Blackbird: an Online Romance

by Fran Seen

  Nostalgia was a bitch.

  I shimmied down the rock for a better reach, swatting away another whistle the wind carried with it. The mid-day drizzle coated every surface in slippery precipitation, making a simple task like grabbing honeysuckle treacherous.

  I gripped a handful of blooms and held onto the rock with my other hand, but my fingers slipped, sending me off the boulder in a swift jumble of chaos. I descended down the mountainside, rolling across wet grass, loose rock, and prickly bushes. I suppressed the scream bubbling in my throat and tried to keep my wits about me as I fell. The unforgiving landscape left me with nothing to halt my forward momentum.

  When my back smacked the flat creek stone, I believed my spirit to have left my body, as though I’d died and was experiencing my final moments from afar. I lay sprawled on the rock, one boot hanging off into the chilly water, unable to breathe or move. As I gasped for air, a patch of gray fur appeared along the shore, scrambled over, and began to lap at my face.

  This is the way the world ends.

  This is the way the world ends.

  Not with a bang but drowning in dog slobber.

  “Wayah!” a whistle pierced my consciousness. “Stop that,” a gravelly voice bellowed, shooing the dog away, and the trod of heavy boots followed. “Miss! Miss, are you alright?” the man crouched over me, blocking out the sunlight. I tried to answer, but only a wheeze passed my lips. “Breathe. You’ve had the breath knocked out of you. Reclaim it.”

  I looked into the man’s deep-set, amber eyes, cradled by a flutter of dark lashes, and fell hypnotized by the flecks of yellow copper shining back.

  “Breathe,” he said, keeping his voice even but firm.

  I sucked in a breath that scorched my insides, over-filling my lungs like an inflatable kiddie pool about to pop. Exhaling proved even more gruesome. After several painful moments of pulling air into my lungs, I found my voice.

  “I seem to have taken a tumble,” the obvious observation exited my mouth before I could beckon it back down.

  A deep chuckle erupted in his throat, upturning the edges of his mouth. “Indeed. I witnessed the whole thing. You fell with the unparalleled grace of a mountain cat. It was truly a sight to behold.” His intense gaze sent a shiver down my spine, and I rolled on my side to escape the full force of his eyes. “No, don’t move,” he demanded, laying a warm hand on my shoulder as his square jaw tensed.

  “I’m fine,” I insisted, wiggling out of his grip. I assessed my injuries. My neck wasn’t broken, and as far as I could tell, my legs were responsive. Aside from having the breath knocked out of me, my only injury was a bruised ego. My cheeks reddened with embarrassment. I’d been outside for less than an hour and somehow managed to throw myself off a cliff.

  The man fiddled with his tactical belt and retrieved a flashlight. “Look at me,” he ordered, flicking on the light and shining it into my pupils. I focused first on the hollow of his throat, the way his smooth, coppery skin collided with his five o’clock shadow. “Now look up,” he whispered, still studying my pupils. His knotted brow held a bald trench in the center, as though someone had carved a thin trail at the arch.

  “No signs of concussion,” he concluded, returning the flashlight back to his belt. “Wiggle all of your fingers and toes for me.”

  “I’m not hurt.” I wriggled my nose instead. My embarrassment, combined with a gorgeous, rugged man’s attention, served as a recipe for my immediate discomfort. I crawled to my feet and swayed on my toes before turning back to him and shrugging, “See?”

  He nodded in approval and rose from his crouched position. “Ah, well. You’re as spry as a cat,” he grinned, towering over me. “I’m certain you’ve used one of your nine lives today.”

  “Lucky me,” I mumbled, spitting out bits of pine needle and dirt. I’d swallowed a good amount of pine duff and acorn shells on my way down the mountain.

  “If I may,” he closed the gap between us and plunged a hand into my ponytail. “A souvenir? A memento for the scrapbook?” He placed a squashed pinecone in my palm.

  I didn’t have a witty response, because I’d caught sight of his badge, giving me a prime view of the name engraved into the metal.

  C. Blackbird

  The pinecone fell from my hand and plummeted with a splash into the creek. Silent panic sizzled like static across my skin. I reread his badge to ensure I wasn’t imagining things, as a result of blunt trauma. But I’d read the letters correctly.

  Blackbird had seen me fall off a cliff like an unhinged pebble, smacking every surface on the way down.

  “I’ll walk you back to the parking lot. Gotta make sure you don’t drown in the creek or trip into the jaws of a bobcat,” Blackbird ushered me forward, scanning my alarmed face. I tried to soften my expression to neutrality but fell short. “Come on, Wayah. Quit moping,” he called over his shoulder, and a gray wolf-dog bounced out of the bushes. She nuzzled her master’s hand. Her massive tail wagged with enough force to leave a bruise on my leg each time it batted against my thigh. “She’s very sensitive to scolding,” Blackbird told me as Wayah licked my hand.

  “You’re beautiful,” I bent down to rub her ears and pat her backside. “But incredibly intimidating.” The wolf-dog looked into my eyes like she was gazing directly into my soul. Wayah tilted her head at me, as though I’d grown a second head or muttered a command in Pig Latin. She trotted alongside us as we maneuvered down the trail. The air was silent and thick, buzzing with the secret pounding away at my throat. I felt as though the entire forest was watching us, placing bets on the outcome of my reveal. The frogs’ croaks ceased, the grasshoppers’ song paused, and the squirrels stilled.

  The trek provided me with ample time to think of ways to introduce myself.

  Hi, Blackbird? I’m Dolly. You know, DollyWOOD. That person you’ve been conversing with for years?

  Charlie? Hey. I’m Dolly, as in, the person you explicitly stated you didn’t wish to meet. Greetings. What’s up?

  Blackbird navigated the trail with refined skill and knowing, stopping only to allow me to catch up. When we’d reached the gravel parking lot, the blue sky had melted into a sea of crimson, with speckles of strawberry lemonade peeking through the treetops.

  “Shank you,” I said when we arrived at my black Jetta. I slapped my forehead, instantly horrified by the words that escaped my mouth. “I meant to say ‘thank you’. I tried to say ‘sorry’ and ‘thank you’ at once. I guess it came out as ‘shank you’.”

  “I gathered as much,” Blackbird grinned down at me, pretending not to notice the red flush of my cheeks or the chattering of my teeth. I shifted my weight from one leg to the other while he rolled up the sleeves of his khaki ranger shirt, revealing tanned, muscled forearms. I willed myself not to stare. “I recommend a trail buddy next time you decide to take a stroll through the—”

  “I’m Darly,” I blurted out, feeling as though I might spontaneously combust. “Duck. I mean, damn. And fu—I did it again,” I took a deep breath and clenched my fists. “Your name’s Charlie. My name’s Dolly. You know, Dolly from the internet,” I backed away, and my boots sank into the gravel with each step. “It came out as Darly.” His eyes widened at my rambling, but I avoided eye-contact and pulled the keys from my pocket. “I’m here to make sure you’re not dead. And you’re not. Great. Wonderful. So…thank you for leading me back to my car. I should get going now.”

  “You’re Dolly?” he slammed my car door as soon as I opened it. My instinct was to retreat, but my attempt had been thwarted.

  “Yes,” I whisper-yelled. Charlie turned the force of his golden eyes on me, trailing the length of my body.

  He opened his mouth to speak, but his belt beeped. “Code 43, requesting backup. Ol’ Smokey’s been sighted at the trough,” sounded over Charlie’s radio as we stood in the twilight, staring at each other.

  “Clear. En route, Falcon,” Blackbird spoke into his shoulder mic, eyes still locked with mine, but made no move for his vehic
le. Although, Wayah’s ears perked up when the radio sounded, and she ran to the driver’s side door of a green Ford truck.

  “I’ll let you get back to business.” I moved to reattempt entry into my vehicle, but the massive man before me blocked my path. “Now if you would, please, step aside…” I patted him on the forearm and tried to squeeze past him, but he grabbed my elbow. His throat bobbed as his fiery gaze scorched me.

  “Come with me on this call. Then I’ll explain everything to you. I promise.”

  I couldn’t decide if Charlie was pissed off, worried about his call, or simply a man of few words, but the drive over to “the trough” was thick with uncomfortable silence. I decided to break the tension with a compliment, but for me, initiating small talk in the face of intense awkwardness was never a bright idea.

  “You’re much better looking than I anticipated—not saying I thought you were going to be hideous, like a troll or something. Ye olde troll of the Qualla Boundary,” I joked, and started to laugh but it came out as a cough. “But wow, you’re tall. How tall are you? I’m sure people ask you that all the time, in addition to ‘How’s the air up there?’” my rambling started strong but trailed off to a barely audible wheeze. I patted Wayah, who perched between us, to distract myself. Charlie’s knuckles paled on the steering wheel. He shot a look over at me, searching my face, then redirected his attention on the road.

  “I bring up your appearance, because I told myself that the reason you didn’t want to meet me was that you were insecure about your look. Or now that I think about it, maybe you were worried that I was the troll,” I wondered aloud, biting my lip and waiting for an answer, a nod, a grunt—anything.

  Charlie never sent me a picture of himself during the years we chatted online, and I never sent him one. We had a short conversation about our appearances, but the details were vague. I knew he was Cherokee, but my idea of Native American physical characteristics stemmed from a romanticized and stereotypical image perpetuated in popular culture, like Disney’s Pocahontas, sporting stern expressions and multi-colored tribal clothing, as in, feather-encrusted hats and crude leather pants. Though Charlie wore a stern expression, his outfit reflected the modern touch of a typical, park ranger wardrobe: a button-up shirt, cargo pants, tactical belt, and boots.

  “Dolly,” he said my name in a low, velvety voice. “Please stop talking.”

  “Pardon?” I blinked at him.

  “I’m on the lookout for a black bear who’s been terrorizing our town for several years,” Charlie let out a ragged breath and loosened his shoulders. “Ol’ Smokey,” he said the name like a curse and shook his head in disgust. “Ol’ Smokey is growing bolder. He stalks kids waiting at the bus-stop by day and raids restaurant dumpsters by night.”

  “I thought black bears weren’t aggressive. Why would he stalk children?” I asked, ignoring his order to stop talking. There were accounts of black bears in Chattanooga, but their behavior was reported as anything but intimidating. The only time I’d heard of an attack was in the instance of a hiker placing himself between a cub and a momma bear.

  “He’s after their sack lunches,” Charlie answered, staring ahead. “Me and my partner, Falcon, have tried to capture Ol’ Smokey for years, in an attempt to relocate him to the edge of the county, but he’s always been one step ahead.” Charlie parked his truck behind Shoney’s Country Buffet, beside an empty white truck, and turned to me. He unbuckled his seatbelt, leaned into the passenger seat, and brushed a few flecks of dirt from my bare shoulder. “Be a good girl and stay here until I get back.”

  Charlie waited for me to nod before reaching into the backseat and retrieving the rifle off of the gun rack. He loaded a dart into the chamber and slammed the door behind him. The parking lot backed up to the edge of the woods, connecting to the mountain from where Charlie and I came. Wayah grew increasingly anxious as the moments dragged out, and Charlie hadn’t returned. The illumination of the parking lot lights barely cast a dull glow on the trees ahead, and we both squinted into the darkness for any sign of movement. Wayah whined as her hackles stood at attention, and then she bumped my shoulder with her wet nose.

  “What is it, girl?” I asked her, but instead of her reply, a knock on the back window startled both of us. When I turned to locate the source of the sound, I saw an empty parking lot and a flickering streetlamp behind us. Every hair on the back of my neck stood at attention. I sucked in several deep breaths, trying to settle my nerves, insisting that the sound was a product of my overactive imagination. I locked the doors and prayed Charlie would return soon.

  “Dolly…” A masculine voice called my name from outside, no louder than a whisper. Wayah growled, baring her teeth at the back window. A shadow sprinted under the streetlamp, on the edge of my peripheral, fast enough to make me question if I spotted it at all.

  “Stay here, Wayah,” I ordered the massive wolf-dog who seemed overly willing to comply, and I unlocked my door. I needed to prove to myself that I wasn’t crazy, but also, that I was spooked for no reason. If anything, Ol’ Smokey was a disgruntled poltergeist of forests past, rather than an actual bear, who liked to smack windows and speak in human tones.

  I climbed out of the truck, wedging the door shut behind me, and slid my back along the side of the vehicle, so that I could peek around to the truck bed without stepping out into the open. My heart pounded in my ear, alerting all of my senses. The tiniest gust of wind caused me to shudder, and the rustle of a leaf skidding across the asphalt nearly sent me into cardiac arrest. Once I’d given the truck bed a once-over, I stepped away, gathering all of my bravery to kneel and peer under the truck.

  “Dolly, what are you doing?” a harsh voice questioned. Charlie glared down at me, crouched and peeking behind the tires. I gasped, knocking myself off-balance, but he caught my arm before my butt collided with the asphalt and lifted me to my feet. “I told you to stay in the car,” Charlie scolded me. I squinted but couldn’t make out his features in the shadow of the parking lot.

  “Why did you say my name and knock on the window?” I questioned, pulling myself from his grip. I realized how crazy I sounded, but the smidgen of optimism I clung to willed me to believe Charlie had been standing there the entire time.

  “What are you talking about? I—” Charlie started, but was interrupted by a short, stalky man in an identical uniform.

  “Stick Indians,” the man declared, nodding at Charlie.

  Charlie’s shook his head and scoffed, “No way, man.”

  “What are Stick Indians?” I interjected, wiping beads of sweat from my forehead.

  “I’m not any more Cherokee than you are,” Falcon said to me, his face grim. He slung the rifle over his shoulder and leaned against the white truck. “I’m from the Salish band on the other side of the States. There’s a legend amongst my tribe of a cannibal clan,” he eyeballed the flickering street lamp and lowered his voice. “They were normal folks once, you know?”

  “Save your ghost stories for another time,” Charlie opened the passenger door, but I stayed put.

  “Barbie asked,” Falcon inclined his head to me, resting his hands on his tactical belt. I ignored Charlie’s groan. “Long before God ever thought about creating you or me, there was a time when winter arrived early and stayed late. The long winter made deer scarce. The birds flew south. The rabbits didn’t show themselves. Plagued by starvation, the Indians’ hair began falling out, leaving black, stringy patches on their scalp. Their copper skin turned pale, accented by a greenish hue, and their voices became hoarse leaving their dry, cracked throats. Their language evolved from normal dialogue, like you and me are having, to shrill shrieks and whistles. The more time passed without food, the more their bodies transformed, becoming lean and frail, resembling sticks.”

  I glanced at Charlie who was monitoring my expression, studying him from head to toe, hoping to find him lacking in some way, but the man was void of imperfection. Dismayed, I averted my gaze, raised my chin and pretended like I wasn�
��t looking at him. Falcon continued after he hacked a mouthful of brown spit on the ground, then rearranged the dip in his bottom lip. “When the neighboring clans refused to share their food, the Stick Indian chief did what he had to in order to keep his people alive,” Falcon leaned in to relay the next part of the story. “The Stick Indians waited ‘til nightfall to attack a neighboring village, drawn in by the sounds of lively conversation and whistling. The Stick Indian’s gray, sharp teeth pierced the flesh of the wailing humans, ripping skin from bone. They sucked down every drop of blood, not letting it hit the snow.” I sucked in a breath and heard Charlie chuckle behind me. “Meat was back on the menu, and the Stick Indians had a taste for human flesh.”

  Falcon paused for dramatic effect. “Now, the Stick Indians attack those who are stupid enough to attract them, luring them into the woods with screams and whistles.”

  “Okay…” I started, allowing the tale to permeate my mind. I rubbed my temple. “But is your name really Falcon?”

  “No,” he snorted, smacking Charlie on the shoulder. “But it sounds bad ass, right?”

  “Oh, no doubt,” I smiled back.

  “How do you feel about pancakes?” Charlie climbed into the driver’s seat after we said goodbye to Falcon. Wayah caught a ride in Falcon’s truck, and they headed back to the Qualla Boundary. Charlie gripped the steering wheel with enough force to create a low groan from the friction.

  I shrugged. “Wherever we’re going, will there be coffee?”

  “Yes.”

  “Pancakes are fine.”

  We claimed a booth at the back of the Trading Post Pancake House, next to the sprawling stone fireplace that climbed to the pine ceiling. A giant moose bust stared down at our table from on top of the mantle, casting silent judgment on our unsavory situation.

  Charlie’s legs were so long, his knees grazed my own as he sat down. The brush of his body against mine sent a thrill through me that ended with a defeated sigh, leaving me with a deep emptiness that no amount of carbohydrates could fill.