Flint immediately obeyed but his stomach rolled. He didn’t know enough of these Woodlanders and their ways. Oak made him uncomfortable: he was too calm, too in control of himself to be trusted. Who knew what plans were going on in his head and how many others were out there waiting. What were they waiting for? Tonight, when they were sleeping, would they attack then? They knew there were a number of them in the forest, perhaps even more than ten. Although, some travelled a much greater distance away than the others, they still followed them.
The trap Denver had set had worked well and he marvelled at the skills of their leader. He’d follow no other. Should anything happen to Denver he would leave and live out his life alone in the wilderness. It was only due to Denver that he stayed with the Citans, only because of him that he was on this journey. He was not as tall as most of them, being only six foot five but he could beat all of them except Denver, no Citan could beat Denver.
The Woodlander was leading Flint into the bushes and watchfully he followed. He knew that at any sight or sound Denver's rifle would take out whatever was there. Denver wouldn’t risk losing his closest friend. They had been together for six years.
Denver had given him a new life. He’d rescued him from a deep ravine he’d fallen into. That was after the death that had taken all of his people. He didn't know why he hadn't died at the time but found later it had to do with his first three years living with his mother in the city. She hadn’t been a Native American but she’d loved one, although it was forbidden.
His mother met his father outside of the city. She would have been taken away to a camp if she'd been found. So why she did it he wasn't sure but he guessed she had the same adventurous spirit as his father. The two of them met in the forest and fell in love even though he was from the reservation. If he'd been found it would have been immediate death, luckily they were never caught. They met many times, enjoyed each other’s company and longed to be together forever, but they couldn't. When she told him she was expecting his child he'd made the decision that they would never meet again. They both agreed to it so as not to risk the life of their child.
She managed to keep the fact that he was half Native secret until he was three. That was when someone close told her secret and he was taken from her and sent to the reservation. He knew now that she would have been sent to a camp where she may have died but no one knew for sure
He cried at the loss of his mother, her warmth and affection, her soothing words and gentle songs that had lulled him to sleep. He was not at the reservation long before his father found him and in his joy cried at the gift of his child called Heath. Word spread fast through the reservation. No blame was placed on anyone for any wrong doing. A child was a blessing even if it was from outside of their home.
His father loved and cared for him, devoted himself to his up-bringing and learning. He taught him of the old ways and the new ways, giving him a choice of either and even the joining of the two. Heath liked that his options were always open. He could question and disagree. He knew from Denver that that was not the case in his own childhood. Heath lived happily on the reservation with his father, sharing ideas, learning, always learning so many things. He lived with him until that day, the day when they all died. That was when he soon after became Flint.
He'd just turned twelve when his world died. It was a lovely fall morning, the sun was shining her smile upon the orange, yellow and red of the changing leaves. He sneaked out of the reservation. The soldiers knew he did this but they didn't care, what harm was a young boy. He travelled through the rough ground, kicking up some of the already fallen leaves, pretending he was an important warrior, waving a long stick as he ran.
Although, he knew they would never have carried swords but knives, it didn't have the same effect for the game brandishing a small stick above his head. He needed to hear the whoosh as it passed through the air. A large stick as a sword did this very well. He’d gone to his cave. No one knew of the cave or if they did they didn't go there because as everyone knew, grizzly bears lived in the area, and the caves often housed the huge hairy Hun like animals. He wasn't afraid though.
“Try and attack me grizzly bear I have my sword.”
Thinking back on everything he wondered now how he never ended up as dinner and was surprised that a bear never had made its home in the cave.
He went into the empty cave, going deep inside where it was dark and made his heart thump hard against his chest, because it was so black, too dark to see anything and so quiet. His heart pounded so much that when he put his hand there he could feel it. He liked that, to feel his heart beating, it was like an old war drum. Boom boom, boom boom, boom boom.
He’d heard the beat when the elders gathered and gave all the young people a display of the old ways. He found it exciting, the colours, the textures of feathers and leather, the sounds–chanting, the beating drum and the dances that went with it. That was his favourite.
He chanted now and danced to the beat of his own heart. “Ahhhh naaaa naaaa naaaa. Ahhhhh naaaaa naaaaa naaaaa,” he made up his chant as his feet stomped around on the hard cave floor.
By the time he heard the roar, the cave was already vibrating and he fell down curling into a ball whilst covering his head as dust and stones fell upon him. He began choking and coughing terrified that he was going to die. He was disappointed that it wasn't even going to be by a grizzly bear. When the vibrations finally stopped and there was silence he felt that a long period of time had passed when in fact it hadn't. He scrambled to his feet shaking off the rocks, covering his mouth and nose to avoid breathing in the dust. Tripping over the fallen rocks he headed to where he knew the entrance was, even though he couldn't see it for all the dust.
Outside he couldn’t believe what he saw. Trees flattened completely; the whole forest was down. Huge boulders obscured his view, who knew where they’d come from. All he could see was destruction, a land of nothing. He ran as fast as he could to get to the reservation but there was no reservation. Everything had been picked up in a giant hand and flung across the land like seeds of death. He could see bodies scattered for kilometres around him.
Knowing they were all dead he still ran to them. Horrified, he looked down at the glazed gazes and blood covered faces. It was nearly nightfall by the time he found his father. His body was nothing more than mangled bones, misshapen and frightening. He hugged him anyway, no matter how terrible he looked he was still his father and he loved him.
He rocked back and forth, his slight body cuddling the large one that grotesquely lay in his small arms. Rocking he sang to his father with tears overflowing his cheeks, singing, just as his father had done when Heath was afraid, to settle himself, because he was afraid again and he needed his father now.
He’d slept on and off that night with his arms wrapped around his dead father's body. He cried and cried until he slept again, his sobs echoing along the open expanse of land but there was no one there to hear him. He awoke cold, his body hurting everywhere with his father stiff in his arms. Carefully, he pulled himself up from the body and looked around for a place to dig.
With a sharp flat rock he began to dig into the ground. It took him hours but he finally had a hole big enough for his father and dragged his father's body to it. He pulled him over ripped up foliage to get there and the broken limbs moved at odd angles as the body slid along the ground.
Lovingly, he placed him into the grave. He kissed his face and blessed him in the Native way, then covered him with the earth. He dug up more soil to cover the body completely so there was an unmistakable mound. He continued until the lump was huge and he was finally satisfied with the grave. When he was done he took a deep breath, content to let his father go, and with one last blessing he left. Trekking to where he didn't know. He just knew he had to find water for his increasing thirst and the river was not too far from him.
He found the river and drank from its depths. The water tasted bitter and nasty in his mouth but his dehydrating body needed the fluid. Whilst he walked he passed dead animals but noticed that insects were still scrambling through the ground. He even went by an ant hill where the ants were busy collecting the fallen leaves and carrying them to their hill as if nothing had happened. In their world nothing had happened, he wished he was one of them.
“Yuk!” he uttered at the thought, no, he didn't want to be an ant.
He had no idea where he was wandering to but he continued following the river which was his only source of sustenance. That and a few berries he found which were not completely crushed. Like a wandering nomad he travelled on. His young mind trying to process what had happened, his heart trying not to burst with the pain and sorrow he felt.
By the third day he was waning and starting to stagger. He’d had two nights of being cold and his body was feeling the hurt from his stiff muscles. He hadn't been able to find any berries today and wondered about eating some of the fallen vegetation. If he had a knife he could cut into the bark of one of the plants and chew some of the goodness out of it. He even tried to strip one branch with his teeth but the taste was so awful it made him gag and he gave up. It was starting to darken when he fell, he didn't see that he was walking into a ravine, he was too tired, too hungry. Only his screams reverberated through the fading light.
He slid and bounced down over outcropping rocks. Free falling at several drops, feeling earth fly up when he hit solid form again, only to continue rolling with gathering speed. He felt the heat of searing pain rip through him as his leg was torn on the sharp edges. Instinct told him to reach out and grab something no matter how much agony it caused him. He did and luckily caught hold of a rock. Clasping onto it with both hands and sheer determination, he pulled himself up and perched upon it.
Once he was settled and aware of his senses he let out a cry of pain as he grabbed his left leg. It was bleeding, the warm blood flowing over his fingers. He felt dizzy, things were starting to spin, so he leaned his head back against the earth behind him and took deep breaths. He wasn’t sure how long he was there before he heard the voice, a human voice, a ghost? No, this voice sounded alive, it was agitated, it was a boy and he was shouting down to him.
“Are you alright?” the voice called. Looking up he couldn't see anything and it made him light headed tilting his head back, so he just concentrated on answering the question.
“I’m bleeding from my leg,” he replied, his hand still grasping the very spot he’d mentioned.
“I have a rope,” said the voice. “I’ll drop it down to you. Tie it tightly around yourself and I’ll try to pull you up.”
“Yes!” Heath replied and repeated the words he’d just heard in his head. “Try to pull you up.” That didn't make him feel good.
The rope fell down but away from him and he reached for it falling forward too much, causing him to almost lose his balance, he quickly scrambled back again. The rope started to swing and on its second swing to the left he caught it.
“I have the rope,” he yelled, “I’m tying it around myself now.”
He was very proud of his rope tying skills, it was something he was very good at, good sturdy knots. Carefully he tied it around his chest underneath his arms double checking that the knots would hold,
“I'm ready!” he yelled and waited for what was to happen next.
The rope tugged tight and he took a deep breath. He felt himself slowly moving and started to panic. As he moved his legs jerked and the throbbing from his wounded leg intensified, temporarily distracting him from the upward movement. Both hands tried to go down toward it. Another jerk and his fingers were desperately grabbing at rocks and foliage as he continued to slowly inch up higher. Panicked by the feeling of hanging mid-air, all his limbs struggled to hold onto the earth and rocks, allowing him to forget his wound for a while.
He bounced roughly against the ravine wall yelling “Ouch!” every now and then.
At his yells there would be a pause in the pulling and then it would start again. This frustrated him all the more as he wanted it over with. It was a laboriously long time before he got anywhere near the top of the ravine. By which time he’d given in to the fact that he was at some points hanging in the air. There was nothing he could do other than hope he wouldn‘t fall.
When he reached the ridge he grabbed with both hands onto the crumbling earth, hauling himself onto the surface ignoring the pain that was screaming from his bleeding leg. Once he was sure he was safe he stopped crawling and lay panting. Both hands went down to his wound and he carefully pulled his leg toward his stomach to protect it. He heard footsteps rapidly coming toward him and looked up into the face of a dark haired boy who looked the same age as himself. He was taller than he was, he could tell that even in the diminishing light.
“Let me look at your leg,” he demanded and Heath felt irked by his pushiness and almost said no. But he was too late as the boy pulled his hands away and examined the wound as if he were a doctor. He laughed at that thought, a twelve year old doctor.
The boy ignored his laugh, so he looked incredulously at him instead. He was athletically built, broader than himself.
The boy was rolling up his pant leg and getting a better look at the wound. He was touching parts of his leg which caused him to yell. He gave the boy a hard, angry stare, not that the boy seemed to care, he shrugged the look off and continued with his prodding.
“What are you doing?” Heath asked as he grimaced with pain.
“I'm making sure the bone isn't broken,” the boy replied.
“It isn't, so quit poking it!” Heath retorted, irritated and pulling his leg out of the boys reach.
“The wound has stopped bleeding which is good. We can clean it up if you can walk on it.” He pointed into the growing darkness. “There’s a spot quite a bit further down where we can get to the water and set up camp for the night.”
“Set up camp for the night. What are you a Boy Scout leader or something?” Heath pursed his lips as he rose aided by the boy and gingerly put weight upon his wounded leg.
“You know very well Boy Scouts were disbanded years ago!” the boy replied. “I'm a survivalist, my dad taught me.”
Puffing out his chest the dark wavy haired boy looked at him with pride, his blue eyes sparkling in the fading light.
“Come on, we don't have much time it’s going to be dark soon. My name is Denver by the way, it used to be Richard but we've all changed our names since the Devastation.”
He was pulling Heath along now as he talked. “We believe that all the cities were destroyed since no-one has come to save us, so everyone must be suffering the same. Well, that's what Washington thinks, so we decided we should all name ourselves after cities to remember them. It's a good idea don't you think? It was Washington's idea; he used to be called George, appropriate eh? He's twelve, the leader of us all. I'm twelve too by the way, how old are you?”
“I'm twelve and my name is Heath,” he replied as he limped along beside him.
“Oh you can't be called Heath anymore,” Denver continued, he gave him a quick glance over. “You'll find a lot of us are twelve, there are some younger kids too, but not that many really young kids, a lot of them died in the buildings, we managed to pull some out but most of them died under the rubble. You're from the reservation aren't you?”
Heath nodded back and looked down at the ground as he stumbled along, limping and feeling sorry for himself and his loss of everyone from the reservation.
“They're all dead aren't they?” Denver questioned stopping. Heath still looked at the ground and nodded his head, his lip was starting to quiver and he didn't want Denver to see.
“I lost all of my family too. All the adults and some of the kids are dead in the city too, the oldest of any of us is twelve. Those that survived the blast and falling buildings died quickly once they stepped into the air from the Devastation. You're not alone, there are more of us survivors and you can come and live with us, we’re always happy to welcome new kids.”
He patted Heath on his shoulder and Heath looked up, this was the first hopeful moment he’d had since he'd played in the cave.
“Let's get to the river.” Denver was pulling him along forgetting momentarily that Heath had difficulty walking until he stumbled and Denver slowed his pace.
“I know what would be a great name for you,” he cried excited by his revelation, “Flint! My Aunt and Uncle lived there, it’s a cool name don’t you think? What do you think; do you want to be Flint from now on?”
“Not really, my mother named me Heath, I like the name.” Again, he looked up briefly at Denver, he’d been walking with his eyes on the ground and he dropped his head tiredly in resignation once more to his grief. Denver stopped so Heath did too.
“Yeah, it is a pretty good name I agree but Washington won't let you keep it. If you want to be one of us you'll have to change your name. We're like a new tribe, clan or whatever you want to call us. We take care of each other. We talk together, exchange ideas, and discuss our feelings. It's different from how it used to be. No more restrictions and we can keep whatever we want to.”
“We used to do all of those my things at the reservation,” responded Heath. “That isn't different for me except that none of friends or family has survived.”
“I'm sorry Flint.” Denver shuffled his feet a bit and started walking. Heath followed appreciative of Denver's attempts at compassion. He wished that he could unload the feeling of despair that rested upon him but he knew his grief would stay for a long time and although Denver hid his own feelings well, he too would suffer the grief for a long time yet.
“It's up to you what you want to do. You don't have to stay. I go out often looking to see if I can find other's like us, other survivors, I don't mind being out alone and I don't mind the dark. It isn't as if there's anything to fear anyway, all the animals died too, or at least I assume they did, but then you survived so maybe I could be wrong. How did you survive by the way?”
Heath was struggling to keep up since Denver had picked a much faster pace and was in a hurry to get to the spot he’d picked out in his mind. “I was inside a cave at the time of the blast.”
“How come the air from the Devastation didn't kill you though? The only reason we survived, well, this is what Washington tells us, is because we had the SM2 shots as babies.”
Heath pondered on this. “I lived for three years in the city with my mother.”
“That explains it then, you got the shots too. Only those that had the shots have survived.” He was looking ahead at a spot he could see in the dark that Heath couldn’t.
“Here we are! Yes, just over here. That's it, you sit down there and I'll soak a towel that I have in the water.”
Heath sat down slowly, squashing his lips together against the rush of pain, once sat he looked to where Denver had disappeared toward the banks of the river. Denver was occluded by the dark and it made Heath shiver to be alone again, he liked having the company, even if Denver talked too much.
When Denver returned he had with him a small towel soaked in water and applied it to Heath's leg. The cold felt good and Heath leaned his head back to relax and closed his eyes.
“I bring the towel with me to wash and cool myself off when I get too warm during the day. I don't need to bring much with me since I don't usually go too far from the city. I usually just fluff up the dead leaves to make a bed at night and that keeps me warm enough. I don't leave the city for any longer than one night though, that way the rest know if I'm in trouble, because if I'm not back by noon the next day they'll come out looking for me. I'm glad to say they haven't had to do that.”
He was staring at Heath looking self-satisfied and smiled. “I’ve found someone to take back to Washington, he'll be pleased. Our group is growing larger and everyone has been given jobs to do.”
He continued talking to Heath even though Heath's eyelids kept closing as he tried to stay awake to listen.
“It’s been terrible getting over what has happened and trying to bury the bodies became too hard. Eventually we had to pile them up and burn them, that made me feel sick and want to cry but Washington was so tough, so hard, he wouldn't allow crying. Crying didn't help you to survive he said and we’re all to be survivors.” He drew in a breath and continued.
“Washington was impressed when I told him I knew survival skills. My dad taught me but they didn't help him any when the Devastation came.”
Heath was leaning against a tree with this eyes closed listening to Denver and feeling more and more sleepy. He heard rustling and then felt Denver gently push him down, throwing clumps of leaves over him. He rolled onto his side as Denver threw more leaves upon him. He was fading away from the sound. The last noise he heard was more rustling and then there was only silence as his mind wandered far away, away from the pain and distress.
In the distance he heard a small voice saying, “Goodnight Flint.”
The Woodlander leader was taking Flint deeper into the forest and he wasn’t feeling comfortable about it at all. “Why do we go so far?” he asked his voice low and grating with distrust.
“The healer plants grow only where the vegetation is most intense, where the least amount of sun can get through. They like the moist and darker areas of the forest.”
They were definitely in an area where it was darker and Flint knew this was a good spot for an ambush; he looked around cautiously, wondering if he should stop the search and turn back. He was out of Denver's sight now; he was in a dangerous position and an easy target to become a hostage. He fingered the knife at his hip and noticed the Woodlander looking at him.
“You needn't worry, you won’t be ambushed. My group watch but they have no thoughts of attack.”
“And just how do you know this?” Flint scoffed.
“I know they will not attack.” responded the Woodlander.
“You can know no such thing!” Flint returned. “Unless you’re their leader and they fear for your life?”
“I know they will not attack,” the Woodlander continued, “because I have the sight and I know when danger is at hand. I can sense emotions and their intent.”
Flint stopped momentarily and then quickly began to walk again.
He’d just told him that he had the gift of sight, why would he give away such a secret? Perhaps he was telling him this so he would have more respect for him. He most certainly did respect anyone with the gift of sight. There had been only one member of the reservation that had the gift, an elderly man; he was much revered by the rest of the reservation. He could sense the good and bad in others and could foresee the future.
Flint saw many men and women go to visit with the gifted one. He was told they went because of worries they had, or to find out if their partners really loved them, but mainly it was to find out if their future would be good or bad. Some of them would leave happy, others would leave sad. The Chief often sat with the gifted one himself, he would be with him for hours and when finally, they came out together their faces showed little expression. He’d hated that because he had wanted to know what they talked about, whether it was something to be joyous about or something to be sombre over.
The gifted one had known what was coming, he knew of the Devastation, knew they would all die and had known there was nothing that could be done. He hadn’t understood what they talked of until later, after, when they were all dead. He understood then, why the men and women had held onto each other so tightly, hugged their children as if it were their last time. Knew why his father had held him close and told him how proud he was of him. Told him that he had been happy to have had the chance to watch him grow over the years and that he loved him. He’d hugged him that very morning before he left the Reservation. He’d held him as if it was to be their last time together and it was. They’d all died, even the gifted one.
The only other person he knew with the gift was Denver, he was strong with it but not for seeing into the future, just for knowing what was going on, what people felt, it was enough to give him control over them all. He doubted that this Woodlander could see the future but he was certainly comfortable with what was going on around him as if he could sense whether there was danger or not.
He managed to stay calm when others would have shown some emotion and Flint found that unnerving. He was unsure of this Woodlander, unsure of how safe he was being with him; he wondered what plans were going through his controlled mind. Perhaps he did have a similar gift to Denver, a gift of knowing when others were nearby and whether they meant good or evil. With this new information of the Woodlander Flint knew he would be much more wary of him.
Flint pondered what the Woodlander had said and he wondered again why the Woodlander would tell him. Keeping it secret would be more advantageous to him. Telling meant that Flint would guard his own mind, close off his feelings to protect himself. So why would the Woodlander willingly give out this information if it would not benefit him? Unless this was just a ploy to make him nervous, unsure, lose his confidence and fill his mind with doubt that would make Flint easier to take advantage of. This made more sense to him.
The Woodlander stopped and knelt down searching amongst the plants, and then he let out a gentle, “Ah!” and triumphantly arose with a handful of small leaves.
“Those tiny things will stop infection and heal?” Flint asked, wondering if this was all just a set-up and he would suddenly be set upon by other Woodlanders.
“Yes, these are healer plants.” He looked fixedly at Flint. “Don’t be nervous. No one is going to jump out of the bushes and take you hostage.”
Flint gave him a quick look of surprise and then shook his head. It didn't take a psychic to realize he was edgy and why, that didn't mean this Woodlander had the gift.
“You’re safe,” the Woodlander leader continued. “You needn’t be afraid. No one is going to harm you. We’re not violent. We believe in peace. That’s why we live simply to enjoy life and give back to our world only the good things.”
Flint let the words go through his head. Words his own people had lived by on the Reservation. To give prayers of thanks for food Mother Earth had provided and thanks to the soul that left the body of the deer they had killed. They took only what they needed. It was a good way of life, it had been a happy time, he’d believed in the ways of the Re