Timecachers

by Glenn R. Petrucci

  “This is going to hurt you more than it is me, dude.”

  Yonah simply turned his head and nodded.

  He felt Yonah tense as he made the first stab with the hook, and felt him flinch again as he pulled the eyelet through the skin. He continued to work as tenderly as possible and as quickly as he dared. There was no sense in stopping to ask Yonah if he was okay or needed a break. The best he could do would be to work rapidly; thereby keeping Yonah’s suffering to a minimum. Once again he passed the hook through the skin, gently pulling the line taught enough to hold the skin together. Yonah was silent, but tense, and the perspiration on his arm was making it difficult for Sal to hold onto. He hooked his left arm around Yonah’s for a firmer grip, and continued with his stitching. Two more stitches to go.

  He began the next stitch and heard Yonah’s sharp intake of breath. “Sorry ‘bout that.”

  “It is nothing,” said Yonah. “Keep going.”

  Sal talked as he worked, helping to keep Yonah’s mind on something besides the pain. “I’m worried about infection. That occurs because of dirt in the wound, so we’ll have to keep it clean using the river water.” He didn’t think it would be a good idea to bring up the fact that the water was probably full of bacteria, not wanting to hear Yonah’s reaction to being told it was full of tiny bugs too small to be seen. “It looks like that Yarrow stuff is already helping it to heal. It’s a good thing you knew about it. Alice has some knowledge of medicinal plants, but I never got into it.”

  “Once you have stitched and bound the wound, you can apply more of the Yarrow poultice,” said Yonah. “There are some other plants that will also help with healing, and I will look for willow bark to ease the pain. For now, the Yarrow, cold water, and sunlight will do.”

  “Your good night’s rest also helped,” Sal said as he pulled through the last stitch. “Hang on, I’m nearly done. I just need to tie off the end.”

  The wound had begun to bleed freely from the stitching, but at least Sal had managed to close up the hole somewhat. He rinsed his bandana again, washing away as much blood as he could before he applied more of the crushed Yarrow leaves.

  “It’s gonna leave an ugly scar,” Sal said as he rewrapped the bandana around Yonah’s arm, “but I think it will heal much more quickly now.”

  “Wado,” said Yonah. “Once again I am in your debt.”

  “You’re welcome, dude. I just hope you hold together long enough to get us out of here. It’s going to be a pretty damn tough climb down that waterfall. And now we’ll have to walk the rest of the way. Just how far is it to this mountaintop crib of yours?”

  “Not so far, but it is very rugged country.” Then with a wry smile he added, “Even for bears and squirrels. It would usually only take one full day of walking. We can follow the river for a short way, to the beginning of the canyon country, and then follow another trail that traverses less rugged terrain.”

  That news was a tremendous relief to Sal. The remoteness of the area led him to believe they were at least several days travel away from anywhere. Hiking for a day or two, even in rough terrain, wouldn’t be so bad.

  Slowly getting to his feet, Yonah said, “We should begin right away. I know of a way down the waterfall that is not too strenuous, and once we are beyond this part of the river we can build a fire and prepare a proper meal.”

  “Sounds awesome to me, Tonto. Are you sure you can travel so soon?”

  “I will be fine,” he said confidently. “Let us go.”

  Yonah led the way to the top of the waterfall. He walked along the top of the rocks, away from the water, until he reached a trailhead that descended the mountain. The trail was rocky and narrow, with short, steep switchbacks, but was well used and it afforded them a much easier descent than Sal had anticipated. The river was a major transportation route, and Sal realized it should be no surprise that there was an established trail for portage past the waterfall. They were able to make their way down into the canyon with a minimum of climbing; only a few places on the trail required them to climb over some large boulders.

  About half-way down they stopped, sitting on one of the boulders to catch their breath. Sal resisted asking Yonah how he was doing, knowing it would only aggravate the Indian if he excessively coddled him. He could see that the old man, who never usually revealed any signs of weariness, was breathing hard, and the bandana showed fresh blood seeping from the wound.

  “We might have to find a way to immobilize your arm,” Sal suggested. “It would be a shame to ruin my beautiful stitching job.”

  Yonah shrugged. “We will finish our descent first.”

  The remainder of the downward climb was less arduous. The switchbacks became wider and gentler. Near the end of the descent they scrambled over the talus pile at the bottom of the cliff, and made their way to the plunge pool at the base of the falls. The noise of the waterfall was much louder here, the crash of the cascading water echoing off of the canyon walls in a constant roar. They spotted the demolished canoe, rather what was left of it, lodged in between the rocks at the pool’s edge.

  The bow of the boat must have struck a rock full force at the bottom of the falls, shattering its frame. The scattered pieces looked like they had been hit by cannon fire, reminding Sal of his nightmare. They exchanged a silent glance, conveying a mutual thought—had they gone over the falls, their bodies would lie here amongst the devastation. Neither of them wanted to verbalize that thought.

  They sorted through the wreckage hoping to recover some of their most useful items. They gathered some articles of clothing, drenched but otherwise intact, and a few odds and ends from Yonah’s carry-sacks. Fortunately, the tin of flint and char-cloth survived undamaged, though the strips of cloth now looked like black globs of mud. Yonah shook the water from the tin and slipped it into his pocket. He picked up a small pouch and dumped its contents into his hand. He looked forlornly at his broken pipe and waterlogged tobacco, and then tossed them aside with a scowl. They found none of the gahawista; the parched corn had either floated away or been eaten by fish.

  Yonah discovered his longbow farther down the river. The bowstring was missing, although the sinew cord would have been ruined by the water anyway. His quiver was nowhere in sight, but he found a few of the arrows and salvaged the surviving metal arrowheads. He would need to restring the bow and build some arrows, but finding the longbow meant they had some protection and an effective way of obtaining food.

  “It is unfortunate the canoe struck the rocks as it did. I hoped it might be salvageable,” Yonah said over the roar of the waterfall. “No matter—we will walk.”

  Moving away from the spray of the falls, Yonah stopped to remove the bandana and check his wound. “Your stitching has held fine, Squirrel-man. Our climb down the falls has started the bleeding again, however. I will have to be more careful.”

  Sal took the bandana from Yonah and rinsed it again in the river, then applied another layer of the Yarrow salve. Then he took one of the soaking wet shirts they recovered, wrung it out as best he could, and fashioned it into a sling.

  “That oughta help keep your arm stable.”

  Yonah tied an additional loop in the cloth, slipped the sling around his arm and over his head, and then slid the longbow through the loop across his back. He made a few adjustments and when he was satisfied with the fit, nodded to Sal.

  They continued walking, following the river southward as it descended into the canyon it had carved as it wound its way between the mountains. The canyon walls above the river became steeper, creating a spectacular hidden valley several hundred feet deep in some places. They climbed over several huge boulders along the river which had been chiseled by centuries of erosion, forming deep, watery grooves in the solid rock. Yonah became more relaxed and talkative as they progressed, sensing the nearness of his home quarter. He told Sal that he had taken many hunting trips into this canyon, and that there were numerous caves in the canyon walls which could be used for shelter. He suddenly left
the path and headed for a patch of shrub-like plants, and began examining the reddish stems.

  “Time to stop and pick some flowers, Tonto?” Sal watched him with interest. The old dude never did anything without good reason.

  “This is Indian Hemp that I was hoping to find.”

  Sal didn’t think it looked much like the hemp he was familiar with, and hoped the old man wasn’t about to roll up a doobie from it. He made no comment, figuring the inscrutable Indian would explain more when he was ready, and not before.

  “It is mid-morning, and this is a good place for a short stop,” Yonah continued. “See if you can catch us a few more fish,” he said as he began to pick some long stems of the Indian Hemp and pluck the leaves from them.

  “Sure, no problemo. I’m an angler what knows all the angles,” said Sal. “Hey you ain’t gonna get buzzed on that stuff while I’m gone, are you, Tonto?”

  Yonah looked at him quizzically, but did not reply.

  Sal had been gone about three-quarters of an hour by the time he dug up some bait, found a good fishing hole, and caught a couple of fish. When he returned, Yonah had stripped fibers from the Indian Hemp and twisted them into a cord, which he was now using to string his longbow. He had also fashioned several arrows that he fitted with the salvaged arrowheads.

  “I see you are becoming quite a good fisherman,” said Yonah. “I will build a fire so we can eat them properly this time,” he said, indicating the strips of char-cloth that had been laid out on a rock and allowed to dry in the sun. “This hemp cord is not as good as a sinew bowstring, but it will serve well enough.” He inspected the bow and stretched the string approvingly. “I can provide meat for our next meal.”

  Once the fire was built, Sal cooked the fish while Yonah finished working on his bow. He put the final touches on his arrows by attaching some feathers for fletching and cutting a nock. He tested shooting a few arrows, awkwardly at first, trying not to move his injured arm any more than necessary. After a half-dozen shots, his aim improved and he was satisfied with the results. Setting the bow aside, he walked into the woods and returned after a few moments with a handful of bark. He then joined Sal next to the fire.

  “This bark from the white birch tree can be boiled to make a mild pain-relieving potion,” he told Sal. He crumpled some of the bark into his flint tin, added some river water, and set it on a rock next to the fire. “I will make enough for both of us. It will help relieve the pain of your overstressed muscles.”

  Sal thought that relieving all the pain his abused body was feeling would more likely require Percocet rather than tree bark, but he’d take whatever relief he could get.

  By now the fish were ready, and both men devoured them with gusto. After the last few sparse meals of raw fish, the fire-roasted fish tasted exquisite. For dessert, they shared the analgesic birch-bark tonic, which Sal had to admit—it did relieve his sore and aching muscles considerably.

  Nourished and revitalized they set off on the trail once again, walking at a brisk pace, yet somewhat slower than the first part of their journey. Yonah said they should easily be able to reach the overland trail before dark, where they would depart the river taking a more direct route to his home.

  “This canyon is awesome. I haven’t seen many deep canyons like this in the southeast.”

  “The canyon becomes even deeper further south. However, we must climb out before reaching the deepest part. It is a very beautiful place, and an important area to the Cherokee. A few miles to the west is an important Cherokee town called Willstown. The whites built a fort there, commanded by Major Payne. A most appropriate name; he’s been a real pain to us,” he said with a wry smile.

  “Sequoya lived there until he went to the western territory. Sequoya is the one who created the Cherokee syllabary so we could have a written language. Some of our legends say that our priests had a written language hundreds of years earlier. No one knows for sure, since we killed all the priests a long time ago when they began to think they were better than everyone else.

  “Since then we have had only a spoken language. There wasn’t much of a need for writing—our history is preserved in the stories that are told over and over again. Once Sequoya proved that his syllabary worked, everyone wanted to learn it. Now there is a higher percentage of Cherokee than whites who are literate. We even had a newspaper printed in English and Cherokee, the Cherokee Phoenix, which was printed in New Echota until the Georgia Guard destroyed the press. We hope that someday publication will be allowed to resume,” he paused, not wishing to voice his further thoughts on that issue. He changed the subject.

  “It is said that the Spanish explorer Hernando De Soto was the first white man to see this canyon about three hundred years ago. A very extraordinary man, though he caused much devastation among the Cherokee and many other tribes. He was strongly driven by an insatiable hunger for gold, the driving force of the so-called Conquistadors.”

  “From what I remember of my history, those Conquistador dudes really wreaked havoc on many peaceful civilizations.”

  “Wreak havoc they did, but those civilizations were hardly peaceful before the Conquistadors. The Incas were plagued by civil war, and capitalizing on their civil unrest was one of Francisco Pizarro’s most effective strategies. Cortez formed alliances with the enemies of the Aztecs to defeat them. Both the Incas and Aztecs were aware of precious metals, and valued them highly. The Aztec society even permitted slaves, although it was not the same as the European version of slavery. Theirs was more of a form of punishment and not hereditary.

  “The most devastating tragedy to those civilizations was the introduction of European diseases, such as smallpox, that annihilated much of their population. That was also the case here in North America. The smallpox brought here by De Soto reduced the Cherokee population by more than half.”

  The mention of De Soto sparked a memory for Sal. He seemed to remember a state park in Alabama, probably right in this area, which had been named in honor of De Soto. He wondered what Yonah’s reaction would be to honoring the person who had decimated half the population of his nation by naming a part of their former homelands after him. While many would be insulted, he figured Yonah would be perversely amused by the irony.

  By the time they reached the path out of the canyon, departing the river and climbing into the mountains, it was late afternoon. Even in the shadows of the canyon, the sun had warmed them nicely, drying out the articles they had salvaged from the river. The path switch-backed sharply up the steep canyon wall, bringing them to the crest of the ridge above the river. They paused at the top to take in the view of the towering mountain range to the west. Noticing Sal’s look of dismay, Yonah assured him that they would not be climbing into the distant mountains.

  “We will be traveling through the gap to the south. We still face a strenuous path. We will not need to climb much higher, but the trail is mountainous and we have several large creeks to cross. We should try to make another few miles before stopping for the night.”

  Sal assumed Yonah was feeling much better; Sal himself certainly was. Their pace had increased to become as brisk as it had been when they started out. The birch-bark tea had eased his pain greatly, the warming sun felt great, and he was finally completely dry after two days in damp clothing. The magnificent view from the top of the ridge recharged his spirit. He began to feel like his old brazen self, yet with a much deeper admiration of his traveling companion, and perhaps just a touch of humility.

  “Lead on, Tonto,” Sal replied, gesturing with a flourish.

  Sal’s hope of remaining dry for the remainder of the journey quickly faded when they reached the first creek crossing. It was not especially wide, but it was deep. They would need to wade waist-deep to reach the other side. He was pleased to hear Yonah suggest that they make an early camp and ford the creek in the morning.

  “Better to keep dry for the night,” Yonah said to Sal’s agreement. “I will see if I can work my bow well enough to get us dinner.
If we leave at first light, we will reach my home before midday.”

  They found a suitable spot close to the creek to spend the night. In the trees above their heads, Sal could hear rustling leaves followed by a screeching call, sounding like a cross between a bird and a cat. Yonah heard it also, motioned for him to be silent, and readied his bow. With more elegance than Sal would have thought possible having one arm bound by the sling, Yonah let loose an arrow, accurately finding its target. A squirrel, pierced through its mid-section by Yonah’s arrow, fell at Sal’s feet.

  “Not a bad shot,” said Sal approvingly. Actually, it was a superb shot, considering Yonah’s wounded arm. Hitting a squirrel in a tree with a homemade bow and arrow was no simple feat. Sal offered no further praise. His admiration for Yonah had grown, but he was still Sal.

  “The next squirrel will not be as easy,” said Yonah, “now that they know we are here. You heard his warning call to the other squirrels.”

  Yonah picked up the squirrel, removing the arrow and mumbling a few words of thanks to the animal as he did. He handed the squirrel to Sal.

  “I will see if I can get a few more,” said Yonah. “Best you stay here so I don’t shoot the squirrel-man instead of the squirrel.”

  Yonah left Sal with his flint and char-cloth. Sal had watched him enough to get the idea. He expertly started the fire, this time without causing himself injury. By the time the fire was going well enough for cooking, Yonah returned with another three squirrels. They cleaned the squirrels and cooked them over the fire on a stick, like “squirrel kabobs” as Sal called them. Yonah just grunted and wiped the grease from his chin.

  “Awesome dinner, Tonto,” Sal said, tossing the last of the squirrel bones into the fire, stretching and leaning back against a rock to get comfortable.

  Yonah did the same. “Tell me, Squirrel-man, who is this Tonto you keep calling me?”

  “Tonto?” Sal repeated, without the least bit of embarrassment. “Tonto was the ‘faithful Indian companion’ of a legendary western hero, The Lone Ranger.”