My Name Is Cree

by T. K. Richardson

  “A shame to hurt such a pretty girl,” he whispered in my ear, drawing in a deep breath, smelling my hair. He sighed and I felt his heart beating though his chest, my back cinched up to him, his arm laced around me.

  “But it won’t hurt him,” I said, through gasped breaths, trying to take away his motive. He stopped squeezing my arms slightly. “You’ll be cutting yourself off from your people,” I said.

  “My people?” he laughed. “No, they’re not my people. They are enemies,” he said in a low rumbling growl. He smashed his face into my neck, and I screamed. He pulled back and spun us around. My eyes clamped shut, my muscles contracting, my arms squeezed so tight I cried out again with the last bit of breath I had. My eyes flickered open and closed, but in that split second dark figures appeared and I opened my eyes.

  Three Scars appeared from the tree line. I blinked again and witnessed every warrior in the camp surrounding us, gliding over the ground, their movement like the wind, their eyes dark as coal. Something in their stare reminding me of wolves on the hunt, moving in unison, one goal in mind, death eminent.

  Three Scars stepped forward, a distant, focused resolve in his eyes, his jaw clenched tight. In one lithe motion he pulled me free, jerking me from the arms that held me, his hand on my arm fierce, yet gentle, as though the will inside of him and not the force of strength in his grip, freed me. I flung to the side, stumbling as Three Scars took the assailant to the ground, a wild and fierce motion that left me breathless.

  Two Braids put an arm around me, lifted me with swift precision, and in a blink we were under the patchwork of trees, the wind flowing through my hair, my gaze on Three Scars blocked from view. It felt like we were half running, half flying yet for some reason I wanted to stay…

  He stopped in front of the fire in the center of camp, near an older woman, her round face and dark brown eyes staring at us in shock. “Take care of her,” he ordered and disappeared.

  I fell to my knees. Shocked, disgusted, smelling a stranger’s sweat, seeing his face. Those eyes… I covered my face, but the thought of Three Scars and the expression on his face made me fear him, yet somehow drew me in also.

  “It is ok, Little Foot.” She bent down next to me, put her arms around me. “It’ll be okay, young one.” Her voice was soft and sweet, motherly and kind. “What happened?” she asked.

  “He wanted to kill me to get to Three Scars. I was looking for my knife, and he had it. He said I struck him with it last night, and he deserved to take revenge. He said he wasn’t part of the Tore but an enemy,” I said, trying to comprehend everything.

  “Where?” she implored.

  “By the river,” I said.

  She ushered me inside her tent and gestured to a cot with a mattress layered in quilts. “Just wait right here. Try to rest,” she said and turned away. She pushed the flap open, her footsteps falling silently in the dirt as she ran. A strong loud sound pierced the air, like the sound of a raven calling its mate. I heard running, the ground shaking, whoops, shrieks.

  All fell silent.

  The minutes felt like hours, but I stayed inside the tent. Was Three Scars hurt? Was anyone else injured? Were there more enemies? I lay back on the narrow bed and reached my hand to my neck. Three Scars’ warning floated through my thoughts. There are dangers within the camp and outside the camp. I pushed myself from the cot and walked the small space, pacing back and forth, listening for their return.

  The flap opened and I turned quick, my heart streaming a heavy tempo. Her dark eyes met mine and she nodded her head, prompting me to follow. I stepped out into the midmorning sun, it blanketed my face, and I blinked twice letting my eyes adjust. People filtered back in the camp, puffs of dust floating through the air in small paddocks. Men and women, Two Braids, Running Bear, the three who just returned from my area. I searched all their faces, scanned the group until I spotted him. A white shirt or cloth was wrapped around his hand, blood stained through it. My knife in his other hand. I stood still, my gaze unbroken. I held steady, held my emotions in check. Appraising his face, his movements. He looked across the camp, his eyes meeting mine. I couldn’t wait anymore. I sprinted across the open area, past the fire pit circled by rocks and stones, and stopped in front of him. My eyes searching his for anger, or pain, or loathing, or regret, or indifference. I held my breath, wanting to know what he went through, what happened, what would happen next.

  “You’re hurt,” I breathed out.

  “It’s nothing,” he said, shaking his head, like it was not worth mentioning.

  “It’s something to me,” I said.

  People filtered away leaving the two of us facing each other. He motioned to the tipi and I followed. He closed the entrance, turned to me, a pensive glance at my wrists and then my eyes, silently asking permission to see if I had any wounds. I lifted my hands and he cradled one and then the other, pushing the sleeve up and inspecting for any bruises or sprains. The only evident injury were red marks circling my wrists. He eyed my neck, where the enemy pressed his mouth hard into my skin. I tilted my head, and he brushed away my hair, his fingers lingering for a second on the welt left behind. “I am sorry,” he said. “No harm was to come to you. It is my fault,” his words trailed off.

  “No, it’s not your fault. Things happen and I’m fine. I’m more concerned about your hand.” I reached for it, gently lifting it to see. Glancing up at him and then back to the blood-soaked shirt he wrapped around it. “It’s just a surface wound.” He unwrapped it to show me, then dipped it in a basin of water, wrapped it again in clean bandages, and turned to appraise me. I could tell he was choosing very carefully what he would say next.

  “He used to be one of us, but he left long ago. He holds me and my brothers as enemies, so this attack was not your fault,” he said. “We sent him back to his group of outlaws with a message.”

  I looked down and soaked in the information. Normally I would ask further questions, things like what happened, did you hurt him, was he coming back, but I needed to process everything and the stench of his breath on me, his smell, his fierce effort to kill me took precedent over everything else. I had been close to danger before, but nothing like this.

  “You handled yourself very well,” he added. “Your options were limited, and you chose correctly, but I want to clarify that what you claimed about me is not true.” He looked me in the eyes, forcing those words to sink in. I tried to remember what I said. It was a blank, I was in survival mode. Forcing myself to think, reliving that moment… But it won’t hurt him, I remembered the words that sprang from my lips.

  I looked away.

  I came to the realization that Three Scars was right – this place had new dangers, and I was not prepared for those dangers. He said they emanated from both within the camp and outside of the camp. I was accustomed to the threats in my part of the forest, but not here. That left me vulnerable, and that’s never a good place to be.

  Chapter 5

  A feast of bear meat lay before us. The camp assembled in the tent, and the bear, cooked over low heat, was delicious. Its lean texture, and mild flavor made it my favorite meat. Sliced thin and served with fried bread, it was the best way to eat it.

  Three Scars stayed close, his eyes guarding me like I’d stumble into more danger the second he looked away. I couldn’t blame him. I’d only been here a few days and my presence caused quite a commotion and turned his life upside down.

  We knelt at the end of one table, he sat on the outside leaving me closed in next to another family. He ate slowly, his gaze skirting the perimeter where the dark descended. His eyes flit to one direction and then stopped as though he were able to hear further out than he could see. He resumed his meal only occasionally saying anything.

  I scanned the room, studying their ways. The people no longer stole curious glances my way. They relaxed, enjoyed the food, seemed to readjust to a more natural way. I was new among them, but they no longer seemed uncomfortable about it. Two Braid’s wife, looked over at
me. I smiled and several people thanked me for the meat. As the meal ended, people trickled out toward the bonfire, one or two at a time. Sometimes larger groups.

  Three Scars looked at my half-empty plate, and shot me a questioning look. “I’ve had more than enough,” I said. He nodded and rose to his feet. I wondered if we’d join the others by the fire, but I walked next to him across the camp toward his tipi. The night air was crisper than before. A storm was coming. The temperatures were low and would only drop through the night.

  Three Scars kindled a fire and I watched him lay the twigs and branches and strike the match. I purposed to not venture outside for any reason, so I slipped off my boots and would sleep without them tonight. Not that they were uncomfortable. Tall, fleece lined supple leather boots with hard soles, moccasins with waterproof bottoms. Although they were burned in a few spots where I dried them by the woodstove over the years, they were warm, comfortable, and comforting. I slipped them off and set them next to the bed.

  “Can I borrow a t-shirt? This smells like…” I stopped, and looked down, a small lump wedged in my throat.

  He looked at me, recognition touched his eyes, and he opened the wood chest nestled near the flap. He pulled out a clean white shirt, folded carefully, and handed it to me. “Thanks,” I said. I glanced at him and then the shirt and hoped for a second of privacy to change. “I’m going to get some wood,” he offered and stepped outside. I unbuttoned my flannel quickly, let it fall to the ground and slipped his shirt over me. It smelled of sunshine and clean air, hung out on a line to dry. Refreshing, and nothing like the smell of the attacker. I stared down at the brown plaid crumbled at my feet, and the comfort I once gained from the familiar warmth no longer offered anything for me. I needed to wash it, rinse the smell away, and hopefully wash away the memory of being caught with no way out. I unbuttoned my jeans, smeared with a little dirt and dusted with the forest, leaving my Sherpa lined black leggings on for warmth. I always wore a pair under my jeans and never felt right without them. My grey wool socks were thick, comforting, a reminder of a friend who made them for me. I removed all the outer layers knowing I’d not go out tonight, no matter what. I crawled onto the bed and sat down, pulling the blanket over me, trying to push so much out of my head so it wouldn’t enter my heart.

  He returned with a heaping pile of thick branches, more than enough to warm the tipi through the night and enough to even start a fire in the morning. He added wood to the flames, and readied the mugs with water, placing them on top of the grate. He stuffed some tea leaves inside and then settled on the floor and waited.

  “What kind of tea?” I asked.

  “Chamomile,” he said, glancing my way. He spied my boots and jeans folded at the side of the bed, glanced up to see his shirt hanging loosely over my thin shoulders, and looked back to the mugs. They started to steam, and he moved them from the fire. Handing me a cup I cradled it in both hands warming them while I sipped the tea. A stronger floral blend than I was used to, it instantly made me sleepy.

  I looked at him through the fire. His eyes looked darker tonight, his hair so dark it looked deep blue, his skin dark tan, but there was a beauty to him, something wild and untamed. Something troubled yet gentle. There was more to him than his words would ever reveal, but I tried to unravel them through his actions. I worried he’d tire of taking on the task of watching me, and I didn’t know how long I was welcome, but for now, I watched him through the flames. A warrior, a protector of his people, a keeper of secrets I couldn’t know.

  He was a mystery and a revelation all in one.

  I placed my empty mug next to the fire and lay down on the bear skins, breathing in the scent of Three Scars embedded in the fur. I slowly let the tea take me, allowed myself to relax, breathed out days of fatigue. Warm air wafted through the tent engulfing me, and the heavy blanket drew me to finally rest.

  Somewhere in the night, whether from fatigue, or worry, or fear, I found myself in another place. By the river, a cold wind blowing, storm clouds gathering, teeth baring down on my neck. Repeating the scenes in slow motion I fought to wake from them, to free myself from its grip, to push with all my might past the terror and regain consciousness. I breathed fast and hard, and though I wanted to wake up, there was no forcing myself to surface, to reach consciousness. The smell of sweat, and hate, and death surrounded me. The scent of blood from the bear, and echoing voices all around taunted me. I cried for help, but my voice was only a whisper, a fragile feather in the wind blowing hard against me. I saw Three Scars beyond the river running to me, his eyes like fire, locked on me, but he never reached me, never made it. The teeth bore down into my neck and I started to scream.

  I woke with a start, breathing out something I must have been saying. My heart pounding in my chest, my blood racing through my body. I sat up shivering, trying to bring myself out of the nightmare and into the safety of the tipi. I trembled and blinked, and reached over to see if he was still here. His hand lay open and I placed my hand in his for assurance, needing to know I wasn’t alone by the river, and the danger only existed in my dream. He wrapped his hand around mine and I inched closer, my heart skipping beats, my breathing not yet steady. A vast space lay between us, one of culture and heritage, of secrets and the unknown, but I moved a little closer and lay back down, resting my head near our hands. His warmth seemed to travel to me, his calm resting close, his strength enough for both of us. Knowing I was not alone, my breathing slowed, my feelings of helplessness and fear subsided, my worries fading. “Don’t leave,” I whispered and closed my eyes.

  I woke before the sun shone through the canvas and he was already up making coffee over the fire. I rolled over and lay there for a minute, the dream hazy in my thoughts, but the fear it brought still vivid. I looked at him, wondering if he knew. He poured the coffee and sipped the brew, looking up at me, a puzzled expression on his face. I moved the blankets, and sat up, my hair loosed from the braid and falling over my shoulders. His shirt tangled about me.

  “Bad dream?” he asked and watched me straighten the shirt.

  I nodded and looked away.

  “How bad?” he asked.

  “Just from yesterday, you know. Kinda reliving it.”

  He waited, wanting more.

  “What did I say?” I asked looking away, embarrassed to even ask, but still wanting to know.

  He looked down to the fire, added more branches, and watched as it flamed up. “You called my name,” he said and paused. “And called for help.”

  I put my head down. I didn’t want to be weak or let him think I needed him or anyone to protect me. In my world I was strong, independent, self-reliant. Here I was not. Unaccustomed to this I hesitated to explain it.

  “Did I come and help you?” he asked.

  Surprised by the question, and not that he viewed me as weak, I lifted my head. “You ran toward me, as he was…” I swallowed and skipped that part and shook my head. “It was only a dream,” I said.

  “Sometimes dreams have importance,” he offered.

  “I need to know something,” I said and tilted my head. “What do you know about Birch. Is he okay?” I asked, trying to change the subject.

  He spied my expression and noticed my aversion to his statement. Looking down he said, “His truck was there at his cabin, but there were signs of a struggle. 30-30 shells were everywhere, but he was gone. They couldn’t find his trail either. They think he went deeper into the woods.”

  “Oh,” I said, and wondered where he was.

  “The elders have called for a bonfire tonight. Celebrating your bear kill and feeding the community.”

  “That sounds nice, but will I have to...” my sentence trailed.

  “No, you won’t have to do anything. Music, dancing, stories. It’s all very traditional. Our way of thanking you,” he said and watched as relief washed over me.

  “It’s better than there being some sort of tribal council and deciding to make me leave,” I said and shrugged.


  His eyes narrowed.

  “You know, for bringing government trackers this way, causing strife between you and your brother, for getting you hurt,” I looked at his hand, “and for being the bait for one of your enemies. All in just a few days of my arrival.” I shrugged. “Strange creature is an accurate description of me,” I said.

  “Or you brought us news of great value, you fed the whole community, you gave us reason for a celebration bonfire, and…” he paused, “people like having you here.” He looked at me.

  “I thought you might be tired of watching out for me. I just dropped in out of nowhere, and it’s not like you knew I was coming.” He shot a quick glance at me and then back to the fire. Standing to his feet, he turned toward the bear skins. I stood up too, and stretched, my leggings stretching with me, keeping me warm. I reached for my jeans and slipped them on, but didn’t want to wear the shirt that smelled of yesterday. I looked it over and wanted to throw it in the fire.

  “Here,” he said, and handed me a blue and black flannel.

  I slipped it over my shoulders, rolled up the sleeves, and buttoned it down the front, knotting it in the middle so it wasn’t as long as a dress. It smelled like him, like earth and sky, like wind and rain, like sun and storms, all rolled into one. I brushed my hair quick and left it hanging down my back.

  “Three Scars?” I said as I slipped on my boots.

  He lifted the tipi flap and turned to me.

  “Thanks for… you know.” I thought of him holding my hand through the night.

  He dipped his head and stepped out into the sun, not saying a word.

  Chapter 6

  I gathered branches and piles of twigs as full as my arms could hold and threw them on the fire. I turned looking for more and spotted another stack in the trees. I walked over, glancing across the clearing at Three Scars and a few other men doing the same thing. Four piles of underbrush were burning high into the air. Controlled burns were a common occurrence in the spring, and it helped prevent forest fires in the summer and fall. It was all part of caring for the land. A few of the women helped, too, and we worked all morning and into the afternoon piling armful after armful of fallen branches into the fire. The plumes floated up, the clouds above absorbing the smoke. Several of the bigger branches were laid aside for the coming bonfire.