sacred ground. It has deep ravines covered in trees and winding gorges filled with rocks. In one of those little canyons, ghost dogs snarl and growl at the mouth of a cavern.” He stuck his finger into his mouth to move his tobacco.
“That cavern leads to an underground world,” he continued with a fat lip. “They say that world has green pastures that used to be filled with buffalo, but one day, when the dogs slept, those buffalo ran from the cavern into our world. They say it was a gift from the Great Spirit.”
He worked up more tobacco and spit over the side. I wondered if tobacco juice frightens away fish.
I concentrated on bouncing my jig off the bottom until I realized that Old Samuel sat grinning.
I narrowed my eyes. “You believe that shit?” I asked.
Old Samuel lurched in his chair and dropped his rods to his feet. He laughed so hard he stopped breathing for a second or two.
“No,” he said, finally. “I’m Catholic.” He wiped away tears. “But it makes for a cool tattoo, don’t you think?”
I gritted my teeth and jigged again. This time, I felt weight.
The Guard House
“I’ll show you,” she said and grabbed my wrist.
Beneath the downpour my hair stuck flat. Rain ran down my forehead and dripped from my eyebrows into my eyelashes. The beads perched there until I blinked.
I let her pull me. Consumed by her grip, I knew I’d follow her anywhere, this girl with a mane that shimmered raven. Her latte-brown skin attracted mine, but I felt inferior with a pink face and blonde locks. She was smarter, too, but we shared each other’s clothes.
“I’ll show you,” she’d said.
We ran to the guard house, a building that stares with barred windows across the lake to where Fort Stevenson once sat on the banks of the Missouri River. Behind Garrison Dam, the old fort rests at the bottom of Lake Sakakawea, while the new guard house, a replica, stands high above the lake with its tower and flag. We’d spent many hours together at the guard house, but never at night. The place looked sinister in the dark rain.
As we entered the portico, runoff from the roof slapped against concrete. She let go of my wrist, but then yanked my sleeve to pull me to the ground. We sat with our backs against the spokes of a wheel on a cannon and huddled close.
I shook rivulets from my forearms. She smiled and closed her eyes and squeezed rain from her hair. We giggled and wiped our noses and I saw that her white cotton shirt—my shirt—stuck to her dark skin.
“I found something really cool,” she said and whisked water from her legs. Her flip-flops lay in a jumble with mine at our feet.
“Something cool here at Fort Stevenson State Park?” I asked and rolled my eyes. “Haven’t we seen everything already? We come here every summer.”
She pulled her knees up to her chin. “This is something you’ve never seen,” she said and slid closer. “I’m cold. Let’s go inside.”
The glass entrance doors on either side of the portico stood dark. “The guard house is closed,” I said and then she swatted my leg with the back of her hand.
“No, up there,” she said and pointed at the ceiling. An attic door hung closed with a lock.
“How do we get in there?” I asked and she rolled her eyes. She reached into the pocket of her shorts—my shorts—and pulled out a key.
“My dad works here, you know,” she said and rose to her feet.
“I know,” I said, “but what if we get in trouble?” Once again I played the party pooper, even though we’d never gotten caught.
“Don’t worry,” she said, what she always says. She reached down for my hand and pulled me up. “Get behind that wheel. Let’s push.”
We pressed our bodies against the wheel rims and held the spokes. We rolled the cannon forward and sideways in the portico and climbed on. I sat on the barrel and put my hands beneath her thighs to hold her up. She reached the lock, twisted the key, and pulled a rope. The hatch opened, and light from inside the tower spilled out into the portico.
“Let’s hurry,” she said and lifted her foot. She stepped on to a ladder in the door and I followed.
Inside the tower we closed the door beneath us.
“What if someone sees us up here?” I asked. We were in a well-lit room with two large windows. The one that faced the campgrounds had a cutout soldier standing in front of it. The other window looked out over the lake.
“We’ll be fine,” she said and turned off the light inside the tower. “Nobody comes down here at night, anyway. Besides, it’s raining.”
Drops popped against the windowpanes. I could see lights on the other side of the lake, a dark water that stretched for miles and pimpled in the rain.
“Let’s wait for it to stop,” she said and sat down on the empty floor. She grabbed the hem of her shirt and fluttered the front in an attempt to dry off. I sat down and did the same.
“What are you going to show me?” I asked. I hoped that she had a secret tattoo or maybe a hickey that she’d gotten from a boy.
“It’s a surprise,” she said, “but we have to wait until the lake is calm. You can sit by me if you want.”
We sat next to each other with legs warm together and held hands. She laid her head on my shoulder and I felt giddy, because I wanted to put my arms around her.
We listened to the rain. It rolled and then slowed to a tap. Eventually, the runoff stopped rushing out the downspouts.
She let go of my hand. “I’ll show you,” she said. She stood up and pulled another key from her pocket.
I stood behind her. She opened a door in the wall to reveal a panel of lights and switches labeled Shell Creek, Independence, Lucky Mound, Charging Eagle, Elbowoods, Red Butte, Beaver Creek, Sanish, and Van Hook.
“What are they?” I asked.
“Watch this,” she said. She flipped the switches from Off to On. “Look out there.”
We stood in front of the window. We faced the lake and she pulled my arms around her. She tilted her head and I felt her ear against my cheek.
“They’re turning on,” she said. Bright lights showed in clusters like fireflies beneath the waves.
“What do the names on the switches stand for?” I asked.
She gripped my forearms closer to her waist. “They’re the names of villages where my people used to live,” she said. “All of them were flooded when they put in the dam.”
I drew my arms back, because I knew “they” meant the government, not the Indians. “They flooded them on purpose?” I asked, but I knew the answer. She only smiled.
“I’m sorry,” I said. I felt guilty, but didn’t know why. Not exactly. “Do you still love me?” I asked. It was all I could think of.
She pulled my arms around her waist. “Of course I do,” she said. “You’re my friend.”
About the Author
Ryan C. Christiansen is a writer, editor, publisher, and educator living in Fargo, ND.
The Guard House and Other Stories Page 3