by Ryan King
“Don’t look so afraid, child. It’s just death,” said Chicoca. “You have been through much worse than this.”
Susan tried to smile. “This is not a good time for you to leave us. What about the Creek? Who will lead them?”
“Billy here will, just like he has been,” said Chicoca. “He is the chief. I am just his advisor.”
“You are more than that,” said Billy.
“At times, that is true. Other times, I have been even less than an advisor. I am whatever the people need me to be.”
“But who will take over once you...are no longer here?” Susan asked.
The old man reached out and took her hand in his. “You will, Susan. You will be their prophetess. You will give them wisdom and understanding in the uncertain days ahead.”
Susan pulled away and stood, shaking her head. She finally laughed. “Thank you, but I think you’ve got this wrong. I’m not even a Creek.”
“I thought we just established that you were,” said Billy.
“You know what I mean,” said Susan, not taking her eyes off Chicoca. “Besides, I’m a woman. Will all these braves listen to me?”
“Of course they will,” said Chicoca. “We are not as male chauvinist as you take us to be. My predecessor was a woman and a better guide than I. How she would have loved to see this day.”
Susan looked back and forth between the old man and Billy. “This doesn’t make sense. There are thousands of Creek out there and you’re telling me I’m the best person for this job?”
“You have something none of them have,” said Chicoca.
She felt like crying now. “What, guilt? That feeling of pushing the button that ended the world?”
“The world is still here, just moved on,” answered Chicoca gently. “If you had not pushed that button, the Creek may never have regained their homeland. It was a terrible thing, and you will carry that burden all your days. That burden gives you wisdom.”
“That’s all it takes to be the wise man…person of the Creek Nation?”
“No.” He smiled. “There are plenty here with their own burdens. You must be our guide because you have the gift of prophecy.”
Susan sighed and dropped her head. “You know that’s not true. I told you I made up the stuff about the fire in the west and it being a sign to stop making war. I just wanted to stop the bloodshed.”
“And I believe you, but you have the gift nevertheless.”
“Well, shouldn’t I see visions or something?”
“Maybe, but the Creek believe that a prophet’s primary gift is the ability to see a wise and safe path through the dangerous forest of uncertainty ahead.”
Susan threw her hands up in exasperation. “What do I know?”
“You brought us here, didn’t you?”
“Me? It was your damn Red Sticks story that did it. Tecumseh and all that. Speaking of which, I can’t do your job because I don’t know all the stories. You’ll need to find someone else.”
Chicoca sighed and closed his eyes. “There are plenty who know the old stories. You will live new ones.”
“It is what he wants,” said Billy, staring at her with a hard look.
Susan sighed. “Is there some sort of initiation or something?”
Chicoca nodded. “You ever see A Man Called Horse?”
Susan’s eyes got wide. “You mean the movie where they put ropes through his chest and lifted him up off the ground?”
“Yeah, it will be nothing like that.”
“Thanks.”
“Now, I’m afraid I must rest,” Chicoca said, closing his eyes.
Billy gently grabbed her arm. “We should go.”
She resisted looking at Chicoca. “Are you afraid?”
He opened his eyes to peer at her. “Afraid of what?”
“Dying?”
The old man closed his eyes again. “I am afraid of many things, but dying is not one of them. I know I am soon going to see my friends and family and ancestors that have gone on before me. You should know by now that this is not the only world there is.” His breathing slowed, and his chest rose and fell.
She turned and followed Billy towards the exit.
“Susan Who Guides the Creek,” a faint voice said behind her.
Susan turned to see he had opened his eyes once more.
“You will not see me again in this life, but know that I will be watching you.” He then closed his eyes for the last time.
They walked outside into the warm sunshine.
*******
Cremation had gone out of style with the Creek hundreds of years before, but Chicoca had asked to be buried the old way. His body would be burned on a giant pier at sunrise and then his ashes collected to be scattered to the Four Winds at sunset. The entire Creek Nation would gather around and not eat or drink anything during this time. They would honor him and witness his soul moving on to the afterlife.
Susan stood watching. Any further talk about her not complying with Chicoca’s wishes regarding her new role had been met with silence. It was one thing to humor an old man’s crazy ideas so that he could die in peace. It was quite another to go through with those crazy ideas after he was gone. She had wanted to scream at Billy and the other leaders in frustration, but knew it would do no good. They would adhere to Chicoca’s dying wishes, no matter how idiotic they were and even if it got all of them killed.
Maybe it was really all about guiding them through potential dangers ahead, she thought. Maybe this whole prophetess business was nothing more than an advisor who specialized in contingency planning. She had learned such things in the Air Force and could certainly introduce some flow charts and graph diagrams at the next tribal meeting.
She felt her head grow light and swayed in the sun. Little Lion had at some point come up beside her, and now took Susan’s hand to steady her. She looked down at the little girl in gratitude and smiled.
The sun was nearly straight up in the sky by now, and Chicoca’s remains smoldered. Smoke billowed in the soft wind, sometimes blowing in Susan’s face. She tried not to cough, but shuddered thinking that she was likely inhaling part of the old man’s ashes. In fact, everyone there probably was. Maybe in some way that was the point of the ceremony.
She heard a strange sound from the bier. It was that of fire, but somehow different, bad in some indescribable way. Staring at the smoke and fire, Susan imagined she saw swirling shapes and figures. A face here and horse there. Figures running...and screaming.
Susan shook her head and looked around. The faces remained solemn, but none appeared to be seeing what she was seeing. She gazed up at the sun and wondering if she were suffering from heatstroke.
A series of soft pops drew her attention back to the fire, and there through hazy smoke, she saw a blackened field coved in bodies. The sky was darkly overcast, and pitiful figures walked through the dead landscape. Dogs and crows fed on the mounds of dead. Fighting in the distance could be heard faintly, and bodies floated downstream and piled up at a bend in the mighty river beside an abandoned camper.
She didn’t feel herself strike the ground, but heard voices from far away. Water was pressed to her lips, and the sun was blotted out as others stood over her.
“Give her some space,” said Billy Fox, coming close. After most had stepped back, he knelt down close beside her. “You saw something in the fire. What did you see?” he asked in a whisper.
Susan shook her head and looked away.
“Tell me,” he insisted. “What was it?”
“Death,” she rasped, and a tear trickled from the corner of her eye.
“Whose?”
Susan looked around at the concerned Creek faces. “Everyone’s.”
Chapter 6 – The Deal
Horace Trailer Smiley sat with his back in a corner, carefully watching the other miscreants like him who filled the room. Places like this were why he didn’t come to Tunica until forced by circumstances. The room was filled with violent and desperate people, e
ither stoned or drunk, and all of them were certainly still living in a state of shock. Many things could happen here, and hardly any of them were good.
Despite his misgivings, Trailer knew this was where he needed to be to get work. He could have gone back north without a fare, but being a guide had a very tight profit margin. Showing up at a toll without enough bribe money was likely worse than encountering trouble in this particular cornucopia of misdeeds.
He took a sip of the homemade beer they brewed in this particular hardware store turned bar/brothel/gambling den and regretted the decision immediately. Trailer had drunk a good deal of homemade beer in the last two years. Very little of it had been what a sane person would call good, but what he was drinking tasted so bad it made his stomach seize and his teeth lock down in revolt.
Trailer kept watch on several people around him. He had learned the hard way to distinguish between the blowhards and the genuine murderers. The key was often in their eyes and their hands when they thought no one was looking. The small weasel-looking man across the room that Trailer was watching now kept looking at a whore engaged with another man, but his hands were locked together near his waist, obviously imagining himself chocking her to death.
What the hell happened to the world? he thought. Maybe we would have been better off if those nukes had just wiped us all off the face of the planet.
He had put the word out in all the usual places that a guide was available to take people north for a fair price. No one had approached him yet, but he knew these things often took time. Trailer was prepared to sit there all night if need be, but had decided he would milk his current beer until he left. One of those bad boys was enough to last a lifetime.
Two scoundrels he had been watching earlier stopped their intense drinking to talk to a small man who appeared to have come in the back entrance. A giant goon mostly listened while the small mousey man with long hair did all the talking and asked questions of the newcomer. Trailer thought that if John Steinbeck had seen these two, he would have instantly pegged them as George and Lenny from Of Mice and Men. The conversation was tense, then confrontational, then cordial, and finally friendly. All shook hands, and the man vanished out the back of the bar.
Something tells me that conversation is going to lead to more evil in the world.
A small girl with an empty tray walked over to Trailer and pointed at his still mostly full mug. “You want another?”
“Good Lord, no! Are you trying to kill me, girl?”
She put her hands on her hips and frowned at him. “Whatever. I was just asking.” She then turned and stomped away.
Trailer noticed that George and Lenny had stopped drinking and were now both watching the front door. Whatever was going to happen would happen soon.
Within a few minutes, a strikingly clean fellow wearing nearly new clothes walked in and looked around as if he was lost. Nearly every eye in the establishment turned in his direction. It wasn’t just his appearance that drew attention; it was the assault rifle he carried casually over one shoulder, as if he were headed down to the river to plink cans. Anyone with a weapon like that now knew to keep it hidden or in both hands ready to defend its possession.
Mister Man Out of Time and Place finally asked a nearby drunk a question. The drunk pointed over to George and Lenny, and the man thanked the drunk politely.
Where in the hell did this cat come from? Trailer wondered.
The man walked over to George and Lenny with a pleasant yet naïve smile on his face and spoke in a far too loud a voice. “Hello, gentlemen, my name is Simon. Ole Jonesy outside said I should talk to you two about guiding me north into the JP.” He turned to Lenny. “I presume you are Tiny,” and then up to George, “and you are Coon?”
“You’d presume wrong,” said the smaller man. “I’m Coon and the big guy’s Tiny.”
Simon looked confused and thrown off his obviously prepared spiel.
“The name is ironical,” hollered out Trailer helpfully.
All three turned in his direction, sizing up his massive frame.
“Mind your own damn business,” said Coon, before turning back to Simon. “The roads up to the JP are dangerous and long. You got a way to pay?”
“I do,” said Simon and started to pull his pack off his shoulder, but Coon stopped him.
“That’s good, but not here. This place is full of thieves and murderers.”
Trailer laughed. “He’s not lying.”
Coon pointed a finger at Trailer. “I told you to mind you own damn business.”
“What? I’m sorry I didn’t hear you.”
“I said, mind your bus—” the long-haired man began to threaten.
“Still can’t hear you. I’m really sorry, ma’am, but I have to say you’re the prettiest girl in this place. How much for a blowjob?”
Several drunks around the room laughed, but Coon only got red and started to shake. He slapped Tiny on the arm and strode over to Trailer, Tiny close behind him.
“Say that again.”
Trailer looked at the small man and smiled. “Damn, you’ve got a pretty mouth, too. I bet you make a killing in here sucking all these boys off.”
Coon reached behind his back and pulled out a small revolver. Tiny looked surprised and then reached around to his back and pulled out a larger automatic.
“You’re a dead man.”
Trailer held his hands out in front of him. “There has obviously been a mistake. I apologize, blowjobs are obviously not your specialty. What services do you provide a lonely cowboy?”
Coon was shaking his head and was so angry there were tears in his eyes. “You messed up, coon. You messed up bad.”
“Wait, I thought your name was Coon?”
“Let’s everyone settle down now,” said a commanding voice from behind them. They all looked behind them to see the bartender in an apron holding a shotgun in their direction.
“Put you guns away,” the bartender said. “You can do whatever you want to each other once you leave my place, but I don’t want any blood on my floors, you understand? Take it out into the street if you really need to.”
Coon slowly slid his pistol back into the back of his pants. He nodded to Tiny, who did the same. Coon then looked at Trailer and smiled. “We’re not done here.”
“Looking forward to it,” said Trailer. “Let me know when you get a break from sucking on scrotums. We’ll hook up.”
Coon and Tiny walked back over to their normal spot and began to drink even more heavily than before.
“You too, big man,” said the bartender.
Trailer smiled innocently and put the large automatic pistol that had been resting in his lap under the table back in his thigh holster.
The bartender lowered the shotgun. “Remember, not in my bar, but it wouldn’t break my heart if something happened to those two.” He then turned and went back behind the long makeshift counter made from old wooden pallets.
Simon stood still in the middle of the room, evidently forgotten by Coon and Tiny in their rage and plans for vengeance against Trailer.
“Hey, Mister Clean,” called out Trailer.
Simon looked over, startled, and actually pointed at himself.
“Yes, you see anyone else in here that doesn’t look like they’ve lived out of a trash heap for the last decade?”
“Uh, what?”
Trailer kicked one of the chairs at his table out. “Come on, have a seat.”
Simon backed away a little. “I’m not sure that is such a good idea.”
“Actually it’s the best option you got going right now. You do know those two clowns were getting ready to take you out back, slit your throat, and walk away with all you stuff?”
Simon’s head snapped around to look at the two speed-drinking fellows. “But Ole Jonesy—”
“Came in here a few minutes before you arrived to make a deal with them. You were set up, my naive little babe in the woods friend.”
Simon still looked confused
. “Then why did you...?”
“Because, unlike those two turds, I actually am a guide. Taken people north plenty of times, and you look like you can pay.”
Hesitating a few seconds more, Simon walked over slowly and sat in the chair on its front edge, not bothering to take his pack off.
“Want a beer?” Trailer asked.
Simon shook his head. “I don’t drink.”
“Well, you can’t drink the water around here; it’ll give you the grips. Gotta be something fermented.” He waved for the girl who had offered him another beer earlier. “One more over here, dear.”
“Who are you anyway?” Simon asked.
“My apologies. Name’s Horace, but everyone calls me Trailer.”
Simon gingerly reached out to accept the big man’s handshake.
The girl came back and set a mug of beer down hard enough that it bounced. “I wish you’d make up your goddamn mind.”
“Thank you,” yelled Trailer after her before turning to Simon. “What a sweetheart. Main reason I come here.”
Simon stared in horror at the glass before him. It appeared there were bits of leaves and newspaper floating in a liquid the color of old urine. “I really don’t want this.”
“Go on anyway,” said Trailer. “Consider it a test. Will tell me if you are a man to be taken seriously.”
Simon gingerly picked up the mug and placed the dirty glass to his lips. He then tilted the mug back and allowed a long swallow to go down his throat. He immediately slammed the mug back down and started coughing and retching.
“Oh, that’s terrible! How can anyone drink that?”
Trailer nodded approvingly. “Okay, you passed. So tell me how you plan on paying to get north.”
Simon looked suspicious. “How do I know you’re not going to rob and murder me?”
“Now you’ve got the right attitude. Well done. You don’t, to answer your question, but that’s the same position you’re going to be in with any guide you pick. It’s not exactly like you can go to the Better Business Bureau and check out my references. Now tell me...don’t show me...what you got.”