“Oh,” Rachel said then handed him to the young girl who was already holding Baby Brother. She really wished the Indians talked more. She had a hard time trying to figure out what her husband wanted unless he told her with words.
Red Shirt looked to Number Two and flipped his head back: let’s tell them. At the same time, the two men placed their right hands over their wives wombs and smiled. The tribe was going to grow, there were two more members to be born in less than a year.
Ж
Everyone enjoyed the perfect meal then went to bed early. The extra full bellies made them tired, plus Red Shirt and Marty were going to leave at sunrise. The white man was finally going home.
Red Shirt didn’t want to go all the way to The Trees but knew that Dances Naked had no sense of direction. He had seen him get lost, or nearly so, just coming back from getting wood. But, maybe this time would be different. He was going to his family. The urgency of it was sure to make a difference to him.
Ж
Marty couldn’t sleep. He felt like he had just downed two pots of coffee but knew it was only the excitement of being so close to home. He lay flat on his back, wishing he had another blanket. The Young One was hot blooded and probably would rather he didn’t have any fire at all until winter, but they compromised and the fire was kept low.
Marty made sure The Young One was asleep then pulled out the little laminated photograph that James had given him before they parted ways two months ago. He leaned close to the fire and tried to see the faces in the picture. The glow was too dim, but it didn’t matter; he had memorized every detail and nuance down to the number of flowers on the hospital gown Bibb was wearing. He rubbed the inside right seam of his vest and felt it—the ancient Greek coin. He’d need that, too, for his trip through The Trees.
Ж
Just before sunrise, Red Shirt came into the single men’s house and found him. Marty had finally fallen asleep, his face on the rock next to the dying coals, the photograph of his family lying face up in his open hand. Red Shirt held his fiery torch near it, curious about what it was. He squatted down and took a close look at the shiny object. He pulled his neck back, unwilling to believe that Dances Naked had people captured in that flat piece of still water. He touched it with his finger, making sure it wasn’t ice that was holding in the little spirits, fairies that entered a man’s dreams at night and told him secrets.
Marty woke up to the smell of fire. He looked up and saw Red Shirt staring at him then back at the photo he had in his hand. What could he do? “These are my family,” he said.
Red Shirt gasped in horror: the crazy white man had his family trapped in warm ice.
“No, not my family. I mean, yes, they’re my family, but this is only a photograph, a representation, of them. See, that’s my, um, wife, Bibb. She had just been beat up, that is hit, by some very bad men. This is my youngest son, James. He’s the one who is staying with the Pomeroys now. And, this is Billy. I never knew he had even been born until recently. His mother, well, I just found out about him. He was, how should I say, hidden from me.” Marty looked up and saw he wasn’t getting anywhere with his explanation. It was too much for Red Shirt to comprehend, at least the technology of capturing a person’s essence in a photograph.
“This is what my family looks like; these are not their spirits in here. I want to go home now, okay?”
Red Shirt sighed in relief. He didn’t think that Dances Naked was a soul stealer. He had seen paintings in the city two years ago, but this one was smaller and of much better quality. It must be that where his friend lived, on the other side of The Trees, they had smaller paintbrushes and better artists.
“Can we go now,” Marty asked. He put his picture back in the inside pocket of his vest. He didn’t mean for anyone to see it but was glad that Red Shirt was only mildly taken aback. There was a lot of trust between them. He had never had a brother, but now he did. And, now he was leaving another member of his family. But, Bibb and Billy needed him. And, he needed them.
Red Shirt led the way out of the house and away from their town, never looking back. But, Marty wasn’t returning. He wanted one last look at the little community he had helped construct. It was early and everyone was asleep. Or so he thought. Morning Star came out of her house, Baby Brother over her shoulder. Evidently, he had awakened early and a cup of milk wouldn’t work for him: he wanted his Nanny Rachel.
Morning Star was an Indian by choice but a white woman by birth. She couldn’t hold back the emotions like the red man. “Oh, Marty, we’re going to miss you. I owe you everything. I mean, if it weren’t for you, Old Woman would have sent me on my way that first night. If it’s okay with my husband, I‘d like to name our first child after you, at least his middle name.”
Marty chuckled. “And, if you have a daughter, the middle name of Martina would be quite flattering. I’m sure you’ll make a good mother for your first born because you’re already doing so well with your first two.” Marty gave her a big-brotherly hug then stuffed his little bedroll back under his arm. “Let’s go,” he said to Red Shirt, once again trying to hide those sneaky tears that kept popping out.
Ж
The two men rode all day in silence. It was Red Shirt’s nature to be quiet, but Marty, normally chatty even if it was only a one-sided conversation, was absorbed in his own fantasies, hopes, and fears, so overwhelmed by the magnitude of his thoughts, that he couldn’t find the confidence to speak.
“There,” Red Shirt said aloud, his deep voice startling Marty, bringing him out of his reverie.
“Right through there?” Marty asked, still stunned by hearing his red brother speak.
Red Shirt frowned at him: don’t make me speak again. But, the crazy white man’s obvious fear and uncertainty overrode Red Shirt’s personal indignation about verbalizing. “When you wake in the morning, walk away from the sunrise.”
“Go west?” Marty asked as he pointed to the sunset, “and you’ll take the mare back with you?”
Red Shirt nodded but said no more. He had given simple directions that even a child could follow.
“Why didn’t you speak before?” Marty asked.
Red Shirt shrugged his shoulders. He didn’t want to tell him that he only had so many words to share, and he wanted to save them in case his new brother changed his mind and decided to return to live with him and his tribe instead of going through the Bad Medicine Trees. He cared for the man both like a brother and an uncle, and hoped he would stay, but it was doubtful he could be swayed. Deep down, he knew Dances Naked would spend his last breath, if necessary, trying to get back to his family. He knew he would, too, if their places were switched. It had only been two days since they left their home, but he already missed his family more than he thought possible. He even missed his ornery old grandmother.
Ж
Red Shirt arose just before daylight, leaving Dances Naked asleep near the fire, the smile on the old man’s face showing he was at peace with his decision to go home. The Indian chief pulled out a parting gift for his new brother, a thick slab of ham for breakfast. If it hadn’t been for the white man’s shrewd bartering, he wouldn’t have it to share. He didn’t want to wake him, so left the meat wrapped in the cotton fabric, torn from his sister-in-law’s former petticoat, providing a scent barrier to the sweet, salty smell of the cured pork. He got on his horse and rode away, atop the mare that was the first gift Dances Naked had given him. He scratched his balls, the coarseness of the cotton cloth of his pants, Dances Naked’s second gift to him, still an irritant at times to his man parts. The man was generous, faithful, and funny. He sure hoped his wife and child cared for him as much as his other family, his Indian family, did.
Ж
Marty awoke to the smell of ham. At first, he thought it was a dream, and then he saw it. Flies were attracted to the faint smell and were landing on the white, cotton covered parcel two feet away, trying to extract sustenance from it. “Get away from that,” Marty said as he shooed his hand over t
he package, “that’s my breakfast!”
He looked up and saw he was alone. The sun was just peeking over the horizon; that way was east. Red Shirt had told him he was to travel away from the sunrise. “I’m on my way, family,” he crowed, startling the birds that had gathered in the nearby bushes. “I’ll stop for breakfast later.”
Marty set a quick pace. The clouds were coming in and he knew he was directionally challenged. He spotted a clump of trees off in the distance then traveled to it. He repeated the process until his rumbling tummy and weak knees told him that it was time to eat. “Good enough spot for an early lunch,” he commented to the spreading tree. He kicked away the larger stones and used the side of his well-worn boot to smooth a seat for himself. “Not this time,” he said as he drew a long arrow in the dusty soil, indicating the direction he was to travel when he was done with his meal.
The slice of ham Red Shirt had given him was generous and enough for two meals at least. The only problem was that the salty repast made him thirsty. He still had water in his canteen but didn’t know where there was a creek nearby. His Indian friends knew where all the little springs were in this area, but he didn’t. Certainly, there was a trick to finding them, or maybe it was just that they were that familiar with the territory. “Just a little sip, and then I’ll save the rest for later,” he told himself, then toped half a mouthful. He carefully rewrapped the remaining meat, placed it inside his bedroll, then got up to continue his journey home, glad that he had remembered to etch his directional marker in the soil before brunch.
Marty fought back the urge to sprint to his next reference point, realizing that, even though it was at least late October, he was likely to become overheated with the extra exertion. Instead, he paced himself, marching out at a brisk walking pace rather than a slow jog. “Better the tortoise than the hare,” he remarked aloud, remembering that sure and steady wins the race.
“Who goes there?” hollered a gruff voice just ahead of him.
“C’est moi!” Marty bragged. “It’s me, myself and I. We’re just passing through and will be gone as fast as these old man legs can take us.”
“Well, good,” the man behind the bushes said. “Let me lighten your load a little then, so you can get out of here even faster,” he added sarcastically and walked out to present himself.
Grant was back.
Marty gulped hard and managed to stay on both feet although his knees didn’t think it was such a great idea. Grant had a knife: a rougher, cruder version than his previous bone-handled one. This one had rags tied around the hilt, but it still had a blade. The cocky bandit was wielding it like it was a Samurai sword, slicing the air with his broad motions, pretending his little eight inch blade was a full forty inches long. “Well, what do you have for me, mister?” he barked when his air dueling exhibition was over.
Marty stayed mum but tossed his bedroll over to the mangy man’s feet. It appeared Grant didn’t remember him, and he wasn’t going to remind him that he was the one who had helped bury him two months ago. Evidently, he had managed to dig himself out of his Cherokee tomb with the little shard of wood he had left with him. Or, some idiot came along and dug him out. Either way, Marty was in harm’s way with the shiftless highwayman, the man with no morals who used to torment and beat his sister, Rachel, for fun.
Rachel. Suddenly Marty remembered Rachel and her new family. Surely, there was no way Grant would find his way back to her. He sent up a silent prayer, ‘keep them safe,’ then realized Rachel had a husband, an entire under-populated tribe, to protect her, and keep her and her young son safe. Marty’s eyes went skyward, ‘A little help here, too, Lord,’ he prayed silently, hoping again that Grant would not remember him and would leave him with at least his life, and maybe his water, too.
Marty had subconsciously looked at his canteen, half-hidden under his vest, as he said his prayer. Grant saw the eye movement and pointed to the water can. “I’ll relieve you of that, too. I wouldn’t want to slow you down with such a heavy load,” he said, ending his pitiful joke with an evil laugh.
Marty started to protest but thought his chances of surviving a daylong trek without water were better than a minute-long confrontation with a mad man and his knife. He leaned his head forward and took his neck and shoulders out from under the canteen’s strap, biting down on the words, ‘Take it and get out of here,’ before they got up to his throat. He didn’t say them but thought them hard enough, making sure that he kept his scowling face low so Grant didn’t get a good look at him.
“You know, I’d kill you just for practice…” Grant stated, and then waited for his prey to look up at him and beg.
But, Marty wasn’t buying into it. He had always been a proud man, too proud by many people’s standards, but he had learned from his Cherokee friends not to grovel, that you took what life had to offer and made do with it without demeaning yourself. He wasn’t going to look up, but realized that by ignoring Grant, he was probably irritating him even more. Instead, he played a third role: the sick man. He fell to his knees and started coughing, hoping that he’d start gagging and maybe even bring up a bit of his late breakfast. Vomit had a way of turning away everyone’s head. Surely, Grant wouldn’t attack a sick man, or chance getting puked on.
Marty’s ploy worked. “Ah, I hope you choke to death,” Grant said, then walked over to the bushes from whence he came. He grabbed the reins of a swaybacked nag and led her a few yards away to a low spot in the terrain. He stood beside her, clutched her mane, and jumped up, managing to get onto her back in an almost comedic fashion, legs kicking, and belly squirming against the mare’s spine, his awkwardness as amazing as the fact that he had completed the feat. Marty bit his bottom lip to keep from laughing then remembered to start coughing and dry heaving again. Hopefully, the idiot on the bareback horse would be gone before he needed to produce any regurgitated food.
And then he was gone, out of sight and sound, almost as quickly as he had appeared, riding into the east, not a care in the world as he took a pull from the canteen he had taken from Marty. “Shit, just water,” he carped as he dumped out the clear fluid. “I gotta find me some whisky.”
Ж
Marty turned to the left, turned to the right, then pivoted around twice. “Shit,” he said as he wiped the slobber from the sides of his mouth. He had managed to keep his food in but had made a mess out of his beard with the feigned vomit—the spittle evidently was enough to repulse Grant. “Which way did he go?” Marty had lost track of his own direction and even the knowledge that Grant had been heading the opposite direction of him was of no use to him now; he couldn’t see or remember which direction the fiend had left.
19 After the Trees
Late October, 1782 and 2013
ow! There they are. I'll bet I walked right past them two, maybe three times. I didn't think about the leaves changing colors,' Marty thought. He smacked his lips, trying to work up at least enough moisture to swallow. His little trick didn't work this time but only encouraged a cough.
Marty leaned over and placed his hands on his bare knees, concentrating on a smooth, slow air intake, trying to stifle his cough. 'You're a yogi, you're a yogi,' became his silent mantra. 'You can control your breath—slow in, slow out. You're a yogi, hold the breath; exhale.'
He knew his mind was going kaput. He wasn't crazy but physiologically, he was shutting down. He had gone too many days without food and only had a few drops of dew to drink in the last three days. The grass he ate had tasted great, but the diarrhea he suffered from eating too much at once and in its raw state had debilitated his body even further. His problem had a name: electrolyte imbalance. He knew what it was and how to cure it but didn’t have the raw materials on hand. Good old sugar and salt mixed in water, an off the shelf sports drink, would fix him right up. He also knew the results of not getting the sweetened saline solution either orally or intravenously: cardio shutdown. His heart would stop beating. He could already tell it was thump, thump, thudding erratically.
'You're a yogi, you can control everything; you're a yogi, you can control your heart beats...'
He wanted to lie down and rest. "nope," he mumbled aloud, as if verbalizing his conviction would hold sway over his weakened body and mind. They were both at the end of their usefulness, but his determination was still at 100%. He raised his hands in prayer, "Lord, please just get me back to my family so they can take care of the rest of me. You got my attention. It's You, not some yogi, who’s in charge of my heart, lungs, and everything else."
Marty lowered his arms and placed his right hand over his shirt pocket, pulling out the laminated picture of his sons, James and Billy, and their mother, his purple-faced but glowing with pride Bibb, still recovering from her bashing by the MacLeod brothers. "I'm coming, I'm coming," he whispered coarsely then looked at the time portal. This time he was sure that these were the right trees. He clutched his empty belly and felt the queasiness that confirmed the site. He tilted his head up, and croaked, "Thanks," to the Lord, and walked straight up to the timber gateway, clutching his ancient Greek drachma, his silver ticket. “mysterious ways,” he mumbled as he briefly recalled the strange events of the last few months. “mysterious ways,’ he repeated softly, then strode through the two sentinels, his vision of Bibb held in his mind as tight as he held his ancient coin in his trembling hand. “I’m coming home.”
Ж
"Good Lord, who, what's that?" screeched the lady realtor in the tacky, gray jogging suit. "Eww! It's moving!"
Mrs. Goodwin scurried backwards away from the unconscious, wild-haired old man clad solely in a ratty, torn shirt. She looked down, noticed his limited wardrobe, and hissed, "He doesn't have on any pants!" She turned and dashed the five yards to her shiny blue SUV, broke a fingernail pulling at the latch, cursed mildly, jumped into the driver’s seat, locked the doors, started the engine, and peeled out from the vacant lot, flinging back dirt and gravel over the prone figure. Her left, white knuckled hand grasped the steering wheel as she blindly rummaged through her little crocheted handbag with her right, finally locating her cell phone. She pressed and held the numeral nine with her thumb, speed dialing the Greensboro Police Department before she was even a hundred yards away.
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