“Maybe he’s old. Maybe they’re waiting for him to die, rather than risk creating a public outcry by telling him to get out. I imagine it wouldn’t look good telling a Seminole Indian to get out when they were here first.”
They drifted slowly by the old cabin. The windows facing the river were caked with years of grime, making it impossible to see inside. Still, Robert suddenly had the feeling that they were being watched. He didn’t see anyone, but felt that their slow progress down the river was being observed by someone inside the cabin. That feeling did not subside until they were well past the building.
Leaving the cabin behind them, they again relaxed and went back to enjoying the scenery. But soon they were faced with a new problem, because the river forked into two branches. Robert put his paddle in the water and held steady, attempting to slow the canoe. He hadn’t taken more than a quick glance at the map Ross had given him, so he wasn’t sure which branch to take.
“Which way?” Janet asked.
“I’m not sure,” he said. “I guess I should have taken a better look at the map. We could always turn around and go back.”
“I don’t want to go back yet,” Krissy protested. “Can’t we keep going? Just a little farther? Please.”
“The left fork looks wider,” Janet pointed out.
Ross studied both directions, trying to make a decision. The left fork did look wider, so it was probably the main path of the river. “Left it is,” he said. “Always follow your heart.”
They turned left, guiding the fiberglass canoe up the wider branch of water. They had only gone about half a mile, however, when they realized they had gone the wrong way. The branch of the river they had chosen to follow ended in a swampy lagoon of black water.
“It looks like we went the wrong way,” Robert said, stating the obvious.
The lagoon was surrounded by ancient cypress and oak trees, many of them thick with Spanish moss and hanging vines. In the middle of the lagoon was a small island, upon which grew a massive cypress tree that must have been at least two hundred years old.
Beyond the lagoon, barely visible through the trees, was a charred wooden structure that Robert recognized as a burned out section of boardwalk. Apparently, the nature trail had once passed through the area, prior to the boardwalk being destroyed by fire.
“You want to double back and continue downstream?” he asked. “Or do you want to head back to camp?”
“Let’s keep going,” Krissy said, a fountain of endless energy.
Janet looked around the area, then turned to her daughter. “I think we should go back. We’ve had enough canoeing for one morning. Besides, I’m getting kind of hungry. Aren’t you? Those Pop-Tarts we ate won’t last us all day.”
“Aw....” Krissy protested.
“Maybe after lunch we can get a couple of fishing poles and do a little fishing from the dock,” Robert suggested. “How does that sound?”
“Okay, I guess,” the little girl said, giving into her parent’s suggestions. “Can I use rubber worms? I don’t like the real ones.”
“You sure can. Any color you like,” he said, happy that his daughter wasn’t too upset about turning back.
Turning the canoe around, they headed back to camp. They again passed the cabin owned by Jimmy Cypress, the dirty glass windows watching their passage like the empty eyes sockets of a grinning skull. Though he could see no one, Robert again had a feeling that someone was watching them. Someone who looked upon him and his family as trespassers.
They had planned to go fishing after lunch, but Mary offered to teach Janet and Krissy how to make real Florida crab cakes. It was an offer they just couldn’t refuse. Since the girls were busy in the restaurant’s kitchen and he didn’t feel like fishing alone, Robert decided to take a walk down the nature trail. It would be a great way to work out a few kinks in his back that he had gotten while canoeing. At the ripe old age of thirty-five, kinks and sore muscles after exercise were becoming a way of life. Janet, who was three years younger than him, didn’t suffer such afflictions.
Most of the nature trail featured a wooden boardwalk elevated above the ground to keep hikers from trampling the native foliage. The boardwalk forked several times, allowing hikers to chose their own path through the forest. There were also places where you could step off the boardwalk in order to follow narrower trails, if you so desired. In places where the boardwalk came close to the Wekiva River there were gaps in the railing, and steps leading down into the water so a person could go swimming.
Walking along the boardwalk, Robert couldn’t help but laugh at the tiny brown anoles that darted in front of his path. There must have been hundreds of the little lizards scurrying to get out of his way. It was almost as if they were playing a reptilian game of chance, daring each other to dart just in front of his feet. The one that came closer without being stepped on won the contest.
In addition to the brown anoles, he spotted a couple of green ones hiding in the foliage that lined the boardwalk. There was also a blue-headed skink sitting on the handrail sunning itself. It watched him with only mild curiosity as he walked by.
Robert stopped when he heard the sound of rustling coming from off to his left. Standing perfectly still, he watched as a mother raccoon and her two babies made their way through the forest. He knew that raccoons were nocturnal, so the family was probably heading back home after a night of foraging for food. The raccoons must have seen him, but they were apparently used to people and not frightened by his presence. They just continued their slow walk until they were out of sight.
He watched the raccoons until they disappeared from view and then continued on his way. He wished that Krissy had been with him, for she would have been thrilled at seeing the masked animals. But raccoons were common in Florida, and there would probably be plenty of opportunities to see more.
About a mile along the trail he came to a section of the boardwalk that was now closed to the public due to a previous wildfire. A wooden barricade, complete with a pair of warning signs, prevented hikers from continuing in that direction. Beyond the barricade the boardwalk was nothing more than a tangle of charred timber. Definitely not safe to walk on.
Not wanting to backtrack in order to follow one of the other trails, he decided to step down off the boardwalk and continue forward by walking a path parallel to the burned section. Surely the fire hadn’t destroyed all of the boardwalk from there on, and he would be able to get back on the remaining section once he bypassed the burned area.
But Robert didn’t reach another section of boardwalk. Instead he found himself standing in front of a backwater lagoon. A narrow stream lead away from the lagoon, apparently joining up with the Wekiva River. Looking around, he realized it was the same lagoon he and his family had stumbled upon while canoeing.
“Looks like I took a wrong turn again,” he said, shaking his head. He started to turn away when he spotted a strange wooden staff standing next to the water’s edge. He hadn’t noticed the staff on his first visit to the lagoon because it stood next to a towering cypress tree, almost invisible in the tree’s shadow. Curious, he approached the object to get a better look at it.
The staff was about five and a half feet in length, and a little over an inch in diameter. It was wrapped in leather and decorated with beadwork of bright blue, yellow, and red beads. An animal skull of some kind was attached to the top of the shaft, its open jaws grinning toward the water. Robert wasn’t sure what kind of animal it was; perhaps it was a fox.
Beneath the grinning skull three eagle feathers were fastened to the staff. There were also a couple of hawk feathers. In addition to the feathers, several strips of colored cloth--red, white, yellow, and black--were tied to the top of the shaft. Just below the strips of cloth hung a small leather pouch, decorated with dyed quill work, horse hair, and what looked to be a pair of bear claws.
A lot of work had obviously gone into the making of the strange staff, and Robert wondered why its owner would just leave it at t
he lagoon. He looked around, but didn’t see anyone. The owner had apparently stuck the staff in the ground and walked away.
“Strange,” he said, stepping around to look at the staff from a different angle. There was something about the wooden object that gave him the creeps. For one thing it looked old, like something out of a museum. Then there was the grinning skull that sat on top of the shaft, conjuring up images of bizarre rituals. The skull faced the water as if it were watching for something. Watching for what?
Wanting to get a better look, he grabbed the staff and pulled it from the ground. As he picked up the staff a strange tingling shot through his hand, like he had just been shocked with a mild electrical current.
“What the hell?” He quickly let go of the staff, allowing it to fall to the ground. The beaded staff was made of wood, and he saw no electrical cords attached to it, so how could it possibly shock him? Maybe what he felt was static electricity of some kind. Maybe the wood contained unusual properties, enabling it to build up a mild charge of positive electrons.
Robert wasn’t an expert of electricity, so maybe such things were possible. One thing for sure, he no longer had any desire to touch the staff. Nor was he going to stick it back in the ground. He could see it just fine where it lay.
Wanting nothing more to do with the strange staff, he moved back from the lagoon and took a seat on the ground. Resting his back against the trunk of an oak tree, he looked out over the water. The lagoon and the area surrounding it was quiet and peaceful, a place of filtered sunlight and tranquil shadows. It was a pleasant change from the hectic hustle of city life.
Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes and relaxed. His spirit was soothed by the whispered rustling of leaves and tall grass, and the distant sound of running water. Soon he was fast asleep.
Robert awoke with a start. Someone was yelling at him, shaking him. A man stood over him. The man was dark skinned and muscular, with long black hair and piercing eyes. He was dressed in blue jeans, boots, a black T-shirt, and a bright yellow vest made of patchwork material. A Seminole vest. He was also missing the tips of the two smallest fingers on his left hand. There was little doubt that the man standing over him was Jimmy Cypress.
Robert tried to stand up, but his feet and ankles were wrapped with kudzu vines as though someone had tied him up while he slept. He tried to kick free, but he was wrapped so tightly he could barely move.
“Hold still,” the Indian said, pulling a large hunting knife from the sheath on his belt. Leaning over he cut through the vines around Robert’s ankles with one quick motion.
“Thank you,” Robert said, getting to his feet. “I don’t know how that happened.” He started to offer his hand, but Jimmy Cypress only glared at him.
“What are you doing here?” The Indian made no move to put away the knife.
“I...I was taking a walk,” Robert replied. “I got tired and sat down for a few minutes. I guess I fell asleep.”
“The boardwalk is closed. You should not be here.”
Robert nodded. “I know. I should have turned back and gone the other way, but I wanted to keep going straight.”
“Why did you move my staff?” Jimmy asked, angry.
“I’m sorry. I was only looking at it. I was going to put it back in the ground, but the thing gave me a shock.” Robert turned toward the lagoon, seeing that the staff was again standing upright by the water’s edge.
“That staff is not to be touched...by you or anyone else. You don’t know what you have done by moving it. What dangers you may have awakened.”
“It’s just a staff,” Robert argued, not liking the Indian’s tone of voice.
“To you it is just a staff, because you are stupid. Your people are stupid. Stupid and blind.”
Robert would have argued that point, but the Indian was still holding the knife. They were alone in the forest, no witnesses anywhere, so the last thing he wanted was to make him even more upset than he already was.
“This ground is unholy. Evil,” Jimmy Cypress continued. “A place of great danger. Stick to your wooden sidewalk, white man. Leave this area. Now.”
Afraid that physical harm might come to him at any moment, Robert turned away from the crazy Indian and hurried back in the direction from which he had come. His heart beating fast, he didn’t slow his pace until he reached the boardwalk. Even then he did not stop until he was safely back at camp.
Chapter Three
Jimmy Cypress adjusted his medicine staff, turning it so the skull again looked out over the dark waters of the lagoon. The skull belonged to coo-wah-chobee, the “big cat”, a Florida panther that Jimmy’s great-grandfather had shot during his youth, back before it was against federal and state law to shoot such animals. The skull had been passed down for several generations, from father to son, a treasured heirloom that represented the clan of the Seminoles to which they belonged.
He brushed loose dirt from the skull, thankful that none of the fangs had not been damaged in the fall. Jimmy was furious that the white man had moved his staff, even madder that he had allowed it to fall on the ground.
“Stupid tourist.”
The staff was decorated with eagle feathers, and it was an act of desecration to let such a feather touch the ground. The eagle flew higher than any other bird, high enough to touch the home of the Great Spirit. The eagle feathers had been to the house of God and were sacred. All Indians knew this. They would never allow a eagle feather to touch the ground. If an eagle feather fell to the ground by accident during a dance, than that dancer had to stand over it, protecting it, waiting for the head dancer to pick it back up. The dancer then had to pay money to get his feather back, punishment for being careless with a sacred object.
But the white people did not consider the eagle to be sacred. To them it was just a bird of prey, the winged symbol stamped on the back of their almighty dollar. It was not the eagle that was sacred in white societies, but the money it represented. They cared nothing at all about the actual bird, other than to scream that it was endangered each and every time they saw an Indian wearing eagle feathers.
Carefully straightening the feathers on his staff, Jimmy turned to look at the forest. The white man was long gone, badly frightened by his encounter with a real, honest to God, Indian.
“Stupid white man. Stupid tourist. Come back here and I’ll nail your balls to a tree.”
He could tell the man was a tourist by the way he dressed: designer clothing, yuppie sandals, no sun tan to speak of, a weakness about him that spoke of long hours sitting in an office chair. And only a tourist would be in that part of the forest. The local fishermen and hikers all knew Jimmy and did their best to stay clear of him. They all thought he was a crazy in the head, a troublemaker, and wanted nothing to do with him.
Jimmy glanced down at the hunting knife he wore on his belt and laughed. The knife had scared the skinny white man. Scared him pretty bad. Maybe he thought a crazy Indian was about to cut him into little pieces and scalp him. The thought had crossed Jimmy’s mind when he saw the staff, but he would never do anything to hurt another person. Once, long ago, in another lifetime, another world, he could have taken a life without a second thought--had even killed without feeling the least bit of remorse--but not anymore. He was now a man of peace. A man of medicine.
At fifty-five years of age, Jimmy Cypress was a different man now than he had been in his youth. When he was nineteen he had followed the warrior path, as a Army Ranger in Vietnam. In the sweltering jungles of that far-off land he had counted coup on the enemy many times, taking numerous lives with a gun, a knife, and even his bare hands. He had been wounded twice and still bore the scars, both physical and mental, of those wounds.
The second time he had been wounded was serious. He had taken two AK-47 rounds in the abdomen and nearly died. He had been sent back to a hospital in the United States, and by the time he recovered from his injuries his enlistment in the Army was over. He did not bother to re-enlist.
Retur
ning to civilian life, he had gone back to the Brighton Indian Reservation in south Florida. There he had worked on a farm, given airboat rides to hunters, and even wrestled alligators for a short time. A very short time. But he was less than happy with putting on shows for the few tourists who stopped by the reservation on their way to Lake Okeechobee or Miami. Despite being dressed in civilian clothes, he was still a warrior on the inside. He still wanted to fight.
He had been back on the reservation a little over a year when he heard about the American Indian Movement. It seemed a small band of Lakotas were trying to bring back the old ways. They were attempting to be traditional warriors, standing up against a corrupt tribal government that was backed by an even more corrupt federal government. To Jimmy, this seemed like a perfect opportunity to use the skills he knew best.
Throwing a few articles of clothing and his hunting rifle into the cab of his pickup truck, Jimmy left Florida and headed west to the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation in South Dakota. There he joined up with Leonard Peltier, Russell Means, Dennis Banks, and other AIM. notables.
Jimmy Cypress’s military experience was a welcome addition to the American Indian Movement. During their occupation of Wounded Knee, in 1973, he had been in charge of security, making sure the sentries were doing their job each night. He also exchanged fire with several FBI agents, but he wasn’t sure if he had hit any of them.
He was only at Wounded Knee for a week, however, when something happened that changed his life forever. He had just come off guard duty and was trying to get a few hours sleep, when a vision came to him. In the vision, the spirit of his great-grandfather spoke to him, telling the young man to go back home to Florida. The spirit told Jimmy that he was needed back among his own people, needed to fight an evil far greater than the federal government.
That night Jimmy Cypress left Wounded Knee. He left his rifle and his extra clothes, even left his pickup truck, sneaking away under the cloak of darkness. Hitchhiking across the country, he arrived back in south Florida a week later. He wasn’t sure why he had returned to the reservation, but he knew to follow his vision.
Evil Whispers Page 4