people filled it. Serenity stopped. The walls had faded from white to a slight yellow that was permanent now. Cheap plastic chairs were stacked ten-high in one corner next to long folding tables.
Centered in the room, surrounded by the U-shaped crowd, was a single chair in which an elderly man slumped. Two men in their twenties stood behind him. He watched them with a cocked head, his long, white hair was set into two braids which drooped to the seat of his chair. His skin was loose and wrinkled in bulges and his eyes hung from the exhaustion of a hard life.
“My dear friend,” the man croaked, “it does the soul good to see you.”
Patch’s pace picked up as if he’d just discovered a decade of unused energy, and he closed the distance at surprising speed. When he got to the man, Patch asked the two younger men for help in kneeling. They approached from either side, both taking an elbow to help. Patch reached for the man’s hand and embraced it.
“George, you old bastard.” Patch grinned. “How long has it been?”
The quiet in the room evaporated in hearty laughter. Serenity examined the congregation, trying to gauge if they, like everyone in town, were playing Patch for a fool or if their apparent respect was genuine.
"Far, far too long," George said, waving to the two men who flanked him. They responded silently, just as they’d done for Patch. Each grabbing one of George's wrists and elbows, they helped him stand. This man, who Patch described as the consummate athlete in his day, couldn’t even do something that simple on his own.
Serenity envisioned her own mother, alone in her old age. Ida would never leave Rotisserie, and Serenity and Jerrod would never come back.
She flinched at a sharp pinch on the back of her arm. Mitzie was staring at her. "What'd you do that for?"
The older woman scooted closer. "It wouldn't hurt you to laugh. Everyone else is.” She nodded towards the crowd. "At least pretend to be friendly. Otherwise, our hosts might not be so willing to help a grump."
Serenity swallowed a harsh response, not wanting to draw more attention to herself.
One man tending to George slid a cane into his waiting palm. In unison, the pair let go of George and took a coordinated step backward. They stayed close.
"Can an old man get a hug?" George asked.
"For you?" Patch asked. "Any day."
The old friends wrapped arms around each other. More than a few sighs sounded from the gathered throng. Serenity fought tears. Beyond mutual respect was a level of tenderness she couldn’t comprehend. There wasn’t a single girl she was that close to. She envied them. The room quieted, the laughter and happy sighs dying out, though the smiles remained.
George pulled away and his eyes fell on Serenity and Mitzie.
"And who do we have here?" he asked, patting Patch on the shoulder a
nd trying to step around him.
Patch moved to give his lifelong friend the straightest path possible.
George’s attendees shadowed him as he approached. Serenity willed herself to not move backward, not because George scared her, but because his presence was like an invisible force pushing against her.
"The young lady is Serenity." Patch stood beside George. "And the beautiful woman be her friend, Mitzie.”
"Well, hello to the both of you,” George said, taking one each of their hands in his quivering ones. “Such loveliness for these old eyes.”
“Don’t be listening to him,” Patch warned with humor. “He’s been a flirt since he first realized there was a difference between boys and girls.”
"I kind of like it." Mitzie beamed. "It’s been a long time since I was flirted with."
"My friend, you be leaving these lovely ladies alone. They don’t be needing your charm.” Patch’s voice dropped. “Just your knowledge."
George grabbed Patch's hand. “What are you saying, dear friend?”
Patch's face became flaccid, the joy lines around his eyes and mouth, smoothing as his expression drained of its previous joy. "We need to talk. Privately."
George nodded stiffly towards Serenity and Mitzie. "About them?"
"Partly."
George’s eyes narrowed.
"It's awake."
14
"Have a seat please." George motioned toward a pair of recliners. He and Patch sat in the worn spots on a tan couch. When Serenity sat, the recliner creaked before wobbling as if it was about to topple over. Nothing in the small home was top of the line except for the hand-carved end table separating the recliners. All four legs were different carved animals, each holding the table aloft in its own fashion, as its nature would allow it. The bear stood on its hind legs, front paws raised. The eagle was in flight, its wings lifted to the peak of a new flap. The fox, seated and watching, its head serving as the foundation. And last, most prominently, a rabbit. It was a sturdy-looking creature, muscular front legs set forward of thick hind legs. The rabbit's ears stood tall and proud, defiantly supporting the table, its carved expression confident.
"A gift from the people when I was named Chief," George said. "Most outside the tribe take a sort of repulsed interest in it when they first see it."
"Oh, no." Serenity shook her head. "It's beautiful."
"George's tribe has talented wood carvers." Patch lowered himself on the couch, grunting the entire way until he was fully encased in the cushion. "I used to have quite the collection myself before I lost everything."
"At least you offered it back instead of selling it at some flea market."
"Would anyone do that?" Mitzie asked.
George scowled. "Plenty.”
“Well, that’s a shame.” She sniffed.
“It’s more than that,” George said. “When we create, our people believe we transfer part of our spirit into the object. A wood carver isn't just a wood carver. A table isn't just a table. Everything is more than it appears to the casual observer. So, in those few instances when someone is gifted one of our pieces, to sell it for a profit it is very disrespectful. When they do, they aren't just selling furniture; they're selling part of our communal spirit. And that's not for sale."
"That's a wonderful way to look at the world," Serenity said.
George sat back, and Patch patted his friend’s leg. "Our ways are different from your ways. Your ways are different from the white man's ways. The white man's ways are different from ours, and the beauty of world is found in those differences."
"I'll drink to that, my friend."
Patch saluted with his bottle of soda, taking a deep drink that made him hiccup as soon as he swallowed. Everyone laughed as Patch tapped his chest.
“You okay, friend?” George asked.
Patch could only nod in response.
"I say this so you two understand some things are non-negotiable."
Then the two escorts—bodyguards—stepped out of the room. George turned to Patch. "So, we talk. Is it true? Have you seen it again?"
Patch dipped his head in Serenity's direction. "She has. Twice actually. The lovely Mitzie has as well. They were together the last time, in fact."
"When?" George’s tone was no longer light or friendly. His expression lost the welcoming warmth it’d held mere seconds before.
"Two days ago," Patch said. "Obviously, word ain’t traveled out here yet? There was quite the hullabaloo about it. A town meeting, an armed militia, you name it."
George sagged further into the couch, which looked like it was about to swallow him. New lines seemed to carve themselves under his old eyes.
"We haven't needed to go into town the past week. Seems we've missed a lot." He turned to Serenity. "You saw it twice this week?"
"No," Serenity said, "My brother and I saw it a few weeks ago. Then I was part of a volunteer project where it…"
Patch rested his hand on George’s leg. "It attacked a group in the foothills who were planting trees. Killed a man. They witnessed it."
"Dear spirits." George closed his eyes and mumbled something. The language wasn't English. It was beautiful, rhythmic, like a chant. She shared a look with Mitzie, who was watching both men with a close eye. Patch looked content, even taking a moment to rest his eyes. George didn't stop until he re-opened his eyes a minute later. "Indeed. It has awoken."
Patch cracked his eyes open.
“That's why I brought them to you, my friend," he said. "The young lady’s been tagged. And her brother. This fair lady as well. For all we know, everyone at the attack was tagged."
George groaned. Then he slapped his knees and tried to pull himself completely upright again. Patch had to help.
Patch asked, “This mean what I think it does?”
Serenity waved to get their attention. "I don't want to be rude, but I'm confused. What’s going on? Patch, you've already shared a lot about the…"
"The white man calls it the Screecher," George said. "But for my people, it is known as the water spirit. The first people to tell of its existence, our ancestors, saw it as a creation made of water. It’s possible they saw it as such because of the conditions of living in a place like this so long ago. No one can be sure. But, those stories served as the foundation for our understanding of it, so the name passed through the generations to this day."
Mitzie scoffed. "That name almost makes it sound friendly, but from what we saw, that thing isn’t."
"There is much you do not know,” George said. “It's too easy to categorize it as a monster but that would be to do a disservice to the beautiful creature."
"Beautiful?"
"They need to learn about the Screecher's true history,” Patch urged before lowering his voice. “In fact, I’m sure Serenity is being tracked by the Black Suits from what I’ve seen of their movements."
"This is going to be a long conversation. Let's put on some coffee," George called to his escorts, one of whom peeked into the room, took George’s order and disappeared. "It will be out soon enough. They’re quick. You drink coffee?"
"I need to call my mother," Serenity said. "She'll be worried if I'm not home soon. I'm supposed to be at a study group and I’m already going to be in enough trouble."
"Go ahead," George answered. "The phone is in the kitchen. But I wouldn't worry about the school. I'll call a friend who will validate your attendance, if need be."
"You can do that?"
"I still hold five state records and the track at the school is named after me,” George replied. “Validating your presence at this group won't be a problem."
Torn between relief and fearing her mother had an all-seeing eye, Serenity tried to accept his assurance. This wasn’t a social call or a volunteer opportunity. This was serious business. Hearing what George had to say wasn’t optional, so coming up with a reason for her tardiness after school would have to wait.
George smacked his hands. "Then let’s begin. I need you to
tell me everything you know."
Serenity shared her story as George listened and Patch nodded at key points.
When finished, Patch looked on with a hint of pride.
"It seems my old friend has taught you well," George said. "Now, allow me to fill in those details which my friend intentionally left out." He shifted, scooting closer to the edge of the couch as one of his escorts carried a tray of steaming cups. The sharp smell of coffee filled the room. George took a sip from his cup as the escort continued around the room.
"The water spirit isn't new." He wagged a finger. "In fact, it has been here much longer than even my tribe. And we were the first people to grow roots here.
"No one knows where it came from or how it got here, if it wasn't already always here. Its history is complex. To reduce it to some sort of killing machine is wrong. Just like any of creation, we are all more than a snapshot, taken at a brief moment in time. You saw something terrible, but I want to be clear, you need to understand that this creature isn't a spirit that destroys for the sake of destroying."
Serenity shook her head. The memories. The vision. A man, someone’s father, ripped in two. No matter the name, the creature was what it proved itself to be–a monster.
George continued. "Yes, you need to be wary. Cautious and careful. But I cannot stress this enough, you must also understand that the water spirit is of the world. Are you willing to attempt to understand so we can move forward?"
He waited, examining them.
"I'll try," Serenity finally said. It was the only answer Serenity could give.
"I’ll try too," Mitzie said, earning a flinch from George. “Sorry,” she said, not sounding at all like an apology, “I like to reserve my judgment, especially in areas like this, where nothing makes sense.”
An opportunity to talk to them seemed to be all he sought. "Our people have roamed the land that is now known as the Tri-Counties for a hundred generations. Our history is steeped in the traditions of its offerings, and its inhabitants. Everything that shaped our society was formed by what this area has given and challenged our people with. The water spirit has been a part of our history throughout. Early stories from our forefathers tell of our relationship with it. From our earliest days to this day, we coexist."