Yokche:The Nature of Murder

by P. J. Erickson

  Willie was a flamboyant figure and fiercely full of pride for his heritage. His rhetoric stirred the young men’s blood and they idolized him. Joe felt Willie’s harsh stance and aggressive refusal to deal diplomatically with the whites was a dangerous role model for the youth of the tribe. The future of their people depended on learning to get along and partaking of education and technology or they would remain a ragtag bunch of poor folk living in the swamp. National pride must be carefully directed if their future culture was to be maintained. Willie advocated Red Power and modern warfare against the whites. He wanted America back for its native sons. Willie was a modern day Geronimo.

  Willie clapped Joe a resounding slap between the shoulder blades laughing uproariously as Joe stumbled under the blow. “Wake up Laa-le Nak-ne. You don’t see an old friend?” As usual, Willie spoke in Miccosukee and addressed Joe by his tribal name which meant Fish Man and which Joe had earned as a young boy when he took up scuba diving, already with his feet set on the path toward a career involving water.

  Recovering his stride, Joe retaliated enthusiastically and the two men stopped for a second to grin foolishly and appraise each other. “It’s good to see you Willie even if you do look like a tourist’s idea of an Indian.” Joe looked him up and down, shaking his head in wonderment.

  Willie was dressed in a superb cream-colored doeskin tunic and pants beautifully beaded. His hair was long and loose and he wore silver and turquoise wristbands and necklace. A silver feather and ear cuff decorated one ear. He was better than any movie star Indian Joe had ever seen.

  “Yeah.” Willie flicked imaginary lint off his sleeves. “Don’t mess up the costume, fish man. This set me back a fortune. Nice huh?” Willie preened and Joe was amused at the women who were pretending not to watch, their covetous glances hidden behind disapproving frowns.

  The two men bantered spiritedly as they continued on their way but eventually the talk turned to more serious matters. They had already covered family news and Joe’s progress with his work and were having a hot debate on cattle ranching as they reached the edge of the gathering.

  Willie was pleased with Joe’s report. “That’s good news Laa-le Nak-ne. The elders will be pleased, but we need you back here soon.” Willie turned to face Joe, lowering his voice. “The council has just finished its report on the state of our lands and it is not good. The whites must do something soon or we will have no lands.”

  Willie’s passionate nature could not keep him still. He slapped one palm into the other in frustration and increased his stride to match his intensity. “It’s not like we haven’t got the money. Our conservation classes have multiplied and we’re doing everything we can within the tribe but it’s not enough. In ten years there will be nothing left. I’ve got my hands full just dealing with the problem of additional housing but we’ve got big trouble here. Some of the shamans are predicting destruction of life as we know it, that the Breathmaker is displeased with us. Most of the people are jittery and they don’t go out alone. Since you have been gone, five people have been killed by lightning in storms such as we have never seen.”

  Joe stopped in mid stride and put a restraining hand on Willie’s arm at the mention of lightning storms. “What kind of storms?”

  “Storms unlike anything the Breathmaker has sent us before. These storms do not move. They happen with no warning. They cover a small area and they are so ferocious that everything under them is beaten into the ground. They last a short time and stop. Man or animal, anything trapped by the storm is killed. Our people cannot predict when and where these storms will strike. The ground is left barren and nothing will grow there afterwards. The animals will not return.” Willie drew Joe aside from the crowd walking close beside him so they would not be overhead. “The ceremony this year will be much longer. The shamans have much magic to make. The green corn does not ripen and our people are afraid.”

  Joe saw one of the elders heading in their direction. There would be no more time to talk. “Willie, I know about this. It is happening in the white world too. We must talk. I need to see some of these areas.”

  A gleam of hope appeared in Willie’s eyes. They agreed on a meeting place just as the elder caught up with them. Joe greeted him deferentially then turned and took his place at the fire.

  The clans waited in respectful silence as the shaman, stately in his ceremonial robes, paced slowly forward, reverently holding a piece of flint that had been stored away to be used only for this purpose. This was a moment of great ceremony.

  Joe was dressed, as was everyone else, except Willie, in traditional Seminole garb. The campsite was alive with all the brightly colored patchwork. Joe was always deeply moved by this ritual. It gave him roots, a sense of pride and history. It renewed him, as it was meant to do. The fire was a symbol of a new beginning. He stood with the members of his family and gave himself up to the ceremony.

  Once the fire was alight and blazing, the women each took coals from it to their own homes so that they could cook the feast with the new fire. The Panther Clan and The Wind Clan, the clans that provided leadership to the tribe, sat in two separate groups around the fire. Each member of one clan sat opposite the man with equal status in the other clan. The other clan members addressed them as “mother’s brother.”

  Before the dancing could begin, there would be business and Joe settled down to watch with the other men. First came the sinners. Crime amongst the Seminoles was minimal because justice was harsh and inescapable. There was no courtroom appeal here. Any unfortunate deemed guilty would be in for some bloodletting. Usually, the guilty party would be “scratched”, marked with animal claws that would leave scars. Decision for judgment was left to the clan’s leader.

  In previous years Joe had witnessed much harsher penalties dealt out for crimes which had fortunately become much rarer. Incest or adultery could result in ears, nose or lips being cut off and a death sentence was not unknown. This year, however, the ruffians were few and the punishments light. Most of the men nodded in agreement with the sentences handed down.

  Next came the repentant ones. Those who had left the tribe for one reason or another and wished to come back and be forgiven. At the Green Corn Dance the Breathmaker comes down and blesses everyone and runaways are usually welcomed back to the fold. They stood meekly before their judges, heads down, their faces betraying no anxiety. What would be, would be. Accepted back into the fold, they would withhold their exuberance until the dancing began.

  After the penitents, came the pubescent boys, ready to receive their Miccosukee names and be initiated into the tribe as men. The boys also were scratched as part of their initiation rites. They stood, stiff and tall in the flickering firelight, immobile and impassive as their clan leaders advanced slowly towards them bearing the ceremonial claws used for initiation. Each pair of dark pubescent eyes remained riveted on those claws as they advanced down the line leaving behind them a trail of blood. There was not one among them who would not have died rather than flinched as those claws took them from boyhood to manhood. When it was done they could contain themselves no more. Relieved that it was over, they strutted for their families and wore their scratchings with great pride. They were the warriors of the future and the tribe’s survival rested on them. Throughout the ceremonies, the tortoiseshell rattles of the shamans could be heard communicating their messages to the Breathmaker.

  While watching the initiation, Joe had sunk into reverie and was startled when Sophie’s name penetrated his consciousness. No he was not mistaken. The shaman was indeed talking about Sophie. Joe’s mouth almost dropped open in amazement. The shaman was praying for those among the tribe who had passed over during the year and calling for a moment of silence in remembrance. For Sophie to be mentioned in this prayer was an honor she would have deeply appreciated. She had done much for the tribe and they had welcomed her as one of them. An honor not bestowed lightly. Joe looked up at the stars and fancied he saw Sophie’s bright smile.


  Finally came the dancing. It began with a string of men who fell in behind a chanting medicine man. They answered each chanted cry while they stomped, weaving single file behind him sinuous and rhythmic as a snake. As the dancing progressed, the guttural whoops and war cries blended with the pulsing of the drums. The whorls and bends and foot thumping of the warriors set Joe’s pulse racing and heated his blood until he too joined in, immersed in his dance, as one with his ancient ancestors.

  He danced to exhaustion with great joy and no little skill, his body glistening with sweat, his moccasins molded to his feet like a second skin. Eventually, breathing heavily, Joe became aware of his surroundings again and dropped out to rest.

  In contrast, the gentler, slow and elegant shuffling of the women in their beautiful finery, with tinkling bells and egret feathers bending in unison was soothing and hypnotic to watch. Already exhausted from his stomping, Joe squatted to watch the women and was reminded again how beautiful the young women of his tribe were. They stood slim and graceful and each danced with pride and shy pleasure, eyes laughing and hair swinging. It was good to see. There were many years when this had not been so.

  The flickering firelight, the beautiful starry night, the drums and tribal chants and the mouth-watering aroma of roasting venison and mounds of fragrant, doughy frybread overloaded Joe’s senses. He mused that had an outsider been allowed to witness the ceremonies they would believe themselves back in an earlier time and would have been held spellbound, as he was, never closer to the beauty of the universe than this.

  Content just to sit, Joe watched wistfully as couple after couple disappeared into the flickering shadows. This was the one night of the year when teenage girls could flirt with impunity. Each girl would find a boy and let him know that she found him attractive. They did not kiss. The couples showed their affection in other ways. It was a night of great magic for the young. Ruefully, Joe realized it had been many years since a young teenaged girl had found him attractive but the memory of that night stayed with him still.

  Tomorrow, the third day, the shaman would carry his medicine bundle into the ceremony and in the evening he would open it to reveal its contents which could be viewed until dawn, when it would be closed, signifying the end of the ceremony. Joe worried about the contents of that bag. The destruction wreaked by these storms placed a pall over the ceremony and Joe knew the shaman must address it but the Green Corn Dance must not end on a note of terror and despair. The consequences would affect the entire tribe, cloaking them in depression for the entire year. The shaman’s magic was strong. Could it not, this once, be done in secret?

  The teenagers were too much for Joe. He went in search of an old girlfriend.

 

 

  Thirty-nine

  Chase and Shanna rolled into St. Augustine about an hour after leaving Daytona and headed straight for Kenny’s store. Chase pulled the bike in back and while they took off helmets he looked around, relieved to see that no one was yet about. The tourists must still be having breakfast. Down the street, shopkeepers were beginning to stir and put out their wares, but Kenny’s store was next to the White Lion. There were few other stores on the street and it was quiet. For a moment, Chase thought he saw a guy in a leather duster walking quickly away in the distance. He thought he must still be a bit punchy.

  He knew he was tired when he snapped at Shanna. “Have you got the formula and Sophie’s papers? I’d hate to have driven all this way for nothing.” Shanna had already located the papers in his saddlebags and handed them over without comment. Chase felt guilty. “With our luck, Kenny’s probably out of town or something” he said morosely. Still Shanna said nothing and Chase felt worse.

  They walked round the back looking for a port of entry. Since Kenny had living quarters here it was feasible to expect a back door and there it was. Chase rang, waited a few minutes then rang again. No answer. He started to swear under his breath. Just his luck not to find Kenny at home. Shanna was busy looking in the windows intrigued by all the goodies crammed together inside.

  Irritated, Chase decided they had better go have a cup of coffee somewhere and try again later but as he and Shanna walked back to the bike he took another look and noticed that one of the lower windows was cracked open.

  Chase motioned Shanna to the bike. “Stay here and keep an eye open. I don’t want to be arrested for breaking and entering. I’ll just leave a note for him and we can wait at a motel.” He raised the window without difficulty, but getting inside proved less easy. He was still limping on his bad leg and sore from the fight and Kenny had the place so crammed with tourist lures that Chase felt like a blind elephant trying to tiptoe around in a china shop. Eventually, finding a good foothold, he landed lightly and glanced around to get his bearings. As he recalled, the stairs to the living quarters were off to the right.

  Chase moved slowly and quietly, not wanting to scare Kenny if he should be home sleeping. At the head of the stairs he craned his head up looking for signs of life. “Hello, anyone home? Kenny, you there man?” Chase went up the stairs and knocked softly at the first door and then tried it. Nothing but empty room, kitchen. Chase felt guilty at trespassing on Kenny’s privacy but he was here now, might as well go on. The second door was a bathroom, the third a bedroom, the bed evidently not slept in. Finally, Chase arrived at the room he remembered as being Kenny’s den from his last visit. It was the last room on the floor. He opened the door carefully, remembering how cluttered the room had been, and peered around it. Kenny must have been out partying a little late last night, or else had done too much weed. He was slumped over the desk, out cold.

  Relieved, Chase gave up being stealthy. “Hey, man. That must have been a hell of a party if you can sleep like that.” He reached the desk in a couple of strides and shook Kenny by the shoulder. No response. Moving around in front, Chase gently took hold of Kenny by the shoulders and pushed him back in his chair.

  Rooted to the spot Chase stared unbelievingly. There was a large hole in Kenny’s chest and now Chase could see the blood, all over the place. Kenny was dead. Incredulous, Chase felt for a pulse, even though he knew it was useless. His face twisted with regret. Good Christ almighty, what the hell was going on? Chase had liked the over aged hippie. What the fuck was so important that people had to die? Now there were two deaths to avenge. There had better not be anymore. Kenny had a wife and kids somewhere. What kind of bastards were these?

  Chase allowed himself a moment of emotion, then steeled himself. Dispassionately now he went to work looking for anything that might tell him what happened. Kenny was not in full rigor mortis, so he had not been dead long. Chase crossed to the window quickly and looked around. The street seemed clear and Shanna was waiting patiently, she was leaning on the bike, looking around with interest.

  Turning around, Chase studied the room. There was no indication of what had gone on here, no struggle. The back door had been securely locked when Chase tried it so the killer must have been let in and let himself out via the open window. It was hard to tell, but nothing seemed to have been disturbed, the room had not been ransacked.

  Luckily, Chase had not taken off his bike gloves. He could get out of here now without any hassles. Someone would find Kenny soon enough. In the meantime, he now had two deaths to avenge, for there was no doubt in Chase’s mind that Kenny had been killed because of something he knew in relation to Chase’s investigation.

  Even if someone saw the bike downstairs, it was bike week. The police would have to pick from a virtual forest of motorcycles between here and Daytona. There were not many distinguishing features to be seen when you wore black leather, sunglasses and a helmet. Looking out the window again, Chase saw that Shanna had already put her helmet and glasses back on. Good girl.

  Chase made a quick and thorough study of the room. He didn’t touch anything. He just searched visually for anything out of place.There was nothing. Returning to Kenny’s desk, he saw it was littered with papers, most
of them now blood-soaked. He looked at the ones over which Kenny had been slumped, gently moving them with a gloved finger. They were mostly bills and purchase orders for store supplies. Why in the world had somebody killed Kenny?

  Carefully, Chase attempted to lower Kenny back into the slumped position he had been in when Chase found him. As he did so Chase caught sight of the corner of a black, leather-bound notebook partially stuck down the side of Kenny’s chair. He pulled it loose, stuffing it into his jacket. Whispering a goodbye to Kenny, he hurried down the stairs and out to Shanna. They must get out of here now.

 

 

  Forty

  Annie had gotten over her terrible day. Her investigative instinct, she liked to call it that instead of just plain nosiness, had been thoroughly aroused by the South African contingent and she had been working furiously to see what would turn up. Nothing did. Brian’s Cavenaugh’s prints came back with his identification attached exactly as he claimed to be, a relocated South African businessman.

  De Brandt Minerals corporate reports, press releases and news articles lay strewn all over Annie’s desk. She had read every one of them to no avail. She had called De Brandt Minerals asking about their interests in South Florida and had been treated with total courtesy, great skepticism and undisguised incredulity. Nothing. Big fat zero.

  She wondered how Chase was doing. Just then her intercom buzzed.

  “Chase on line two.” Rose reported laconically.

  Annie picked up the phone. “Great minds think alike. I was just thinking about you.”

  “You must have sensed my panic.” Chase sounded a little out of breath. “Listen. I’m in a hurry but I may need you later, I don’t know how much trouble I’m in if any.”

  Annie sat up straight, starting to get worried. “Trouble? What’s going on?”

  “That guy I told you about in St. Augustine who knew about this lightning stuff? Well I was here to see him this morning. He’s dead. Somebody killed him. I can't stop now to chat. I want to get Shanna out of town. I found him in his house and left everything the way it was. I was wearing gloves so I think I’m okay, but I want you to discreetly find out how they treat it up here. I’ll be in touch as soon as I get back okay?”