HOMOSASSA SHADOWS

by Ann Cook

  Little Daria tried to scamper to her father and only lost her balance once. Fishhawk was bent over a steaming kettle. He straightened up, black eyebrows raised, and scooped the child into his arms. Then he turned to Brandy. “In a Seminole camp you must eat.” He gestured at the pot. “You’re our family’s first guests. Old Mrs. Flint and her friend never come near us wicked Indians.” His lips moved only a little and they turned down as he said, “They’re banging around the island now. Make so much noise they scare the animals.”

  Brandy stared at the pot and suppressed images of possum and turtle. She’d read they were part of the traditional Seminole diet. Fishhawk grinned. “Not to worry, little lady. This is just sofki, a corn dish. We always have a pot on the fire.” Brandy wondered how he guessed her thoughts. Maybe there was something to this medicine man routine. Now she recognized the strong, mellow odor of cooking corn.

  “At least it’s not coontie,” Annie said, ladling up four bowls. “I’d be pounding and boiling for days.” Brandy had read that historically cootie was made from the root of a plant common in Florida called Smilax. “Some make sofki now by boiling rice with baking soda or using quick grits,” Annie went on. “I like cracked corn as a base.”

  Hackett helped Brandy onto the platform under the thatched roof. They sat cross-legged, as Annie had warned, on mats, Daria in her mother’s lap. Brandy was grateful for learning the lotus position in a yoga class. Fishhawk had rolled canvas up to the eaves and laid a stack of mosquito netting to one side. He permitted himself some comforts that the nineteenth century Seminoles lacked.

  “Do you ever prepare pokeweed?” she said, as casually as she could. Fishhawk’s dark forehead creased in a frown. “I know,” she hurried on, “that the Seminoles cooked many native plants.”

  “You been talking to the big detective,” the Indian said in his deep baritone. “He’s been here, too. He told me how Mr. Hart died.”

  Brandy flushed. “I thought you might know why he ate so much of it.” Oh, dear, I’m not making things better.

  “All Florida country folks know about pokeweed,” Fishhawk said, his tone abrupt.

  Brandy dropped the subject. “Well, the sofki’s very good,” she added, hoping he’d see the remark as an apology. Indeed, it was, once she became accustomed to the bland flavor.

  “How’s the experiment going?” Hackett asked, dipping deep into his bowl.

  “So far okay. Early tomorrow a guy’s barging in some willow saplings and stones, more blankets, and a tarp to build a small sweat lodge. He’ll help me, and then I’m on my own.” He glanced at his wife, who sighed. “Except for Annie, of course.”

  Brandy thought his wife wouldn’t be much help, not with her attitude and little Daria to run after.

  Hackett looked at Brandy. “Fishhawk needs a sweat lodge for purification rites.”

  Brandy nodded, then turned to the Indian couple. “I hoped to get pictures of the three of you, if you don’t mind. I plan to freelance an article that will include your living here—with the old ways, I mean. I’m putting together one about Tiger Tail Island.”

  Annie looked thoughtful as she handed Daria a palmetto husk doll, dressed almost like herself. The little girl clutched it in chubby fingers. “Ta,” she whispered.

  “Daria doesn’t talk yet, but it won’t be long,” Annie said. “She knows she should say ‘Thanks.’” She let the child crawl onto the chickee floor. “I don’t mind the photographs if they don’t make us look stupid.”

  Clouds were forming to the west. It was now almost 4:00 P.M. “I won’t use anything you don’t approve of,” Brandy added quickly. “It’s just that Annie and Daria look so pretty in their special clothes. I want to get a shot before the sunlight’s gone.”

  She snapped her pictures, then summoned the courage to ask Fishhawk for a translation of the unknown words Hart’s ancestor quoted in his journal. “Before we go,” she said, taking out of her notebook the Seminole words she’d copied from the journal. “I wanted to ask you if you could translate these expressions.” As she watched both men’s faces, she immediately regretted the question. Would Fishhawk know she had overheard him tell Hart he couldn’t read the words? Why hadn’t she simply called an expert? Still, she had been curious to see his reaction. She had not stopped to think that Hackett might be offended because she hadn’t shared the excerpts with him. He looked wounded.

  As for Fishhawk, his dark eyes became slits, his mouth firm. “People called Seminoles have two separate languages. Both can be written now, but this is Muskokee.” After a few seconds he added, “My first few years when I learned to read, I was raised with the Miccosukees. My grandparents later moved to Big Cypress, but I never learned Muskokee.” He pushed the paper back at Brandy.

  Hackett stood gazing at the charcoal colored clouds. Under the cabbage palms and the oaks, shadows gathered. He did not ask to see her notations, but why should he? He was not a cultural anthropologist, would not know the language any more than she. Brandy had not said the words came from Henry Hart’s journal, but these two were not slow-witted. With a start she realized Strong had been here earlier today, and he had not divulged the words. He would not be happy with her.

  Fishhawk spoke again, like a pronouncement, his black eyes more on his friend than Brandy. “What people ought to be looking for on this island is a witch. I heard an owl last night.”

  His remark reminded Brandy of witches long ago in her own culture. She had read about the association of owls with death in Elizabethan times. Who would Fishhawk suspect were witches? Brandy thought of the two women now blundering about the island, and of Alma May’s hatred of Seminoles. She looked at Annie’s colorful skirt, shimmering in a ray of sunlight, at her swarthy husband and his air of invincibility, and thought again of The Tempest. She felt as if she had wondered into a dark section of Prospero’s magical island. The monster Caliban’s mother had been a witch. But who was the witch on Tiger Tail Island?

  “You really believe in witches, friend?” Hackett asked with a sarcastic half grin. “You’re a reasonably well-educated man.”

  Fishhawk sat down on the edge of the chickee platform and folded hands like worn leather in his lap. “You say you do not believe in witches. A witch is a person who can make others do evil, who can cause sickness and death, who has to be stopped, right? More than fifty years ago a man like that lived across the ocean. He caused ordinary men to do horrible deeds, he killed millions outright, and he brought about the deaths ofmil-lions more. At last the nations of the world stopped him. But you don’t think Adolf Hitler was a witch?”

  Brandy nodded, impressed by the logic. “Put that way, I guess we might agree.”

  “There’s something else.” Fishhawk lifted the forefinger of each hand. “Our people believe a person has two souls. One leaves right after the person dies, the other waits for four days. That ghost can be dangerous. We stay away from the dead.” He jumped down from the chickee, signaling, Brandy decided, that the visit was over. “But you take Mr. Hart. A murdered man’s ghost stays until his death is avenged.” He looked from Brandy to Hackett. “I guess that’s up to the big detective. Mr. Hart’s own people don’t seem interested.”

  “Others are,” Brandy said quietly. But she wondered, too, about the Flint family, massacred by the Seminoles in the nineteenth century. “Do you think the ghosts of the settlers are still here as well, waiting for revenge?” She had a momentary image of the ghosts of the settlers rising up in territorial anger and confronting poor Timothy Hart’s spirit—the uninitiated, the new kid on the block.

  Fishhawk gave her a penetrating glance. “Soldiers captured the renegades and shipped them all West. I’d say the whites were avenged.”

  When he had begun to speak about ghosts, Annie stood up and turned away. Now she looked at Brandy and shook her head. John and I aren’t the only ones who have a conflict, Brandy thought.

  Fishhawk spoke into the sudden silence. “You ladies will have to excuse Grif and me for a mi
nute. We need to discuss the re-burial.” Brandy watched the two disappear behind a cedar thicket. Their voices floated up, low, indistinct, and urgent, then faded as they moved farther away.

  Brandy smiled at Annie, trying to lighten the mood. “I’ll be glad to come back tomorrow and take you into town. You decide what you’ll need.”

  Annie scooted off the edge of the platform. “A Styrofoam cooler and ice and Cokes, for starters.”

  When Brandy knelt before Daria and held out her hand, at first the little girl clung to her mother’s skirt, then pushed a thumb into her mouth and studied Brandy with a somber stare. In a few seconds the child’s dark eyes brightened, she smiled, reached out a chubby hand, and fingered the cord on the camera. Brandy felt accepted.

  When Hackett and Fishhawk returned, Brandy sensed tension in the air, but neither referred again to their private discussion.

  “We’ve got to be on our way,” Grif said. “Tide’s running out fast.” He stooped down to little Daria, reached into his pocket, and held out a wrapped candy. “It’s okay,” he said to Annie. “Sugar free.” The little girl tore off the paper and popped the sweet into her mouth.

  “Go, go,” crooned the little girl, holding out her arms to Grif.

  He straightened up. “Sorry, little one. Not today.” He motioned to Fishhawk. “Better build some kind of a pen for the baby. She might wander off.”

  The Indian nodded. “I thought of that myself. I’ll put it near the top of the path, so she can watch for visitors.” Annie beamed. She had dashed after Daria ever since she set the child down from the chickee. A sweat lodge and a pen still for Fishhawk to build. He would be a busy man, but the structures would make excellent photographs for her article.

  “Staying here isn’t going to be easy, buddy,” Grif said. “I hope you don’t try living like this much longer.”

  Fishhawk turned a stern gaze on his friend. “I’ll stay as long as I need to,” he said.

  As they started toward the creek, Brandy turned to wave. Annie held the toddler in her arms and helped her raise one plump little arm in farewell. Fishhawk turned to a small pan over the fire, and began dropping in what looked like the leaves of cedars.

  Hackett smiled. “Fishhawk’s already beginning to use magic against evil in this area. Next time you see him, he’ll be ritually scratched with a steel needle, purification by bleeding. Brandy caught a whiff of burning cedar leaves. Before them a great blue heron flapped up from the path, squawking. Clouds in the western sky now blotted out the sun. Brandy couldn’t shake a grim feeling. All the talk of witches, she supposed. Once again Fishhawk had made her aware of the island’s centuries of violent deaths, especially of Timothy Hart’s.

  As Hackett backed out into the creek, Brandy looked past the wire grass and needlerush along the shoreline toward the island’s thick spine of cabbage palms and cedars. A thin plume of smoke rose from Fishhawk’s camp.

  “There’s sacred fire, too” Grif said. “Old time Seminoles believed fire was related to the sun. It represents the upper world—the world where you find good things like birds and plants.”

  “There’s a lower world?”

  “Snakes, witches. The Indians have to keep these worlds in balance. Right now, on this island, they’re not. He’s into purifying everything, including himself. His Panther Clan grandfather taught him the rituals.”

  “Fishhawk’s spending a lot of time trying to bring those worlds into harmony,” Brandy said. “How can he and Annie take so many days off work?”

  The archaeologist skirted an outcropping of oyster shells in mid-creek. “No problem. In the first place, Indian people have always been pretty casual about time. Their concept is not linear, like ours. But they have a stipend from the casino money. It varies, but right now they’re getting $1,500 each a month. For three people that’s $4,500 per month—not too shabby. Add that to whatever they get from the Cultural Center. I wouldn’t mind having such an influx of cash.”

  “But you said Fishhawk disapproves of the casino.”

  “He does. Says young people don’t really have to work. Makes it easy to get into drugs and liquor. But he accepts the money, of course, and tries to keep it from corrupting the tribe. The windfall may not last anyway. The state may begin regulating the casino more strictly. People flock there now, especially older women. Lots from Homosassa, I hear.”

  “At least the income helped build the Seminole museum off Alligator Alley.” Brandy said, lifting her notebook from her bag, and jotting a few lines. “I guess Fishhawk doesn’t need Hart’s treasure for the money it would bring.”

  “The Seminoles lost all they owned during the Seminole wars,” he said. “Their museum had to borrow from other museums. Fishhawk would probably like to contribute a valuable artifact.”

  “Enough to murder?”

  Grif raised his eyebrows and paused. “I know he’s obsessed with Seminole history. He wouldn’t want anyone to snatch something precious that belongs to the tribe. I don’t know what he’d do to prevent it.”

  As Hackett steered his boat into the dock beside Brandy’s, she noticed lights in the living room windows of the Flint house. Clouds hid the sun, and a chill wind from the gulf kicked up waves half a foot high in the river. “I’ll follow you back to your canal,” he said. “It may get a little dicey if the current’s running fast. I’ve got business at the marina near there, anyway.”

  On the other side of the pier Alma May’s little jon boat swayed, but Brandy could see Tugboat Grapple’s Grady White boat wasn’t there.

  “Before we go,” she said. “I want to talk to Mrs. Flint and Melba, too, if she’s still here. I wonder what they found after a day’s foraging. And I want to find out where that first house stood, the one the Indians burned.” As Hackett tied up his boat, Brandy stepped out onto the dock. Melba Grapple’s real estate sign had disappeared. If one or both had read the journal, they may have decided a sale was premature.

  When Brandy and Grif reached the porch, they heard raised voices inside. Brandy recognized the waspish sound of Alma May. “Not on your sweet life! I won’t hear of it!”

  Melba answered, her tone not loud, but acidic. “I’m not giving you a choice.” Hackett waited as Brandy rapped at the front door.

  Alma May spoke again. “I reckon your man’s gambled away everything, like he does. You might be obliged for my help.” Apparently Tugboat had become a financial problem.

  Melba spoke again. “I can handle Tugboat. Answer the door. Someone’s here.”

  Alma May flung it open and stared at Brandy, surprised. “What do you want this time, young lady?” She remained in the doorway.

  Hackett moved forward and interrupted. “I came by to say I’m staying at the motel in town tonight. I’ve almost finished at the mound. I’ll check out with you tomorrow.”

  Alma May stepped aside. If Hackett didn’t room here, Brandy knew she might not be allowed in again. The real estate agent had tossed her head scarf aside and sat on the couch, glaring with arms crossed at a brown bottle with a broken neck and a corroded pewter spoon on the coffee table. Beside them lay a stained pair of garden gloves and a smoldering cigarette in the ashtray. Melba swept her hand above the coffee table.

  “You see before you the sole result of a day at the plantation site,” she said. She unfolded her archaeological chart. “I’ve marked where I found each piece.” When the sharp fronds of a scrub palmetto blew against the windowpane, Brandy glanced outside. A spade leaned against the wall, its blade soiled with fresh dirt.

  “Digging?” Brandy asked as Grif disappeared down the hall.

  Melba blew a jet of smoke to one side. “Not for Yulee silver, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  Brandy smiled. “We’ve been to visit the little Indian family who’s spending some time on the island.”

  She watched Alma May’s face harden. “I’ve already seen more of that man than I want to,” she snapped.

  Brandy frowned. “I didn’t think he’d ever b
een here.”

  “He wasn’t no guest.” Alma May stumped toward the kitchen and lifted a chunk of left over pot roast from the refrigerator. Brandy followed her and stood by the counter as the old lady took a sharp knife from a wall holder and began dicing the meat. “I was in my garden,” Alma May said. “I could see over the canal there.” Ker-chunk went the blade, and a cube of meat rolled onto the cutting board. She raised the knife again, face set. Ker-chunk! Maybe Alma May was visualizing Fishhawk under her knife. “He was slipping around behind the wax myrtles on the other side, like he was hiding. But I knew him all right. No mistaking that coal black hair and reddish skin. Gave me the shivers. Made me think of the Flint massacre. Blamed Indians!”

  Brandy glanced back at Melba and the other woman rolled her eyes.

  Brandy spoke softly. “What do you suppose he was doing there, Mrs. Flint?”

  “Snooping, that’s what. How do I know what he was looking for?” But, of course, they could all guess.

  CHAPTER 8

  Brandy did not intend to leave Alma May’s without having her main question answered. Hackett would not need much longer to gather up his clothes to move to the motel. “I meant to ask you,” she said to Alma May, “where the original house stood. I need to know for my article about the history of the island.”

  Alma May wiped her hands on a kitchen towel and pointed a crooked forefinger toward the dining area. “There’s an old picture on the wall took of the second house in the 1870’s. It stands about where the first one was, the one burnt by the Indians.” Brandy remembered the journal entry. The warrior had hidden whatever he found near that original cabin. The second one must’ve been built after the former soldier made his return trip and found an empty lot.

  Alma May cocked her head, one thin hand poking a wisp of gray hair back into the knot at the nape of her neck. “That one weren’t much more than a cabin, either. After the Indians was all cleared out, the survivor come back, re-built, and lived there ‘til he was an old man. One of his sons tore the place down and used the wood in this one.”