My Name Is Cree

by T. K. Richardson

  A snorting and sniffing from across the river stole my attention, immediately tearing my thoughts away from the icy jug of water I tried to keep hold of. I held my breath and focused on the direction of the sound. My heart pounded, my senses heightened. I strained to determine exactly which direction the noises came from, and held perfectly still, trying not to make a sound. The faint crack of a slim branch zeroed in my focus. Another grunt and snort. I slowly placed the jug at my feet and reached over my shoulder for an arrow. I stood in a bad situation, cold numb hands, a bow I couldn’t feel, a knife wedged in the side of my boot, and a 300 yard run to the camp. The odds were not in my favor.

  I reached down to my boot, slow, easy and pulled the knife free, sliding it in my back pocket. I lifted my bow, and slowly aimed it toward the rough sounds. A black bear, just out of hibernation, thin and hungry peered at me across the river’s edge. It snorted again. Poor eyesight but a keen sense of smell, he must have caught my scent. I stood up slowly, pulled the bow tight, waiting for the right second to let go. If the single arrow didn’t take him down, the knife would if it came to that. Not an ideal defense, but it might work. I wouldn’t run. Bears love the chase. I counted with the rhythm of my pounding heart, held my breath and let the arrow fly. A loud screech that sounded more like a roar shot through the night, and the bear dropped by the bank of the river, a gurgling and gulping sound floating through the air.

  I breathed a sigh of relief and lowered my bow.

  A low deep growl reverberated through my chest, the sound coming from beside me. I caught my breath and spun to the side. Were there two threats? The low growl grew closer, the tone deeper. I couldn’t see it, but I was hyperaware the next threat was coming at me, and I couldn’t visualize even its outline in the black of night.

  I’d never heard this type of growl …

  I turned and stepped away from the deep vibration, from the creature I couldn’t identify.

  Another huff, and I felt its presence within a few feet of me. I stepped back once, twice and slipped on a slick rock, my bow fell, and I landed in the water. Shocked by the frigid ice rushing over me, I reached for my pocket and pulled my knife free, raised my hand, gripping the tip. I flung it blind and jumped to my feet. As soon as the knife left my fingertips, I turned to run and smashed right into something or someone! Arms wrapped around me tight, trapping me inside. Instinctively, I pushed away, fought to be free, pounded with my fists. “Oh!” I screamed. The knife was gone, the bear was gone, but the growl stayed with me, and the arms were hard around me.

  “What are you doing out here?” Three Scars asked, his voice hot and angry.

  “Oh!” I yelled and tried pushing him away. “There’s something right over there!”

  “But why are you right here?” he asked, his voice low and rough.

  “What? What are you saying? I said there’s something…” I stammered confused that he wasn’t reacting.

  “The bear is dead, and there is no threat.” He dropped his arms and stepped back. “You were in the river?” he asked.

  “I fell,” I shivered. “I got some wood, lit a fire and wanted some water.”

  “And you would shoot the bear and throw a knife and not run?” he questioned further.

  “Of course. You don’t run from bears or lions,” I said, indignant. His questions were demeaning, and I was shocked he dismissed the threat I heard, the low deep growl.

  “And the creature you mentioned? You were going to take that on, too?”

  “Well, what else was I supposed to do?” I said, starting to shake from the cold, from the threat, from the black of night where I couldn’t see a thing, but only heard the questioning voice of Three Scars.

  I heard rumbling in the trees, huffs, and low growls.

  “Did you hear that?” I whispered, my teeth chattering.

  “It’s nothing,” he said and pulled his shirt off. “You need to get out of those wet clothes. Take the cape off and wrap yourself in this.” I peeled of the wet fur and let it fall to the ground and draped his heavy shirt around my shoulders. He scooped up my bow and put his hand on my back. “I can walk without assistance,” I said, as anger bubbled to the surface. My shoulders shook.

  “Not this time,” he said and walked swiftly through the trees never looking at me. On either side of us the sound of heavy breaths and even a growl or two, were unmistakable. “I heard another bear,” I said, but he was undeterred, and unafraid.

  He walked swiftly, purposefully, and lead me to the tipi. He turned and handed my belongings to me. “Get dressed,” he said, his tone harsh.

  “Fine,” I responded, and thought about leaving the camp as soon as possible.

  I slipped inside the tent, peeled off the wet clothes, dried off, grateful for the fire, and pulled dry clothes from my pack. My hands shaking, trembling trying to button the flannel shirt in front. I held my feet by the fire for a few minutes, and then put my socks on. “I’m dressed,” I said and started towel drying my hair. He pushed the flap open, anger lapping around the corners of his eyes, and he leveled those eyes on me, his chest rising and lowering quickly.

  My hands shook from the cold, my lips felt numb, my body jerked slightly. He slowed his breathing, his eyes softening, his anger dissipating. “Lay down,” he said, “you’re too cold.” He reached for a blanket by the bear skin rugs and waited.

  “I can take care of myself,” I said, my tone matching the anger in his voice, my body trembling. His demand hung heavy in the air, so I scooted over and lay down on the bear skins, half wanting to punch something and half wanting to cry. I pulled the blanket over me and curled up, trying to warm myself within, and hoping the tipi would heat up faster.

  He added more wood to the small blaze and sat down, watching me. Confusion crept across his face, and his expression changed to bewilderment, followed by anger, and back again. “You are not like other women. You’re a strange creature,” he said, his eyes appraising me.

  I winced, closing my eyes shut tight. My heart thudded for a split second.

  “What is wrong?” he asked, angry.

  I pulled the blanket up over my face and head, like I’d always done to escape. The words stung, but I hid my hurt and breathed out slow, steady breaths. I felt the bed move, his presence closer. “Hey,” he said. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. I’m fine,” I said, and pressed my eyes to the blanket. I heard the slow intake of breath from his lungs and the subsequent release as he exhaled, felt his warmth pushing through the blanket barrier between us, and slowed my own breathing to regain control. I swallowed once and pushed back all emotion. Control, Cree. Control.

  “That’s why I’m called Cree,” I whispered. “It’s short for creature… strange creature. It’s what they always called me,” I said and lowered the blanket, my mask of control completely in place. I wanted to roll over, or run away, or hit him, but my hands trembled, my head was freezing, and I didn’t have the strength to do any of it. Nor would I let him see any weakness.

  “You don’t know anything about being a strange creature,” he said. Something in his voice sounded melancholy, distant.

  The tipi fell silent and I thought about his words, wishing they could erase the years of self-doubt and hurt, the feeling of being so different from everyone else. How could he know it would sting, or how that one phrase tried to define my very existence?

  “Can I warm you? It will only take a few minutes. There are no other intentions. I promise,” he said, his voice guarded now.

  I clenched my teeth, wanting nothing more than to be as far away from him as possible. Somewhere between being frozen in body and wounded in heart I knew I needed help warming up, so I could be strong again, bold, hold myself with dignity, and take care of myself. I nodded my head and gritted my teeth. I didn’t want his help.

  What was worse, I needed it.

  He lay down on the bed and lifted the blanket enough for him to move closer to me, and then covered us both. He placed one heavy
arm over my side and tugged me closer. I pressed my face against his chest and felt myself warming instantly. I didn’t feel threatened or thought of in any impure way. Just a gesture to help and I was grateful regardless of the fact I wanted to warm up on my own. He was like a heated blanket warmed by the fire. Only this blanket never seemed to cool down. I felt the welted scars against my cheek and pictured him wrestling a bear and surviving. He said it wasn’t the way it happened, but what else could cause these scars? My thoughts drifted to the bear by the river, and then to the low, deep growl. A guttural noise I’d heard before deep in the forest. Menacing, pushing its baritone echoes through me.

  “You were gone, and I was cold. I was just going to start a fire,” I said.

  A few minutes later I felt his arm lift away from me and he moved to the other bed.

  I was warmer, my hair nearly dry, my body relaxed.

  Chapter 4

  Images of the bear hovering over me floated through my dreams and I opened my eyes trying to escape. Turning over, the soft bear skins brushed my cheek and I wished I could undo everything from last night. I sat up, my heart pounding. Morning light filtered through the canvas and I glanced at the fire. Through the flames his dark eyes stared back at me. Thoughts of my face pressed to his broad chest pushed away the memory of the bear and I flushed, my cheeks tingling, the feeling of his warmth lingering somewhere near my blush. Embarrassment pushed away the fear of the dreams, and I swung my legs over, my feet touching the floor.

  “They are back with news of your area,” he said, his eyes seemed softer and not as dark or as fierce as before, “and breakfast is waiting for us in the meeting tent.” His voice was a low reverberation and it seeped toward me, reminding me of something familiar, though I couldn’t recall what.

  I glanced in his eyes but looked away quick. Standing up I reached for my boots, brushed my hair, and braided it. “I’m ready,” I said, and hoped there would be coffee.

  We walked across the camp, and a child ran up to me, handing me a bear tooth hanging from a strip of leather, looped and knotted together. Her smile reminded me of clear starry nights. “Thank you,” I said. She paused and I slipped it over my head. She giggled and ran away toward the meeting tent. Lifting it up from my chest I asked, “Why did she give this to me?”

  “They saw what you did last night,” he said, a touch of irritation in his voice.

  “Who saw me?” I took a few steps to catch up.

  “The warriors. We were hunting and heard the water change course in the river. Then we saw the bear, and your actions. You stopped the bear from coming into camp.”

  “They saw me?” I asked. “But it was dark. Wait, you hunt at night?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Hey, Little Foot, we should call you Little Warrior instead,” Running Bear said from across the camp, his eyes narrowing into appraisal. I glanced at Three Scars, his eyes locked on the younger warrior. We neared the tent and I brushed passed another warrior. “Thank you. My wife and children were sleeping near the river in our tent,” he said and dipped his head. I half-smiled half-winced. “This way,” Three Scars motioned, and I followed as he slipped in through the side. I avoided their curious stares or quick glances and stayed close to him. “You were fierce, Little One. Very brave,” an older man said, a glint in his eyes. “Thanks,” I said, but my voice sounded lost in the chorus of people and movement as we weaved through them. I stepped closer to Three Scars and whispered, “Anyone would have done the same thing, nothing special about that.”

  “Real honor comes when we do what is courageous in unexpected circumstances,” he said and kept walking. His broad shoulders, straight back, and tall frame were one thing, but the way he carried himself with confidence is what I noticed.

  The three warriors who left last night gathered around the food table. They returned in about twenty hours. It took me seven days through these mountains to make the same journey. “The whole area is blocked off. No getting in or out by vehicle. There’s a lot of biologists and government officials there, too,” one said. They noticed no odors, no hazmat suits, no cleanup crews, but lots of other people. They quieted their conversation when we approached. A warrior with two long braids nodded to Three Scars and gave him a questioning look, then slightly shook his head no. Some silent conversation that made me curious. Beyond the open side of the tent the scent of raw meat wafted in, blood mixed with flesh meant a fresh kill was being processed. Probably the bear I shot. It was thin but still had some meat. Nothing to waste.

  “Did you see Birch?” I asked, hopeful.

  Two Braids glanced at Three Scars and looked away.

  “There’s coffee and biscuits over there, if you are hungry,” Three Scars said. It was a diversion. I tried not to show emotion, but I blinked a few times, and nodded my head. Turning, I walked to the table with the coffee, a little dazed. A little lost. What would I do without Birch? He taught me everything, showed me the ways of the forest, stepped in to be a dad when I had no one in the woods. He knew so much, knew so many people. He was honorable, noble. He was Birch.

  I sipped my coffee and contemplated my situation. The Tore had been welcoming of me, and Birch sent me here for a reason. Maybe because he suspected he might not be here for me much longer and perhaps he hoped the Tore people would hide me, and maybe in some small way, take his place. I didn’t know for sure, but it seemed like what Birch would do. He said he’d send for me, but it didn’t look like that would happen now. If Birch was gone, I had to figure out my future on my own. Figure out how to get home and when to go back. It wouldn’t be today or tomorrow, but I would go back.

  I reached up, feeling the smooth bone dangling around my neck.

  “You need to eat more than that,” Three Scars said and sat down. He placed my cape on the bench next to me. I glanced down and ran my fingers over the soft dry fur. Although the gesture was kind, I didn’t want company. I wanted to be alone. I glanced at his hand on the table, weathered, but strong. “Did they find Birch?” I asked and looked into his eyes. He shook his head and I stared back down at my cup, steam wafting up to me. I sipped the coffee and looked out over the camp, the trees beyond calling for me. Wanting to avoid hurting his feelings or seeming ungrateful for his hospitality, yet desiring to get away, think through my situation, and absorb everything that happened, I shifted and sighed. “What is wrong?” he asked, and moved his hand to the tin cup of coffee smoldering near his breakfast. He took a drink and waited. I shook my head slightly, struggling for the words I needed.

  “I really need to go for a walk,” I said, and forced a smile. I stole a glance outside and something so deep within me longed to break free, feel the wind on my face, run wild like I used to. His eyes followed my gaze through the camp, scanning from one side to the other. “Not too far,” he said.

  I stood up and slipped out into the open. The wind blew soft and gentle, and I hoped he understood. I glanced back at him, leaving my coffee and Three Scars alone, a grave expression on his face.

  I jogged toward the tipi and the breeze coursed around me, my heart beating again, the earth beneath my feet seeming to welcome me back. I wanted to run fast and hard, to push myself further away from my problems.

  I slipped inside the tipi, gathered my bow and quiver, and sprinted away from camp. Their voices faded and the song of the forest grew louder, seeping into me, melding with my heart. I ran toward the river where I stood last night. I’d look for my knife. I had to find it. Birch made it for me, and I needed it as much as I needed him. The white pearl handle, the arched blade, which was perfect for skinning animals, fit my hand perfectly. I had to find it.

  The trees cast dark shadows on the path, but bright patches of light where the leaves separated above illuminated the rocks and grass beneath my feet. I followed the patchwork of light and dark until the babbling sound became more intense. The rushing water grew louder, the tree line opened up, and the rock I tripped on came into view. I slowed my pace and glanced across t
he river. Dark blood stained the sand where the bear dropped, lifeless, and the arrow from my bow a few feet away reminded me of everything I wanted to forget. I turned looking in the direction I threw the knife. I never heard it hit the ground, never heard it splash into the water. I remembered my throw, knew the angle and power with which I flung it blind into the black of night, but finding it may prove difficult. I kneeled down to view my surroundings from a different angle, slowly turning to survey the ground, scanning the shallow banks.

  “Lookin’ for this?” a deep voice floated from somewhere and I stood up, spinning around. He stepped out from behind a cedar tree, my knife dangling from his bronzed hand. He turned the pearl handle in his fingers, rolling it over and around, the sun glinting off the blade. His bare chest revealed a deep puncture would. His eyes revealed his intentions. “You know if you wound someone with a weapon and they survive, they have the right to avenge themselves.” He circled me with slow even steps.

  My escape was blocked. The river to one side, the tree to the other, and him blocking my only way out. He was too close for me to level my aim at him, and he’d easily grab my bow before I could draw. “Don’t worry, it’ll be swift. Not painless, but quick,” he said, a wicked grin crept across his face. I would be no match for hand to hand fighting. The camp was too far away to call for help.

  My only option was talking him out of it.

  “I didn’t know I hit you with it. Didn’t know you were there. It was so dark,” I said. “Are you okay? I’m really sorry.” I tried to sound innocent. I shifted from one foot to the next, and quickly glanced at the cold current behind me.

  “You know, Little One, it’s not really about you. Oh, this will hurt, but it will hurt him more. That’s the true victory,” he whispered, and took a smooth step forward. His arms flung wide and he lunged for me, grabbed my arms, spun me around pinning my arms behind my back, leaving one of his hands free.