The PriZin of Zin

by Loretta Sinclair

  “Down,” he heard Mikey command from below.

  Hunter tried again to inch toward the edge of the platform, but the mere thought of looking down again made his stomach somersault. “I can’t,” he called down.

  The branches rustled and jerked to the side, and a large brown head popped back up into view. “Down?” he said again.

  “I can’t,” Hunter said. “It’s too high.”

  Mikey hoisted his great bulk back up onto the platform. Standing, he towered over Hunter. With one hand, he hoisted the young man up, and once again threw him over his shoulder, then scooted down from the tree in less than a minute. Hunter felt as though he were on a water slide as Mikey shifted and twisted to avoid all of the branches and obstacles. Once on solid ground, Hunter was again unceremoniously dropped to the ground hard, his feet jarring and his stomach near revolt. He stood for a moment, holding on to Mikey, the only thing within reaching distance until his nerves and nausea settled. Mikey stood still as long as Hunter was holding him. When Hunter released his grip and stood tall, Mikey started off back through the forest. “We go,” was all he said.

  “Where?” Hunter asked.

  “Friends.”

  “What’s that?” Hunter inched closer to the strange object hanging from the tree. He noticed another, and another in the other nearby trees. There were dozens of these strange little objects on the low-hanging branches of nearly all the trees that Hunter could see.

  They were circular in the middle, with woven strings. Some had beading, and some not. Most were colored brightly, and all had feathers hanging down from the bottom.

  “Dream catchers.”

  “Dream catchers?” Hunter walked close to one and reached his hand out.

  “No touch!” Mikey snapped. “Evil there.”

  “Evil?” Hunter inspected the object closely, without touching it. “How can these catch evil?”

  “Friends believe. Must respect.”

  Lingering in the forest to see how these mystical charms worked, Hunter was filled with a foreboding sense of doom. Stepping close to a large and particularly colorful one, Hunter heard a faint sound. He put his ear up next to the catcher. There it was again, as faint as a whisper.

  “Hunter.”

  His heart raced.

  “Hunter, can you hear me?”

  “Dad?”

  “Help me, Hunter.”

  “Where are you, Dad?”

  “Help me. I’m lost.”

  “I’m coming, Dad. Hold on,” Hunter told the tree. “Mikey!” he screamed. “Mikey! Help me!” Hunter spun around in circles, nerves on edge, looking for his helper. “Mikey!”

  “Here,” the voice came from behind.

  “My father. He’s stuck in one of those things. We have to get him out.”

  Bigfoot lowered his head. “Evil has him.”

  “We have to get him out. It was this one—“ Hunter’s hand reached out to grab it, but was batted away by Mikey’s large brown mitt.

  “Not touch,” he warned. “Father not there,” he pointed at the woven piece of string and feathers hanging from the tree. “Father lost with evil. Must rescue.”

  “But I heard him. He’s in there.” Tears perched on the corners of Hunter’s eyelids, threatening to erupt at any second.

  “No.” Mikey stepped in close. “Comm-un-i-ca-tion.” A large hairy finger pointed to the dream-catcher again. “Not there. Lost. Must find.”

  “How?” Hunter cried.

  “Friends,” Mikey said again and turned back on the trail leading through the dangling charms. “Friends know.”

  Up and over the top of the rise, Hunter began to see pointy-shaped, triangular structures. Even from their great distance, he recognized them as teepees. Indians, he thought. No, not just Indians - warriors.

  ‘Seek the warrior’ Alistair had said. Mikey had called them friends. He sighed with relief. They would help him rescue his father.

  Hunter ran ahead. “Come on!” He beckoned Mikey to catch up. The two picked up their pace, Mikey taking longer strides with his great height, and Hunter running alongside to keep up.

  After what seemed like forever, they were within meters of the tribe.

  People, Hunter thought, human contact again. He was so excited to meet and greet others of his own kind, he recklessly turned off the main path to take a shortcut through some brush, down a hill, and out into the meadow where the teepees were. Running downhill he began to barrel forward, unable to control his speed. Once on a fast-paced rate down the hill, he could not stop, bursting forth into the clearing at the bottom. Out in the open again, he ran for the first being that he saw, but stopped dead in his tracks.

  Between Hunter and the Indians stood a tribe of Bigfeet.

  Friends, he thought. Of course.

  Chapter 7: Training

  train·ing noun noun ˈtrā-niŋ

  the skill, knowledge, or experience acquired by one that trains

  Hunter and Mikey stood in the middle of several dozen Bigfeet. The moment the two appeared, the large creatures stopped their games, and huddled around the two newcomers, inching close, sniffing at them like a dog would sniff at its food. Mikey’s face broke into a huge smile. “Hey, brother.”

  A resounding slap on the back from several of his cousins was Mikey’s welcome back to the group. He looked down into Hunter’s widened eyes.

  “Ok. Friends.” Mikey gestured to the group.

  “What are they going to do for us?”

  “More helpers,” Mikey said. “Friends there.” He pointed to the small Indian village on the other side of the meadow. Teepees grouped in a small cluster along the side of a creek were surrounded by a number of dark, tanned inhabitants looking toward them.

  Before he could ask any more questions, Hunter was hoisted onto the shoulders of one of the other Bigfeet and paraded around the open meadow. He looked back at Mikey, still on the edge of the forest. Mikey could see the look of uncertainty on Hunter’s face. He gave the universal ‘thumbs up’ sign to his young friend, and settled back against a tall tree. Scanning the meadow, he counted six other Bigfeet standing guard at the edge of the tree line, all alert and watching the area as Mikey now was. Behind him, Mikey still heard scuffling and rustling in the bushes. Electricity snapped and buzzed in his ears. His hair stood on end down his spine. Standing guard, he stayed at his post while the other Bigfeet carried Hunter forward to meet his new friends in the village.

  Seven large Bigfeet stood on alert at their posts.

  Hunter stood in the middle of the tribe. Fingers poked at him and pulled both his hair and his clothes from every direction. They seemed especially interested in the belt loops on his blue jeans. He was nervous, but not so frightened that he had to run. They seemed to be fascinated more than anything by his blue eyes and his short blond hair. His colorful t-shirt with a wolf’s image imprinted on it also intrigued them. Tanned brown fingers tugged at the longer strands of his hair at the top, while they pointed to their own long dark brown locks. Their clothing resembled loincloths or very rough woven tweeds. Their hair was adorned with leather thongs tied and beaded, some with beautiful feathers tied to the ends.

  All of the Indians and Bigfeet had darkened brown skin, brown eyes, and dark brown hair. Hunter looked around. The teepees were animal hides, hand-sewn together and stretched over long poles tied together at the top. They were huge hides, all of the same type. They looked to be some sort of buffalo or moose hide. Each was slick and shiny, oiled for protection against the rain and mist. There was a smoke hole at the top, and a fire pit in the center of each for warmth in the winter time. Nobody needed a fire now. The weather was warm enough to live without. A flap of hide sufficed as the door for each.

  Hunter waited to see what Mikey and the other Bigfeet would do, but they all remained out in the field, playing with rocks and sticks. It looked to him like they were play-fighting using the sticks as swords, and throwing the rocks at targets. As they finished each encounter, the B
igfeet all made a half-purring, half-gargling noise, sounding almost like an eerie laughter. Wookies!

  Left alone in the midst of the natives, Hunter would have to go it alone.

  “Who is your chief?” he asked.

  The girls closest to him giggled and shied away.

  “Do you have a leader?”

  More giggling. When the giggling stopped, the small sea of children parted and an older man walked through to greet Hunter. He stopped directly in front of Hunter, looking him up and down. The newcomer smiled and nodded for him to follow. Turning, the older man walked away and entered the largest teepee in the tribe.

  Hunter followed.

  Inside the tent, sitting in a circle around an empty fire pit, were what appeared to be all of the tribal elders. Eight older men, wrinkled and sun-worn with age, sat circled around the exterior of the tent. They all smiled in greeting, and motioned for Hunter to sit with them. Glancing back over his shoulder one last time, Mikey was nowhere to be seen. Hunter stepped forward and sat down with the tribal council.

  They sat in silence for a moment, passing something around the group. When it got to Hunter, he recognized a basket of pine nuts, the same as he’d eaten for supper the night before. It wasn’t until this moment that Hunter realized how hungry he was again. He reached into the basket and took out a small handful. Tossing them into his mouth, he waited for the flask to come around next.

  Ahhh, cool water. Hunter drank to wash down the nuts, and to wash away his parched throat. Water never tasted so good.

  Without realizing it, he drained the flask, leaving nothing for the remainder of the elders to his right.

  “Oh,” he said, realizing his mistake. “I’m sorry. Let me get some more.” He started to stand, but was motioned back down by an extended hand from the man in charge, the eldest of the group, who’d eyed Hunter since he entered the teepee. He nodded at Hunter to sit, and clapped his hands.

  Three of the young girls, who’d ogled Hunter’s blond hair outside, came to the call. Still giggling, they took the empty flask and handed the elders several full ones, then disappeared outside. The basket of pine nuts was offered to Hunter a second time, and he gratefully took another handful, and an entire flask of water to himself.

  “How did you come here?” the oldest of the elders asked.

  “We fell through the earthquake.”

  “We? There are more of you?”

  “Yes,” Hunter answered, “my best friend, my little sister, and my father.”

  “Where are the others?”

  “I don’t know about my friend or my sister,” Hunter said, “but my father was taken by a serpent.”

  “A large serpent?”

  Hunter nodded.

  “With a red diamond head and razor-sharp teeth?”

  Hunter nodded again.

  “So he has been taken to the prison of the lost. Did you meet Alistair?”

  Hunter nodded. “He told me to seek out the warriors to help me. Mikey brought me here.”

  “Mikey?” the leader asked.

  “Oh,” Hunter smiled. “I named the Bigfoot ‘Mikey’. He brought me here.”

  For the first time, the tribal elders broke into large smiles. “Mikey is an appropriate name for the creature. And what do you want from us?”

  “Can you help me rescue my father?”

  “We can equip you for your journey, and teach you the ways of the warrior, but the journey is yours to travel, and so you must do it alone.”

  It wasn’t the answer that Hunter was waiting to hear. “No, I can’t,” he protested. “There is danger, Alistair said. I don’t know how to fight it.”

  “We will teach you.”

  “I don’t know if I can do it.”

  “Then your father will perish.”

  The words jolted Hunter like a slap in the face. “Please,” he said, fighting to keep his voice from cracking. “I don’t know how.”

  “First, you must become a man.”

  Oh, ho, ho, hey, ya, ya, ho, ho, yo, yo…

  Hunter wasn’t sure if the ritual had started yet or not. There were already dancers around the campfire, chanting, but he was not yet prepared. He still wasn’t sure what all of the preparations would entail, but so far he’d stripped off his clothes to don a loincloth. Short as it was, he had feathers tied in his hair, and now was being painted. Not just face paint, either. His entire body was being covered. He wasn’t sure, but he’d swear at one point he heard the words “war paint” from Mikey, but then he disappeared and left Hunter alone with his new ‘friends’ again.

  Bright blue, red, green, and yellow stripes now adorned his arms, legs, chest, back, and face. He was attended to by four large, scary-looking men similarly painted. He barely recognized the elders from their meeting in the teepee earlier. They were now covered in paint, as well. Their faces showed no emotion whatsoever, their expressions solemn, stoic, and hard. Two men held Hunter’s arms out straight inside the teepee, while the other two chanted in circles, painting his body as they moved. Twirling around, arms outstretched like giant birds, the two dancers alternately hopped from foot to foot, crouching then rising as they spun. With each turn, they would swipe another color. When they finished, the chanting and painting stopped. The four stood tall, admiring their handiwork. The teepee was crowded with all five of them.

  “Are we done?” Hunter asked.

  “Almost,” the elder of the group said. Hunter heard Mikey call him Raging Bull. Stepping out of the teepee, followed by the other three, he returned a moment later with a large animal skull. It was the head of a very large deer, antlers and all. The elder Indian reached forward to place it on Hunter’s head.

  “Oh, whoa! No, no, no,” he protested.

  “Must,” Raging Bull said. “The Rite of Manhood will not be complete without it.”

  “But why do I need to wear it?”

  “You must become one with nature… one with the animal. Must learn to see good from evil. Must see what the animal sees. See how evil sees.” Raging Bull approached again and lifted the huge head over the top of Hunter’s.

  And smell what the animal smells, too, he thought, holding back his gag reflex. And I thought Mikey stank.

  Raging Bull and the others stepped back to admire their handiwork. Nodding their approval, they turned to step out of the teepee and into the camp with their tribesmen.

  Hunter followed. He felt like a complete idiot but, if this would help him find his father, then he would do it.

  Chapter 8: Victory

  vic·to·ry noun ˈvik-t(ə-)rē plural vic·to·ries

  achievement of mastery or success in a struggle or endeavor against odds or difficulties

  Hunter emerged from the teepee, antlers and all, into the bright mid-afternoon light. The giant buck head shielded his eyes from the sun, but also blocked his view. He could see a lot of people around, but couldn’t tell how many or who they were. The only sound he recognized was the giggling from the girls. From the view that he caught through the droopy eye sockets in the skull he was wearing, it seemed as though the entire tribe was here. Hunter wasn’t sure if it was to support him or to condemn him, but he had no choice. He had to move on. Young girls giggled on all sides of him. He felt his skin turn red inside the mask, glad for the first time that he was wearing it. Hunter focused his vision straight ahead.

  “Come,” Raging Bull commanded. Hunter spun his head around to see where the elder was. Catching a glimpse of the elder’s back as he headed out of the encampment and into the meadow, Hunter followed. Up ahead he saw Mikey and several other bigfeet with him, as well as the other warriors who had prepared him for this task. They all walked ahead, leaving Hunter to trail behind.

  Out into the meadow they trudged. Hunter was tired by the time they got out there. It was a warm day again. He felt the sun hot on his painted shoulders. The scent of wildflowers drifted up through his animal mask and gave him some relief from the tanned-hide smell that was its nature.

&nb
sp; “Here.” Raging Bull turned to welcome Hunter.

  Where? Hunter thought, but knew enough not to ask aloud. He tried to look around. Tall grass, trees with war paint, and a large pile of small rocks on the ground.

  “Throw,” Raging Bull commanded.

  “What?”

  Raging Bull pointed to the pile of stones at Hunter’s feet.

  Hunter bent down to pick one up. The deer head nearly toppled off. Grabbing it by one antler, he managed to slide it back, skinning the side of his head on the bones scraping against his face. Back upright with one single stone in his hand, Hunter looked at Raging Bull. “What should I throw it at?”

  A long slender, yet tanned, finger pointed to one of the painted trees. There, about fifty feet away, was a red circle painted on one of the trunks, looking very much like a target. Raging Bull commanded, “Throw!” with his finger pointed directly at the center.

  Hunter raised the rock and threw.

  The rock fell short by several yards, to the snickers of his companions. Shame welled up inside him. Tears started to flow inside the mask, and trailed down his neck in blue, red, green, and yellow streaks as they cascaded through the paint covering him.

  “I can’t,” he said, hanging his head in shame. “I’m not good enough.”

  Hunter’s head was snapped back up and he was pulled eye-to-eye with a large, brown, hairy face. “Learn,” Mikey commanded. Hunter felt his hand being pulled out straight, and another rock slapped in his palm. Giant hairy fingers closed around his hand, securing the rock inside. From behind, he felt another set of muscular arms drawing his arm up over his head, at a different angle than he had thrown from before. One or two practice arcs guided Hunter’s arm in the technique that was needed to throw the rock.

  “Throw.” Raging Bull stood off to the side, gauging the distance.

  Hunter drew his arm back and tried to mimic the movement he’d practiced. Throwing over his head, he released the rock, scraping his forearm against the antlers he wore on his head. Recoiling in pain, he brought his arm up to see the bloody slash on his forearm. Covering it with his other hand, he looked up to see Raging Bull searching for the rock he had just thrown. Stepping closer to the tree than his last shot, the elder smiled and came back to the group.