by Mez Blume
I didn’t give him much time to bask in his success. There were too many questions that needed answering. “So what do you think they were talking about? Lovegood and Black Fox?”
Wattie frowned. “Maybe they were arguing?”
Imogen and I looked at each other with raised eyebrows. “They definitely weren’t arguing,” she said. “Did you hear raised voices?”
“I agree. It looked more like conspiring.” Imogen nodded. “But that doesn’t make any sense,” I said. “If Black Fox hates white settlers, why would he conspire with Lovegood, the biggest bully of them all?”
Wattie squinted into the flames as if he was looking for answers. “I don’t know.”
“Why does he hate white people so much anyway?” Imogen asked, pulling her bear skin tight around her shoulders so she looked like some sort of very strange forest animal. “What did they ever do to him?”
Wattie kept his eyes on the fire. “I don’t rightly know, but I have heard rumours ...”
“What rumours?” I asked when it seemed like Wattie wouldn’t continue.
“Some years ago, Black Fox joined with the Chickamaugas on a raiding campaign on some settlements a little further west on the frontier. They say he came back with innocent blood on his hands, and not a drop of shame. In fact, he and a band of young warriors who ran with him thought Black Fox should be the next Principal Chief. They claimed the old chief was being too soft on the settlers, and Black Fox thought he could do a better job.”
“What happened?” I asked, horrified at the idea of that menacing man leading the Cherokees.
Wattie shrugged. “Their plan was found out, and the Council put a stop to it.”
I had to be missing something. “But why is he still allowed to stay in Cherokee Country, after all that?”
Wattie considered the question. “He had a lot of supporters who thought he had the right idea. So the Chief forgave him and gave him a seat on the Council. I guess he thought that way Black Fox could speak his mind rather than getting into mischief. You know what they say: Keep your friends close and your enemies closes.”
I felt the last thing I’d ever want to do was keep Black Fox close.
“And then there’s the other thing,” Wattie added.
“What other thing?” I asked, watching him chew on a twig.
“The Chief would’ve had a hard time getting rid of Black Fox because of his family. His great grandfather was the most powerful medicine man who ever lived, Agan-uni’tsi.
My mouth dropped open. “Wait, you mean the Agan-uni’tsi who killed the Uktena and took the stone?”
Imogen groaned. “Oh Katie, you are such a nerd. You two can stay up having geek chat. I’m going to sleep.”
I ignored her and got up on my knees to have a better view of Wattie over the fire.
“That’s the one,” he answered. “Black Fox always wanted the stone. Thought it belonged to him, along with all the power that came with it. Some say if the stone hadn’t disappeared when it did, Black Fox would’ve killed for it. Then there would’ve been no stopping him from rallying followers who would make him their Chief.”
“But it’s so unfair! Old Grizzly might’ve saved the day by stealing that stone before Black Fox could get to it. Black Fox is the one who should be banished from Cherokee Country, not Jim Weaver.”
Wattie smirked. “I wouldn’t bring it up with Old Grizzly when you meet him. He doesn’t talk about what happened. Not to anyone.”
“Why not? Doesn’t he want to tell his side of the story?”
Wattie shrugged again. “I guess it’s too painful. Some speculate that the reason Ramona ran away with the stone was to save her husband’s life. Otherwise, Black Fox would hunt the man who had his precious stone, no end.”
“Do you think Ka-Ti is safe?”
“It’s been eight years, and Black Fox hasn’t tried anything yet. I reckon that means Ramona’s plan worked.”
I stared at Wattie, letting this new information sink in.
“I told you that stone was more trouble than it’s worth,” he said, stretching out on his mat. “Well, best be getting some sleep. It’s a long leg of river tomorrow.”
Imogen gave a muffled groan. “I’m not going to get a wink of sleep on this piece of fur.” But in less than a minute, I could hear her snores over the crackling fire.
I stared into the fire, thinking. Here was the Uktena stone again, rearing its head like the giant serpent in my dream. It had to be a piece to the puzzle, but how? But there were more urgent questions that needed answering now. What could Lieutenant Lovegood and Black Fox possibly be plotting together? Only one thing was sure. Whatever it was, it couldn’t be good news for Nickajack.
16
Muddy Waters
A hand gently shook my shoulder. I opened one eye to see Wattie’s face hovering above me.
“Are you awake, Katie Fire-Hair?”
I opened my other eye and blinked. Above Wattie and the treetops, the sky was a pale pink. “I’m awake,” I croaked, sitting up and taking in the pile of ashes from last night’s fire and Imogen lying sprawled out on her mat with her mouth hanging wide open.
“I’ll let you wake Dilli,” Wattie said, eyeing Imogen warily.
“I thought you were supposed to be the brave warrior,” I joked.
Wattie gave a quick, flat laugh. “Not that brave.”
It took some doing, but I finally managed to shake Imogen conscious. She started with a snort, then moaned, “But I’ve hardly slept at all.”
I caught Wattie’s eye, and we both stifled a laugh.
Once Imogen was up, we rolled up our mats, munched down some bean bread that Wattie had pinched from the kitchen when his mother wasn’t looking and were pushing the canoe down the bank within minutes.
“I don’t know how much more of this my bum can take. It’s already aching,” Imogen complained as she teetered into the boat and settled herself down on her bottom.
I had to admit, the dugout canoe wasn’t exactly designed for comfort. I knelt on my knees to begin with until they got sore, then transferred to my backside ’til it got sore, then carried on switching between the two. But in spite of my sore knees and numb bottom, all burdens seemed to lift off my shoulders in those first glorious moments on the river. As the sun rose and sparkled on the water and a flock of geese flew overhead, I felt convinced that, after horseback riding and dancing, canoeing down a river through woods and mountains must be the most wonderful experience in the world.
None of us spoke for the first while, all either lost in our own thoughts or just too exhausted after the little sleep we’d gotten the night before. But that suited me just fine. All I wanted to do was look and listen and feel the movement of the canoe, sliding silkily through the moving water.
The waking wilderness was putting on a breathtaking performance. A great blue heron stalking fish in the rushes lurched himself into the air, spread his enormous wings, and swooped across the canoe before taking to the sky. A little way down as we turned a bend, a duo of beavers flapped their tails against the river and disappeared beneath their dam. A shower of canary yellow poplar leaves swirled on a gust of wind, then drifted down onto the water’s surface like confetti. Meanwhile, a redheaded woodpecker drilled into a dead pine tree on the bank.
I breathed it all in and felt a smile bubbling up my whole body. I could just imagine if my dad were there. He’d say “Isn’t this just paradise?” and I would have to agree that it was.
Before long, though, I had to turn my full attention to manning the canoe. Just as Wattie had said it would, the smaller river we had come up soon joined up with the much wider, much muddier Tennessee River. We stayed close to the shore, avoiding the rough open water, but that meant constantly having to paddle around fallen logs or pieces of rock jutting out from the shore. It took so much concentration, I completely lost track of time, so it came as a surprise when my stomach made a loud grumble and Wattie announced it was time to stop for midday
rations.
We dragged the canoe up a pebbly bank and found a flat, sunny rock to stretch out on. Wattie unwrapped packs of venison jerky and corn cakes which we all attacked like a pack of starving wolves.
“How much further to Old Grizzly’s place?” I asked, ripping off a piece of venison jerky in my teeth.
“We’ve covered about half the distance,” Wattie answered cheerfully, as if this was good news.
“Half?” Imogen gaped at him. “We’ve been canoeing for absolutely ages. How do you people stand such long journeys?”
Wattie chewed a mouthful of corncake, looking thoughtful. He swallowed. “I suppose we tell stories to pass the time.”
“Go on, then,” I said, feeling much happier now my stomach was full. “Tell us one.”
Wattie looked bashful. “It’s Grasshopper you want. He’s the storyteller, not me.”
“Well Grasshopper’s not here, is he?” Imogen said insistently.
“Very well.” Wattie leaned over on his elbows and peered out over the river with his eyes narrowed, as if he were looking for something far off in the distance. “You see that place, just a stone’s throw further down the river, where the rocks form a sort of bowl?”
Imogen and I both craned our necks. “I see it,” I said. “Where the bowl makes a sort of whirlpool?”
“That’s it. Well,” Wattie continued, “that whirlpool is the home of Dakwa, a giant fish whose appetite is as enormous as he is. So large is Dakwa, it is said he can throw over a canoe of warriors and swallow them whole.” He went on to describe several of the monster’s skirmishes with some Cherokee warrior or other who’d brought back to his village tales of its viciousness.
Imogen waited until he’d finished, then rolled her eyes. “Rubbish,” she said, leaning back on her hands to bask in the sunlight. “Surely nobody actually believes that stuff?”
Wattie raised one of his thick, black eyebrows. “Plenty of people do. Perhaps in tame England, no more monsters remain. But Cherokee Country has been untouched since the beginning of time. You never know what you may f—”
He was interrupted by a scream so loud it sent a flock of roosting blackbirds squawking from the branches overhead. With the speed of a squirrel chased by a fox, Imogen had flown to her feet and darted behind Wattie for protection. She was pointing near the place she’d just been sitting, where water collected in a dip in the rock. “There’s some kind of monster right THERE!” she squealed.
Wattie courageously approached the place Imogen had indicated. Straddling the little pool, he bent down, flipped over a rock and made a sudden lunge.
“It’s got him! Oh my gosh, OH MY GOSH!” Imogen screamed.
But the next second, Wattie was standing up with a triumphant grin across his face, and holding tightly with both hands what looked at first like a large, slimy catfish with legs. He held the creature up for Imogen to see.
“What. Is. That. THING?” She sounded as if she was going to be sick.
“In Cherokee, we call him menopoma, but you can call him hellbender or a mud puppy. It’s all the same to him.” Wattie leapt nimbly over the rocks to where Imogen watched with her hands now over her mouth. She squeezed her eyes tight shut, but Wattie seemed determined to make peace between her and the disgruntled beast.
“Nothing to worry about. He doesn’t have a tooth to his name. See for yourself.” He held the slimy, wriggling creature right up to Imogen’s face. She opened one eye and, finding herself nose to nose with the mud puppy, gave a shriek and sprang backwards, toppling over Wattie’s water gourd. “Ow!” she cried, landing splat on her backside on the rock.
I ran over to give Imogen a hand up. Wattie stood paralysed looking shocked and guilty, still holding the now thrashing mud puppy.
“I think that thing wants its freedom,” I said over my shoulder as I hauled Imogen back to her feet.
“Of course,” he said, snapping into action and, to my relief, returning the mud puppy to its water hole where it promptly wriggled itself back under a stone away from all the prying eyes.
“Ow!” Imogen suddenly stumbled forward and grabbed my arm for support. She was wincing and holding up her right foot. Through her gritted teeth, she said, “I think I sprained my ankle.”
I looked at Wattie, who looked guiltier still. “I told you I shouldn’t try to tell stories.”
17
On Top of Raccoon Mountain
By the time we banked the canoe again that evening, Imogen’s ankle had swollen to twice its normal size and had taken on a deep purple hue. Wattie, anxious to make up for the accident that he felt was his fault, did everything he could to help. He cut strips of hide from his own sleeping mat and tied them with twine like a bandage around the sprain, then chopped pieces of wood to make a crutch.
I couldn’t help feeling that Imogen was enjoying the extra attention. She was certainly being nicer to Wattie then she had been the whole trip.
I, on the other hand, was getting worried. With Imogen having to sit back with one foot propped up in the canoe, it had taken us much longer to arrive at the base of Raccoon Mountain than it should’ve. The sun was sinking fast, and the Tennessee River had brought us to wilder country now. The river narrowed into a ravine between steep, woodsy mountains, and one peak in particular stuck its head up above the rest: Raccoon Mountain. Hiking up there to meet Old Grizzly would not be a walk in the park, especially in the dark. And then there was the problem of Imogen’s ankle. However good she was at sports, there was no way she was getting up that mountain on one leg.
Wattie left Imogen to try out her new crutch and came up beside me. I was expecting him to say that with Imogen injured, we’d have to push on to Hiwassee Garrison and forget about going up the mountain. But I couldn’t afford to lose my chance of meeting Old Grizzly and his daughter.
For reasons I still didn’t fully understand myself, I knew this meeting was extremely important… that I was meant to speak to them. I’d had that feeling ever since that strange dream, and nothing could shake it off. But how was I supposed to explain that to Wattie? I was already searching for an answer when he opened his mouth.
“Ready to climb up?”
I was caught off guard. “But Imogen—”
“She’ll have to stay behind, of course.”
A sudden image of Black Fox running off with Imogen over his shoulder flashed into my mind. “Will she be safe here by herself?”
Wattie was trying to choose his words carefully before answering. “I do not think it would be wise to leave her on her own for long. But I think we could risk just long enough for me to show you to Old Grizzly’s cabin. Then I can run back down to Imogen while you speak to him.”
My stomach lurched. I’d always imagined meeting Old Grizzly with Wattie and Imogen at my side. But if this was the only way… I took a deep breath.
Wattie must’ve seen the nerves on my face. “Don’t worry, Katie Fire-Hair,” Wattie said with a reassuring smile. “Jim Weaver might be an old grizzly, but I don’t reckon he’s got any claws.”
I breathed out and tried to smile back. Wattie was right – what was I so worried about? I had been all alone when I’d faced the Queen of England and her Court last summer. What was an old mountain man after that, even if he was a convicted criminal? “I’ll be fine,” I agreed.
But Imogen was not fine with being left behind while Wattie guided me up the mountain.
“Why do you even want to meet this mountain man again?” She was sitting against a fallen log with her swollen foot propped up on a pile of furs, a crumbly pile of selu cake in her lap.
“It’s hard to explain,” I said, bending over to take one of the sticky balls.
She pulled her hands away out of my reach. “Well you better come back with something good, Katie. If I get attacked by some wild animal all for nothing …”
“You won’t get attacked. Wattie will only be gone an hour. And here,” I unslung the strap over my shoulder and handed her the little basket quiver. �
��You can keep my blowgun while we’re gone.”
She eyed it suspiciously. “Like that’s gonna help against a grizzly bear.”
“There are no grizzly bears in these mountains,” Wattie called up from the bank below where he was filling up several gourds at the water’s edge. “Except for the one who lives in a cabin at the top of this mountain. But you’re right.” Wattie grabbed the gourds by their ropes and leapt up the shoals. “Those darts will only protect you against a vicious rabbit … maybe a squirrel if you’re a quick shot.”
Imogen gave me a snotty look that meant, “I told you so.”
“Unless…”, diving into his knapsack, he came up a second later with a little drawstring bag. From the bag, he took a small, silver vial.
“What on earth?” Imogen asked impatiently.
“It’s snake venom.”
“Oh my gosh,” she exclaimed, dropping the remainder of a corn cake into her lap as she covered her mouth with her hands.
“Is it for the darts?” I asked.
He nodded. “We Cherokee never use poison darts, but my father got this on a trading expedition to South America. I’ve never tried it, but they say it will tranquilise a full-grown wildcat for up to an hour.”
He knelt down and offered the little bottle to Imogen. “If you’re in real danger, just dip the end of the dart into the venom … and be sure not to touch it to your lips.”
“I’m not touching that at all,” Imogen said, looking away from the bottle as if were something offensive. “I’ll just take my chances.” She handed me back the quiver and crossed her arms over her chest.
