Chapter Thirteen
By late afternoon, I reckoned I had covered almost thirty miles into the Shenandoah National Forest. I had crossed the Shenandoah River once where it was a mere stream and swam a larger section using a canoe to hide my slowly drifting body. I was tired, wet, cold, hungry and footsore yet all the more determined to reach my goal. I wasn’t sure exactly where out west I wanted; I figured my brain would tell me the right spot when I reached it.
My memory pulled up a map of the area and I guessed that the next major crossing would be the South Branch of the Potomac river, not the one Washington was supposed to have crossed. That was nearly 120 miles back east.
I was out of Shenandoah National Park and probably inside George Washington Park, a vast area that was largely ignored by campers and hikers. Filled with ghosts of moonshiners, ridges runners and hillbillies, it was part of the legendary area made famous by the movie Deliverance.
Any pursuers behind me would not fare well in the backwoods where government men were hated worse than Yankees.
Breakfast and lunch were fresh caught trout steamed inside kudzu leaves over a small fire on the banks of a tiny waterfall I called Lace Knickers. It was in an out-of-the-way spot on a small game trail that humans hadn't found in years but they had been there - and left their garbage. I found old Coke bottles and metal cans that had been there since the 1960s. I cleaned the area up and buried what trash was left. Leave No Trace was a mantra I had been born understanding.
The air shimmered around me. Chilled and the hairs lifted on the back of my neck and arms. I was suddenly cold and thought about scrounging up a coat.
A man walked out of the yellow mist. He was tall, with long dark braids, red skin, and a solemn, noble face. Dressed in pale tan buckskins, his chest, sides and sleeves were adorned with exquisite beadwork. He wore only four eagle feathers in his braids and dangling were red velvet ties.
He spoke in Siouan and instantly, I knew what he was saying.
“Doe key ya lay hey?” he asked and I told him that I was going home.
“Wah gnee kyta!”
“Hunta yo!”
“Who? Who is coming?” I stared around me but all I saw were trees, ridges, and mountains. “Who are you? Where did you come from? Are you Cherokee?”
“I am Tungasila,” he answered. “La’kota.”
“Grandfather.” His was the face I could never remember, the old man who had raised me.
“I don’t understand,” I said softly and he told me to follow him. I stepped into the yellow mist and it curled around my ankles like a curious cat. I had the sense of being somewhere otherworldly.
“You are in danger, Lakan. Many people search for you.”
“I know. Every time I try to throw them off my trail, they find me. How?”
“The doctor who birthed you had a device implanted in you that radios your position to him within a matter of inches,” he explained.
I could have kicked myself for not thinking of that but he told me that they had done things to my brain to make me forget. Forget my life with him, being caught and the last two years of my life under their care.
“Will I regain my memories?” I was terrified that my mind was no longer my own. “Where is this tracker? Can I dig it out? Disable it?”
He pointed to my chest and the touch of his finger was a cold pinch that stung me to the core and numbed the spot. “It is buried next to your heart and you cannot remove it. A doctor must do it. As for tracking you, underground kills the signal as does entry into this place.”
I looked around. Blowing yellow sand, yellow dust, haze and far-off outlines of yellow mountains. Yellow sky with no clouds and a barely discernible horizon.
“What is this place?” It gave me an uneasy feeling as if my time in here was limited and his answer confirmed that.
“This is the land between worlds. The waiting place for lost spirits. You cannot stay here long but long enough so that those who search for you will leave and look elsewhere.”
“My grandmother?”
He snorted and looked very much like a Native American warrior. “She is not your grandmother. She is related to you only through the blood of her son.”
“Her son?” I gaped.
“He was going to marry our Rachel but was killed before he could keep that promise.”
“Her husband is running for re-election this year,” I said and looked around. I wasn’t hungry or thirsty. Good thing, I was sure there wasn’t anything remotely like food in this place. I sat on the sand and Grandfather sat beside me. I wanted to touch him but he warned me not to – that I could bind his spirit to this place forever.
“But you touched me,” I rubbed the still numb spot on my chest.
“I may touch you as I have no substance here, it does nothing to my existence within this place.”
“Why haven’t you gone on, Grandfather?”
“It is not my mission to leave you, yet,” he replied. “Sleep, Lakan. You have a little time to rest before you must go on. Thicȟílȟíila iyotaŋ child chaŋtochígnake.”
I whispered back ‘I love you’ and closed my eyes. Slept knowing I was fairly safe from those that followed me and no dogs would pick up my scent. I had no way of knowing how much time had occurred in this spirit realm. The cell phone my grand – Hamilton had given me I had tossed into the Shenandoah a day ago. Reading had brought me the knowledge that anyone possessing a cell phone, a card with a RFID chip in it or even an EZ-Pass card could be tracked and found.
Grandfather woke me with a cold shiver, showed me the way out and warned me to be careful. His eyes twinkled when I asked if the men were nearby. “No,” he explained. “Black bear. Many of them.”
“Great,” I muttered. All I had for protection was a broken beer bottle. I could throw it and piss the bear off unless he stopped to drain the dregs.
I stepped forward on a spot no different that I could see or feel and into the world in which I had been born. Cool forest surrounded me, the beginnings of a camp-head. I could see a parking lot with an eclectic group of vehicles but all were SUVs or trucks. No sedans or two-door sports cars.
Many sported bumper stickers from National Parks, Wildlife Foundation and Greenpeace. Some had prominent Leave No Trace stickers and all were tagged with either day or overnight camping permits.
I peered into each vehicle careful not to touch or leave fingerprints and especially DNA samples. The license plates stunned me. I had figured I had walked some 60 miles in two days bringing me from Washington DC area into Virginia but if the cars were any clue, I was now in southern Alabama near the Chickasaw Oklahoma Indian reservation. Once called the Five Nations, it was a vast parcel of land the US government had given to the Five Tribes because it was thought to be useless. Only a century later, oil had been discovered under it making it one of the richest Indian nations ever.
They had their own government of Tribal Council, police force, health organization, cities, and towns. Ran their own schools and gambling establishments. Sad to say, though their alcoholism rate was just as high as any other reservation. I was pretty sure I could count on the Elders for help and sanctuary.
The terrain here was different, tough thickets of mesquite and cedar with sandy soil and spiny prickly pear. What large trees I could see were cottonwoods, their leaves turning brown and falling off. Scrubland, thickets where one could hide out and unless you stumbled on top of someone, would never find them. Unless you were microchipped.
None of the vehicles were unlocked or keys left in them but the hood on the Park Ranger’s truck was still warm. I guessed that he had just arrived and was either collecting rent or checking on who was overdue. The back of his pickup had crap piled in it and offered a hiding place between old tarps, garbage bags, and someone’s ratty old tent.
Climbing over the tailgate, I arranged the tent over me and prayed the Ranger wouldn’t notice someone or something had pawed through it. Luckily, it was cool enough that the garbage didn’t stink and I could lie there quietly. Even though I had slept, I fell asleep again not waking until I heard the engine turn over. The truck lurched forward and for the next hour, I endured a spine-jarring, bone-bruising ride of torture until the truck hit the highway. That wasn’t much better but at least it was faster.
I got cold. The air whistled down over the cab and straight through the bed. If I hadn’t been holding onto the tent and tarp it would have flown out. It flapped loud enough to hit and annoy me.
His brakes came on a few times on curves and finally, he skidded to a stop. I risked a peek and gaped. Standing in the middle of an arrow-straight highway was a horse – a spotted horse and astride it was an Indian. He wore blue jeans, Carhartt jacket, and a black felt Stetson. His horse was a big black and white paint with a narrow head and a mean eye.
“Redline,” I heard from the driver of the truck. “What’s up?”
His reply was a soft murmur that did not reach my ears but the voice of a girl sounded loud in my face as something thin and whippy hit the tent over my head.
“Out,” she ordered as I flinched. “Hurry up before Ranger Rick notices.”
“Huh?” I returned brilliantly.
She reached in, grabbed my collar and heaved me onto the horse. I wrapped my arms around her slender waist so I wouldn’t fall ass-backwards over the horse. She kneed her mount, an equally impressive red paint around to the front of the truck making the driver jump.
“Jesus! Rach, where did you come from?” He studied me but couldn’t see much as I was hidden behind her.
“Grass fire on old Tupelo Road,” the man reported, nodded and loped off. She followed and I went with them having no choice as she kicked the horse into a gallop nearly tearing my head off.