Just North of Nowhere

by Lawrence Santoro

  After all these years, Feather Proud was disappointed. The Shadow Land wasn’t what he'd thought it might be. He'd figured it would be warm, at least. Figured there'd be a lot more ease being there: good hunting, fat fish, women greasy, wet and ready. Maybe he had been a not-good man. Maybe this was punishment, this running, running, running.

  Feather Proud had slowed over the years. After talking to the shadow boy, he slowed even more. He’d run his run since before the soft shirts came, before their buildings and hard trails had cut the ground and wounded the forest.

  All that stuff, railroads, highways, towns. Well, it distracted from the longness of death. Now, he took his time with the days, he strolled through town, looked at the stores, peered in windows. He looked at the colored magazines in the Rexall; tried to figure out the stuff in the wilderness outfitters store.

  He still looked for help. Of course he did. Feather Proud figured help could be in this town of soft shirts as well as anywhere along the trail of the world. These shirts, they had warriors. He'd seen the small people in the TV box at the Wagon Wheel Tavern.

  And what was along the trail and up the river anyway? He didn't know.

  He'd found himself wearing clothes sometime during this hundred year. Gradual. By the time he first stopped at the American House—Eats he was in full dress, stiff jerkin, ribbed chest plate with shells and bones that rattled when he ran, skin leggings, hide moccasins. He looked like he was courting a chief's daughter.

  He jogged down one side of the street, up the other, down various roads and back. He looked at people. Now and then he'd stop at the Wurst Haus. Karl, who ran the place ignored Feather. Probably didn't see him. Tourists, ones who saw him, figured he was a local character or, better yet, figured he was an actor from the Valley Tourism Board and was meant to be scenic.

  From the first, Esther saw but couldn't tolerate him. Every day he'd poke his damned head, step in and stand like a doofus, sniffing. He never sat to eat or even order take-out. Couple years back, the skinny girl, hired for the summer, had come over, smiled at him, stuck out a menu like she’d been told and could she show him a seat?

  He stared at her and said, “I'm not here. Don't speak to me.” Something like that.

  She never! Anyhow it hurt the skinny girl's feelings and she was ever after a little spooked by customers. Never could get it right.

  On the other hand, clientele at the American House—Eats, could be spooky even when they were alive.

  It was winter, white, deep, and bear-snoozing. Feather Proud showed, opened the door, stood looking in. A 40-below arctic clipper roared around him and flapped the gas fires all the way in the kitchen, froze the stool covers to cracking right under customers’ perched asses.

  “Crying out loud,” Esther yelled—she'd had it—“You don't like none of the pies-a-the day or what? And tell me you aren't here because what else is your butt doing but propping open that door, being here?”

  Several patrons looked at Esther and said to themselves they’d better check the grub ‘cause Esther’s nuts for sure!

  Eagle Feather Proud stepped in. The door slammed behind him. The blower overhead huffed heat, greasy dust snakes hanging off the vent above the grill flapped. The Eats warmed back up.

  “I'm not...” Feather started to say, but it didn't seem right. “People are starving,” he said instead.

  “'Murican House's been carrying food since 'bout 1900, sir. What c'n I getcher starvin’ folk?”

  Feather wanted to tell the woman. He was running for help, not food, not exactly. He was running upstream to bring warriors, other warriors of the People, warriors to chase away the Animals Who Only Think They Are People. To bring warriors to the caves downstream where the People had hidden and were starving near the Warring Place where the two rivers joined.

  “We have lemon pie and coconut cream, special today.” Esther said.

  “Coconut,” Feather said. He said that because it felt like words he knew. Lemon did not. Coconut sounded good in his mouth.

  “Excellent choice, sir,” Esther said, and shoved a piece of pie on the counter. Laid a shiny fork next to it.

  Scented steam from a white mug rose into Eagle Feather Proud's face.

  “Good smell,” he said.

  “Gonna sit?”

  He sat

  “Finally gottcha to sit yourself and take some grunts, mister. Well good fer me,” Esther said, “good fer me,” again. State bureaucrats from back east didn't take a lot of crap.

  Truth was, Eagle Feather Proud didn't know if he could eat this coconut. He tried and could. It tasted. He hadn't experienced taste since… It was long ago and the sun had gotten old many hundred times since he'd sat to eat. Never had he eaten with a silver fork, and never had he eaten coconut pie or tasted this steaming liquid heat and burnt nut smell that ran down his throat and chin – this hot coffee.

  “Good,” he said.

  “So I figure you're now going to tell me you got no way to pay and I'll have to tell you you gotta and we'll go round and round 'til Vinnie the cop comes by for his free pie and coffee and things get nasty so what can you do for me?

  He thought. “I don't know,” Feather Proud said.

  “You could clean up the kitchen, I guess.” She pointed to the open half-door in back.

  Feather looked. In the kitchen were things. Stoves, sinks, tables, steaming pots, big pans hanging. He didn't know their names, but there they were. He calculated their use. And there was something else. Something Eagle Feather Proud didn't like. Someone or a something lived in there; something too old and too painful for him to go near, something cold that smelled long dead; it was as long dead as he'd been dead, still he didn't want anything to do with it. No. He knew it was moving in the light and shadows, among the pie plates and bowls and steel things. And he would not…

  “I can't go there,” He said.

  Esther traced his look into the kitchen: nothing there that hadn't been since she'd bought the place, nothing that didn't belong.

  “You seem to don't mind cold. So how about you do some shovelin'? Clear that porch? Th' pavement—there to there?” she pointed through the window. “Do that, we're square.”

  Feather looked out the frozen window into the snowy morning. It was the same as he'd run through a thousand times over the centuries.

  “I will,” he said.

  So many years ago it had been winter. The People and The Animals Who Only Think They Are People were to have war. It had been arranged, the ground prepared, the Warring Ground, a sky-full of running paces along the river from where he stood looking at the snow. The holy ones of the People had blessed the place. The holy ones of the Animals Who Only Think They Are People – if the Animals Who Only Think They Are People can truly have holy ones – had blessed the ground, as well. The time for the war had been consulted in the smoke and finally agreed upon. Some warriors would die. Most would live and all agreed this was the best way to resolve the matter: a fight on such and such a day on ground, sacred to the People and the Animals Who Only Think They Are People. The victory would decide. Would decide whatever it was that needed a decision of blood.

  The woman's snow shovel was strange in Eagle Feather's hand. But it was good to lift the snow, move it, make a clear place in front of the woman’s American House – Eats.

  This was different than running. In all his running days, he did not remember ever getting anywhere. He remembered the start: his farewells, a man already dead to his People, a man who would run to bring relief. He said farewell to wife, children, to his friends, to the old, the young, all the People that were left. He remembered slipping from the cave above the river before sun had found its way down among the smoldering embers of the enemy. He remembered moving like a ghost through the Animal's camp, slipping by the sleeping enemy, going for help, for relief. He remembered a noise, a shouted alarm, then he remembered running, being followed, running, running, his whole body yearning for others of the People, other People to come to hel
p. For safety, running. He remembered.

  The metal shovel scraped the hard sidewalk in front of the restaurant. He stretched the path, lifting, piling, he widened it along the street.

  What had been at odds between the People and the Animals?

  Eagle Feather Proud could not remember. Did he ever know? He could not remember that. It had been important; young men were to have died for it.

  And the night before the war, the Animals had come with twilight. Light still washed the flats above the river, but on the banks where the People lived it was dark. Fires of lamentation and victory were already raised, had roared and were now embers. The Animals came without warning, came through snow in silence and came among the People, killing, before anyone knew. Many of the People's warriors were slain suddenly. The women, the old, the children who could, fled to the bluffs and hid in the caves above.

  The remaining warriors – Feather Proud was one – threw rocks, logs, and burning things down on the Animals who screamed below, their bones breaking, their heads shattering and jaws snapping. People, indeed! These creatures had begun the fight before the time agreed to! These were not people. No.

  The shoveling was finished. Porch and sidewalk, were clear. He was square with the woman.

  The wind blew. Hard crystal snow drifted across his feet. He scooped it away. It was a good job.

  At the frosted window Esther yelled him to come in, come on in.

  He did.

  “That's a fine job. Bunch couldn't a done her better.” Feather knew of this Bunch. For long, long years. Bunch lived near where the run began. He was a soft shirt but not. He was a hairy man and mostly dirty. He slept under the bridge the soft shirts built near the warring place. Bunch slept and missed Feather Proud's run most mornings.

  “He's true to form, Bunch'll show up about two this afternoon. He’ll be pissy 'cause the walk’s shoveled. It's what he gets. I told him, he could sleep in the storage room, in back, for winter, be my permanent cleaner-upper, winters. Sleeping rough down by Engine Warm. What kinda life is that?”

  Feather Proud could not answer that question.

  A couple eggs and a slab of ham lay on a plate on the counter. Another steaming coffee next to it. The Indian sat to eat.

  Running was a dream. Ham, eggs, coffee were real. He'd been the only warrior left. The People hiding in the caves above the river were starving. The Animals had taken their land. Only the caves were left.

  None of the People remained, anywhere. None of the Animals, either. He'd watched it over the years. Back in his time, the People had starved. Mostly. Some jumped from the cliffs and shattered on the rocks. Some surrendered and were smashed dead by the Animals. They all died.

  The Animals, too, died or left, they blended into the land and vanished.

  That first day, his first run, Eagle Feather Proud had slipped down the cliff. He’d left family, friends, life behind; to bring help, yes, and to save himself. Going, he was saving himself. A risk, but the only one that would, perhaps, allow him to live.

  He slipped away.

  On his first run, the Animals in pursuit, Eagle Feather thought something had hit him. Where the eagle feather he wore as his namesign was tied to his head, something hit him hard. He felt the feather break, or maybe it had been his head, but he kept running and quickly the pain went away. He ran and ran until the running became this dream. Then he woke from the dream and was back in the cave where his people starved, cried and begged to die. He awoke from his dream of running, said goodbye and ran and ran again until he dreamed again.

  The eggs were good. The ham was sweet and slippery with grease. It was good too.

  He figured he’d been dead for a long time and his people had been dead almost as long. He might as well sit and enjoy the morning sun and the coffee and the, what did she say? “The grunts,” she called it. He hoped his people had found a good place in the Shadows.

  “Hardly anyone can see me,” he said to Esther.

  “'S'okay,” Esther said. “Most people in the world can't see most of the others.”

  “Hm,” he said. That was probably true. Someday. . . Someday, maybe he'd find help. And then? Then. He didn't know. Then he'd fight and maybe never run again.

  When Bunch came in, two o'clock in the afternoon, the porch was clear and the walk was still mostly open but drifted shut enough, so that Esther had him do it all again. And fed him for it. By then, Feather was gone, running.

  Chapter 6

  OCEAN BOY AND THE LOCAL 'SHROOMS

  The boy was quiet, so good his mother's heart wanted to break every time she looked. Without looking she said, “Let's try that diner, huh? You hungry?”

  He looked at his watch and nodded. He was good at silence.

  That end, the town looked like the Old West in movies. Yippie-eye-oh, the boy thought and checked his watch again.

  The American House—Eats promised Great American Pies. The sign also advised eaters to “Ask About Our Specials!”

  Yeah, he'd do that!

  The building stood alone at the end of the street and raised above, four, five feet. White, the place had been painted and painted again, then a couple more times. Marshmallow thick paint had softened the building’s wooden features, smoothed architecture and detail into creamy softness.

  Inside, the boy thought the place was made of light, that was first. After that there was the obvious: varnish, dull Formica counter tops and tables, wide-plank wood floor, bumpy but clean. A tin ceiling, spiral flytraps and slow-spinning fan blades topped the dining room. The top half of the Dutch door to the kitchen stood open. From there, florescent blue-white light poured into the room. The smells of cooking followed.

  The boy peeked into the kitchen, then kept his head averted from the half-open door. Something. Something there. One of the outer people maybe.

  Whatever was in the kitchen, the whole place smelled great: grease, roasting meat and steaming stew, animal fat and vegetable blending, things deep frying and spitting-hot tumbled up his nose. And another, there was another scent the boy could not identify; like earth, like dirt, but dirt made tasty. Above that was another, a back-of-the-nose aroma of sweetness, of fruit, thick syrup and browned pastry. The smell of pie lingered from earlier in the day. He looked at his watch again. Between time. Not lunch. Not supper. He hated between-time.

  A counter ran the length of one side, booths down the other. Between, were small tables, one, two, three...he counted ten of them, to seat two or four eaters, each. A couple guys in jeans, flannel, and DeKalb caps sat in back, talking close and gripping coffee mugs. They spoke in growls and gravel, ignored everything around. The boy didn't understand a word.

  At the counter, a chunky girl leaned over a magazine. Cigarette smoke drifted up both cheeks and sifted through her hair. Her eyes flicked up for a moment then dropped back to the glossy pictures.

  When the boy and his mother started to slide into the booth nearest the door, the girl looked up. “Booth's taken, ma'am,” she said, tired as any waitress ever, and dropped her face back into the smoke.

  They went to the next booth. No one said not to, so they sat. In a few minutes, the girl heaved up, brought water, menus. Once there, she waited. “Did you want to know about our specials, then?” she asked. Her voice was full of cigarette.

  The mother's eyes flicked down the right side of the menu. “No,” she said. She clicked her tongue as she considered.

  The boy knew, his mother was doing meal-math on the roof of her mouth, clicking off dollars, cents, and tip. “Just a bowl of the chowder,” she said, “New England, right?”

  “It's white,” the girl said.

  Mother's tongue clicked again, “and a small dinner salad. Thank you,” she added. She folded the menu and looked at the boy.

  No matter where, the boy ordered hamburger, French fries, if there was the option, bake beans on the side. Today his mother's look said, easy; order from the price side of the menu.

  “Burger and fries,” he said.
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  “Burger fries,” the girl said. “To drink?”

  “Water.”

  Mother had coffee, please and thank you.

  “I need it,” she said, apologizing after the waitress left.

  It had been a long trip from the ocean to that booth.

  The ocean had been in the boy's ears since birth. The ocean was the horizon; it cooled and scented the air as he grew. A million people passed their house, summers, just to be near it. Maybe it kept them away, winters.

  When he learned in school that he was made mostly of water, it didn't surprise him. He knew he was ocean for the most part. He knew also some people weren’t. They made him afraid.

  When his father didn't come home from work one day, mother cried for a long time. Daddy didn't come home the next day, either or the one after. He never did.

  The boy was relieved.

  Mother cried less and less and got madder and madder. “There will never be another,” she said. There would be no brothers, no sisters for him. “No, sir, young man, you are IT.”

  He and the car got older and older, the house got dingy. Things stopped working well. Then things didn’t work at all.

  On a morning at the end of school, he awoke, mother put him in the car and they drove away from the ocean. Within hours they were in the mountains. They rode long, lonely stretches where trees rolled off forever on slopes going down and slopes rising. By nightfall the ocean was far behind. The night that night was quiet, but the outer people were busy.

  They stayed in a Quali-Tel Motor Lodge. It was like the one down from where they had lived on Surf Street near the ocean. “Just like it!” Mother said. He'd always wondered what it was like inside, what kind of things lived there. Now he knew.

  The ceiling whispered to him all night. Mother slept in her bed, he lay awake in his listening to the outer people. They whispered terrible things to him. They bulged the old paint. The carpet wriggled and rolled in waves like the ocean, but not. The mattress quivered just beyond his feet and in the corner, farthest from the door, a shadow breathed. In the parking lot, a few feet from the front door, their footfalls ticked away the night. Small chuckles, deep breaths.