by R. J. Blacks
“You do see the gator,” I say.
“What of it?” he says, without missing a stroke.
“We’re heading right for it.”
“He’s got no interest in us.”
Suddenly, the gator’s eyes open and he looks right at us.
“He sees us,” I say, with a sense of urgency.
“I know that gator; this is his territory. Don’t make any fast movements and he’ll pay us no mind.”
“He might be hungry.”
“See how he’s just lying there, on that log, taking in the sun?”
“Yes,” I say.
“If he was hungry, he wouldn’t be doing that, he’d be in the water looking for food.”
“Maybe he’s waiting for something appetizing to drift by.”
“On the bank, yes, I’d say you’re right. He’d be stalking a deer, or a boar, or a bird, or any stray animal that was unlucky enough to wander within his strike. But how would that happen out here, on a log? It can’t... and they’re smart enough to know that. This gator’s already had his fill, but he needs to get his body temperature up, to digest his meal properly.”
“How can you be sure?”
“This time of year, when the water’s cold, he’s not going to spend any more time in the water than he has to. So unless you give him a reason to feel threatened, he’s not moving off that log.”
I put the camera away and keep as still as possible as we glide by the gator, not wanting to provoke him in any way. I see his massive foot twitch a couple of times as he gets himself ready to leap into the water lest he feels threatened. But we get by without incident and as he recedes into the distance, I observe him close his eyes again, probably feeling a sense of self-satisfaction that he has maintained his dominance and driven off the intruders.
I notice the water getting dramatically clearer as we progress deeper into the swamp. I can now see the bottom to a depth of maybe five or six feet and there are fish, big ones, all around. I take out my camera and snap some pictures.
“Let’s catch some fish,” I say.
“Later,” he says.
Up ahead, about fifty feet away, I notice something black on a low-lying branch which juts out over the water. As we get closer, I can see it’s a snake, about as thick as my wrist, and appears to be about four or five feet long. I instinctively snap a few pictures before it slides off the branch and into the water. I scared it, I think, but then it slithers along the surface in our direction creating a fantastic photo opportunity. I hastily snap more pictures as it gets closer to the canoe.
“Stay back,” says Fargo.
I slide to the opposite side of the canoe just as the snake startles me by popping its head above the gunwale. Fargo springs into action using his oar to push the snake back into the water. But it is undeterred. In seconds it is back, sliding up the side of the canoe and attempting to join us inside the boat. Fargo swings his oar at the snake-head; it snaps at the oar sinking its fangs deep into the wood. He attempts to shake the snake loose, but it clamps down even tighter. Fargo slides his machete out of the leather sheath and with one elegant swipe slices the snake in two. The tail drops into the water creating a red cloud of blood and then slowly sinks to the bottom.
“What is that?” I say franticly.
“Cottonmouth. Very dangerous.”
The remaining half of the snake writhes violently, wrapping itself around the handle of the oar. Blood droplets splash everywhere. Fargo shakes the oar, tries to dislodge the snake, but the head will not let go. A few minutes pass and then the writhing subsides. Fargo slides his razor-sharp machete between the snake’s teeth and the oar, pries open the fangs, and then allows the head to slip off the end and into the water. I watch the doomed snake-head sink to the bottom leaving a trail of blood behind, like a downed jet fighter leaving a trail of smoke as it streaks towards the ground and towards certain death. Fish come out of nowhere and start pecking at the carcass, competing for the best parts. Normally, the sheer violence of it all would gross me out, but somehow the incident, and indeed the surroundings, seem surreal to me, like I’m watching a movie.
“Something’s wrong with that snake,” he says.
“Why do you say?”
“Cottonmouth’s don’t usually attack a boat.”
“Maybe he’s territorial.”
“No, I come here often. He was out to kill.”
“Why do you think?”
“Don’t really know. Could be something he ate... or maybe he lost his mind.”
“Or it could be something else,” I say.
“Something else?”
“Yeah, something in the water, a chemical.” I say.
Fargo cups his hand, scoops up some water, smells it, and then allows it to drain through his fingers.
“Seems fine to me.”
“It could be a very small amount, measured in parts per million. It takes special instruments to detect it,” I say, as I dip a specimen jar into the water and fill it to the brim.
Fargo peers at the snake carcass in its watery grave as blood trickles into the clear water.
“Well, whatever it is, he won’t be doing that again,” he says.
Actually, I never felt I was in danger, what with Fargo around, but the incident has shaken my plane of awareness to a new level. I have now come to realize Florida is a very different place than Pennsylvania, my former home. Even in the midst of the New Jersey Pine Barrens, miles from civilization, I never had to worry about deadly snakes. Oh sure, technically there are a few Rattlesnakes and Copperheads around, but their numbers are so small they are even on the endangered species’ list. The chances of randomly coming across one are miniscule. But down here it’s different. It’s not only alligators I have to fear, but a laundry list of spiders, and snakes, and who knows what else that could kill me. I try not to think about it and focus on the task at hand.
I place the specimen jar back into the lunch bag and Fargo resumes his paddling. He heads for some dry land about a half-mile ahead covered with a diverse assortment of vegetation including some tall pines. He maneuvers towards a sandy bank allowing the keel to contact the bank with a slight thud bringing us to an abrupt halt. He jumps into the shallow water and then drags the frontal third of the canoe up on land. I don’t know where we are, but it’s so remote I have to wonder how many people have actually even been here before. If I ever got lost, I wouldn’t have a clue which direction to walk. I could be wandering around for days, eating whatever I could find. But what if I got injured or passed out from dehydration? The underbrush is so dense they may never find me. The reality was disconcerting; out here, in this vast wilderness, I was totally dependent on Fargo.
I gather my things, put on the moccasins, and then step over the side onto the sand carrying my backpack and the lunch bag containing the specimen jars.
“It’s better you leave those here. I need you to carry this instead,” he says, and hands me a grocery-bag sized leather pouch with a shoulder strap attached to it.
“What’s it for?”
“For the food.”
I place the backpack and lunch bag back into the canoe and then step back to give Fargo some space. He drags the canoe further up the bank so it is completely out of the water. He then reaches into his backpack and takes out a small wooden container about the size of a bar of soap. He pries off the lid revealing some type of white paste inside. He scoops up a small amount of the paste with his index finger and then makes a short white line on each side of his face just under each eye. He then gets another container with blue paste and makes a blue line under the white one.
“Why the war paint?” I ask.
“It’s not war paint. The blue stripe represents water and sky, the boundaries of our earthly existence, and the white stripe is for peace.”
I approach him, offer my left palm, as if it was cupping a liquid, and say: “Water.”
His eyes find my pupils and I can sense he wants to say something, but doesn�
�t know quite what.
I take my free hand and gently guide his left hand over my cupped hand, palm to palm, our thumbs interlocking, as if we were about to shake hands.
“Sky,” I say.
I detect confusion in his stare and a certain nervousness in his touch, as if he is uncomfortable with the situation, but his natural curiosity restrains him from poisoning the moment. I place my free hand over his, cupping his hand firmly between my palms. I feel the warmth and sweat of our hands coalesce into one entity, a kind of meeting of the minds where our thoughts are no longer our own but have become communal property.
“Peace,” I say.
We stand there, locked in a gaze, neither of us having any inclination to be the first to pull away.
“I want to do it,” I say.
He looks at me disturbingly. “Huh?” he says.
“I want to do what you did.”
“What?”
“The paint.”
He shakes his head slowly. “I don’t know. It’s not something Indian women do.”
“Is it against tribal rules?”
“No, it’s not against the rules. It’s just not done.”
“Well, if it’s allowed, I want to do it.”
“You sure?” he says disbelievingly.
“Yes, I’m sure.”
He takes back his hand and reaches for the white paste. Instinctively, I lean forward slightly giving him unrestricted access to my cheeks.
“Hold still,” he says, and then, with the most delicate touch, makes a white stripe on each side of my face, just below my eyes.
My gaze is drawn to his oversize biceps only inches away. If they looked formidable from a distance, they are even more so up close. Curiosity tugs at my senses; I feel the urge to cup my palm over the majestic protuberance, test the firmness of the muscle and the smoothness of the skin.
But I restrain myself. A gentle touch of the hand is one thing, an innocent gesture by any standard. But this, well, this is different. Although well within the realm of scientific investigation, my actions could be construed as something more than intellectual empiricism and that would open a messy can of worms. The last thing I need right now is for him to gain the illusion I have some romantic interest in him, which I most emphatically do not! But if it is true that illusion and reality sometimes intertwine, I certainly don’t want to do anything that would encourage it.
He repeats the ritual with the blue paste then stands back to admire his work.
“They match your hair,” he says, referring to the blue stripes, “But it needs something.”
He unfastens a sea-shell necklace around his own neck and carefully places it around my neck, fastening it in the back. I place my hand over the necklace, embracing the texture of the shells with the tips of my fingers.
“It’s nice,” I say. “Thank you.”
“One more thing.”
He gently removes the rubber band from my pony tail allowing my hair to fan out unrestrained over my shoulders and down my back. He then reaches into his backpack and produces a feather and a small piece of string. He slides the end of the feather into my hair just above my ear and then ties it to a few strands of hair, allowing it to hang down. He adjusts the feather so it flows in the same direction as my hair.
“That’s an eagle feather. It brings good medicine.”
I reach for the mirror in my make-up kit and gaze at myself. The face I see is no longer that of a citified woman from Philadelphia. It has been transformed into the likeness of one of those Indian maidens seen in history books. A strange feeling envelops my entire body. It’s as if I’ve suddenly earned the right to be here, on this sacred land, but in the process have become burdened with all the responsibilities that come with taking on the persona of a Native American. I wonder if I’m worthy of it.
“Do you like it?” he says.
I study the image in the mirror one more time, the blue and white stripes on my cheeks, my long blue hair dangling wildly over my shoulders, the eagle feather weaved in among the strands, and the sea-shell necklace gracefully adorning that long neglected region of bare skin just below my neck.
“Yes, I do,” I say. “I most certainly do.”
CHAPTER 19
Fargo reaches into the canoe and once again retrieves a pinch of tobacco holding it between his thumb and forefinger. He raises it above his head, recites some Indian words, and then releases it to the wind.
“Another offering?” I ask.
“A sign of respect,” he says.
“You have nice customs.”
“It was told to me when I was young: ‘This land will never be your property, to do with whatever you wish. You will merely borrow it from your grandchildren, and from their grandchildren, and then you will return it as you have received it.’”
“Yes, I’ve heard a variation of that.”
“But do you believe it?” he says, and then peers at me with the most haunting stare. What does he want me to do? Should I apologize for the legions of Europeans that scavenged Indian land for whatever it would give up, and then, when it would give up no more, extend their reach to even more Indian land? Is he holding me accountable, in some strange way, for the actions of my great-great grandparents who came to this country eons ago to make a better life?
But I am spared. Fargo swings the quiver over his shoulder, picks up his bow, and then starts for the trail.
What about the canoe?” I ask.
He turns to face me.
“What about it?”
“Is it safe there, right out in the open?”
“This is tribal land. No one comes here except my brothers. See that mark,” he says, pointing to a symbol near the front of the canoe which resembles a white snake with a zig-zag body and its mouth wide open. “The entire tribe knows that mark and they know it belongs to me. It could stay here a year and no one would even touch it.”
I nod in agreement and then Fargo proceeds to walk down the trail at a brisk pace. I struggle to keep up, putting to the test all the exercise I endured over the last decade sprinting from class to class. We cover several miles and then the forest is replaced by a grassy meadow. There are random clumps of trees scattered between the wide open spaces but mostly knee-high grass. Another half mile of this and then Fargo stops.
“Keep down,” he says, and then crouches behind some tall grass. I follow his example.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Turkeys... over there,” he whispers, pointing to a clump of trees.
I look, but don’t see anything.
“Where?”
“Stay here,” he says.
I maintain my position behind the tall grass as he works his way closer, crawling on his elbows. I peek through gaps in the grass, try to keep him in sight. He is now about twenty yards from the trees. I see him place an arrow in the bow keeping it parallel with the ground, and then pulls back on the string. He sights down the arrow and then lets it go.
A half-dozen large brown birds, turkeys I guess, flutter noisily into the air disturbing the tranquility of the meadow. In seconds the birds are gone, disappearing over the horizon. That is, all except one. I stand up and can see it on the ground, frantically flapping its wings, trying to get airborne, but without success.
And then I realize why; there’s an arrow through its neck. Fargo sprints over to the struggling bird and with one elegant stroke, slices off its head with the machete. The body drops to the ground instantly. He then raises his outstretched arms to the sky, pointing the machete at the clouds, and cries out some Indian words I don’t understand. I rush to his side.
“What’s the matter?” I ask.
“It’s our custom to apologize to the animal’s spirit for taking its life,” he says, and proceeds to pick up the headless bird by the feet. He holds it at arm’s length allowing the blood to drain into the soil. I shield my eyes and look away.
“This bothers you?” he asks.
“I don’t like blood. It creeps
me out.”
“You wouldn’t make a good hunter,” he says with a smile.
The blood stops dripping, and Fargo places the fowl onto a patch of dry grass. He gently eases the arrow out of the neck. I notice this turkey is smaller than the ones you see up north and the brown feathers blend in well with the dry vegetation. I would have never noticed those turkeys if he hadn’t pointed them out, that is, until they started flying. And it’s amazing how well they do fly, just like any other large bird. Very different from the turkeys I’ve seen in captivity.
Fargo wipes the bloody arrow on the grass to clean it off and then places it into the quiver. He walks over and retrieves his bow which had been left where he was crouching in the high grass. He returns the machete to the leather holder hanging from his belt, and then, picks up the bird.
“We go back now,” he says.
We retrace our steps up the same trail but in the opposite direction. After a short hike, we arrive at an intersection. I hadn’t noticed the adjoining trail the first time through as it was obscured by overgrowth, but from this angle, it was plainly in sight. Fargo takes the new trail and I follow close behind.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“To get fruit.”
“And what about vegetables?”
“Vegetables too.”
We travel about a quarter-mile and then Fargo leads me off the trail to a clearing. He puts down the bird, drops to his knees, and then uses his Bowie knife to break up the dirt. He digs a hole with a branch, clears the dirt away with his fingers, and removes an orange-colored root. He hands the root to me.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Sweet potato.”
“These grow natural?”
“Some do. But these were planted by my people during the dark days.”
“The dark days?”
“When they were hiding from Federal troops,” he says.
“What happened?”
“What happened was the Indian Removal Act of 1830.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t know much about it,” I say.
