The PriZin of Zin

by Loretta Sinclair

  “Throw,” he said again.

  Hunter’s hand was extended out again, with another rock placed in his palm. Again, the strong muscular arms from behind guided him in his throw, avoiding the antlers, but reaching the arc necessary to hurl the rock at the right trajectory to make the strike.

  Again and again, Hunter tried to hit the tree, and every time he missed, the tears flowed from under his mask of shame. Hunter was so glad his father was not here to see him. Wiping away the tears blurring his vision, he raised his aching arm over and over again for hours. Each time the rock fell short. Hunter was ready to give up, but the others did not budge. Never once showing any signs that they were ready to quit, they pressed him on and on until his eyes burned, his arm ached, and his stomach churned with the turmoil he felt inside. If there was anything inside his stomach, Hunter would have thrown up long ago. As it was, his insides burned with a combination of hunger and shame. He wanted to leave, but a tiny burning in his heart told him that if he gave up now, his father would be lost forever. Don’t give up, something in his heart whispered. He must battle through his insecurity and shame. Maybe he didn’t always have to be a failure at everything.

  Maybe, just maybe…

  Hours passed by, or did it only seem like hours? Shadows grew long, and the day was much cooler now. The breeze on his sweaty shoulders was refreshing against the burning muscles inside. Shadows grew long in the distance.

  Another rock.

  And another.

  And another.

  Raging Bull smiled bigger. Mikey smiled, too. Hunter had given up watching where the rocks fell long ago. Glancing around, he saw them all standing at the base of the tree pointing down right at the root. Charging back to the group, the two planted yet another rock in his hand.

  “Throw.”

  The stirring in his heart outweighed the pain in his arm and his head. Wiping away the tears and smeared paint, Hunter reared back and threw as hard as he could.

  Crack.

  They all stood motionless. Hunter was so stunned to hear any sound at all, he didn’t realize at first what happened. Mikey and Raging Bull ran to the tree to examine the spot where the rock hit. There, in the center of the red circle, was a chip in the paint showing the tree bark underneath. A perfect hit, right in the center.

  Bulls eye.

  Mikey ran, covering the fifty yards back to Hunter in a matter of seconds. He thrust another rock into Hunter’s hand. “Throw,” he commanded.

  Hunter looked back at the target, making sure that Raging Bull backed away. He stood a few feet away. Earlier in the day that would have been the danger zone, but now —

  “Throw,” Raging Bull commanded.

  Hunter reared back and threw with all of his might.

  Crack.

  A perfect strike again. Raging Bull bent back in to see the second divot in the red circle of paint.

  “Throw.” Mikey handed him yet another rock. Again and again they kept this up. Hunter’s confidence began to grow, as did the stirrings of his heart.

  I did it.

  I can do it!

  Crack!

  This is no fluke.

  I am a hunter now.

  Crack!

  I can rescue my father.

  I can do it.

  With each throw, and each crack of the tree, Hunter’s tears began to flow again. These were no longer tears of shame. These were tears that flowed, washing away all of the years of hurt and pain that he had carried with him. They were tears of newfound confidence.

  They were tears of victory.

  “Now, you are ready to begin the Rite of Manhood.” Raging Bull and the others turned back toward the camp, but this time Mikey and Hunter lead the way. Utterly exhausted, covered in sweat and smeared paint, and in pain, Hunter stood tall and held his head high walking in front of the others.

  Chapter 9: Touch

  Touch [tuhch] verb (used with object)

  to come into contact with and perceive (something), as a hand or the like does.

  The campfire burned warm on his skin, the air unusually moist. A light fog rolled in when the sun set. Hunter could barely see across the roaring campfire to the warriors seated on split logs on the other side, or the fire dancers circling behind them, each twirling a long-handled flaming torch.

  Ho, Ho, he, ha, ho, ho, hey, hmmmmm.

  It was the same chant from this afternoon in the teepee. Hunter looked back down at his bare arms and legs. They had been repainted, as had his chest. He now sported new war paint in varying degrees of what he thought looked like racing stripes. Raging Bull sat next to him, smiling. The warriors one by one retold the story of this afternoon and Hunter’s failed attempts to hit the target for most of the day. Laughter floated around the campfire.

  It felt good to sit down after the long day.

  “My arms ached by the time we were done,” Quiet River blurted. The campfire erupted in laughter and Hunter’s ribs were jabbed from the side by yet another warrior. Without a second thought, Hunter grabbed a pebble and hurled it, nailing Quiet River right between the eyes. This was met with even more raucous laughter, and rib jabbing, but this time it was the young native across the fire that was the laughers’ target, not Hunter. He laughed. The good-natured teasing made him feel accepted by these people. He felt at home.

  Roasting meat on the spit in the fire sizzled and hissed as it turned over and over again above the coals. The sweet aroma drifted up and over the group like a welcome rain cloud. The nuts and berries Hunter survived on before barely managed to curb his hunger. This was a feast meant for royalty. Hunter could feel his mouth watering. He swallowed, hardly able to contain his hunger.

  Raging Bull stood. The group quieted and turned to their elder.

  “We are grateful for the bounty that the Great One has provided.” He raised both hands over his head and turned his face toward the sky. “We do not take what we do not need, and do not waste what we have been given.” The younger natives began to chant.

  Hey, hey, ho, ho, ya, wa, oh, ha…

  Raging Bull pulled his knife from its sheath against his leg and, reaching over the fire, he sliced off the best portion of the meat. This piece was set aside for their special guest, who as yet had not arrived. The spit was then lifted from the fire and passed around the campfire, each warrior taking a bite, and passing it along. When the roasted meat reached Hunter, he took the deer head and set it down at his feet.

  “Do not release the mask.” Raging Bull held out the spit for Hunter to bite from. “It must remain in your possession.” Hunter wanted to ask why, but was too hungry to stop chewing. After taking two bites of the meat offered to him, the spit was passed on. He kept his legs protectively over the mask on the ground.

  Around the fire came roasted corn, fish, and some fruit. A bite from a juicy red apple was offered to Hunter. He choked back tears, taking the bite offered by his neighbor. Swallowing the fruit, Hunter fought back thoughts of his father and held on to the deer head even tighter.

  When the meal was over, they all sat back against the rocks, leaning back and lounging. Hunter thought he might fall asleep, except the heavy deer head he held tight in his hands kept him wide awake. Extremely grateful that he did not have it strapped to his head any longer, Hunter couldn’t understand why he couldn’t put it down. Now that the meal was over, the storytelling and the laughter long since finished, all of them sitting quietly as though they were ready for bed, Hunter still held the heavy deer skull.

  The dancers stopped.

  “Rise.” Raging Bull was the first to his feet. The others jumped to attention, and turned toward the forest. Hunter struggled to his tired, aching feet, and looked in the direction the others were facing.

  There, in the darkest part of the forest, Hunter saw a slight movement, a rustle here and there, but nothing definitive. He tried to focus his eyes on the motion. It couldn’t be a threat. The Indians all stood at near-military attention looking into the forest, waiting for whatever
moved their way.

  There. Hunter saw something. It’s a …

  No, wait. It can’t be.

  Is it a Bigfoot? No too small. It walks upright, like a man, but it’s not a human head. Long snout, big ears. Cow? No. Pig? No. Closer and closer it came. There. It’s a goat. No, a horse, with a horn.

  A horse with a horn? Hunter tried to make sense of it. A unicorn?

  There’s no such thing, he chided himself.

  But then, there’s no such thing as a Bigfoot, either. Maybe it’s just a mask.

  Mikey smiled at him across the fire, and winked.

  The creature emerged from the forest and walked over to the campfire. It was no mask. The Indians all bowed in respect and honor. At a gentle nudging from Raging Bull and the others, Hunter bowed as well, still holding the giant skull.

  “Our healer,” Rain Cloud whispered.

  “Healer?” Hunter looked around. “Who’s hurt?”

  “You.”

  Hunter sat mesmerized, watching Abornazine circle around the campfire, opposite the rest of the dancers behind them. Drums beat in the distance, but he could not tell from where. From the tips of his fingers, fire danced as though each appendage was a candle lit on its own. Moving around the circle, he chanted, waving his burning hands.

  “Oh, ho, ya, wee, yaa, oooh,la, da, ba, ba, oh ya hee. I ask the Great One, Vaive Atoish, to come!”

  “Who?” Hunter whispered through the mask.

  Raging Bull bent close. “It means The One Who Alights in the Clouds. He calls the Maker.”

  “Is he really a Unicorn?”

  “Shhh. Put the deer head on.”

  Abornazine’s pace quickened. Bursts of flame now shot out from his fingers toward the darkness, flaming projectiles lighting the darkness for a split second, the sputtering out. Hunter peered through the mask. He blinked hard, and stared again.

  Circling faster and faster, flame bursts shooting out. Beyond the circle of the campfire, along the tree line of the forest, Hunter saw glowing red eyes. A panic began to rise inside of him. Raging Bull’s hand settled on his shoulder to keep him seated.

  “It’s the zombie deer,” Hunter said. “We have to run.”

  “No run. We do not flee the rite of passage.” Mikey moved to block Hunter’s way.

  Hunter felt an enormous hand land on his shoulder. He turned the deer head to see Mikey standing by his side, tall and taut. Behind each person, as Abornazine danced past them, a dream-catcher floated down from the sky and hovered near them. Behind them, stepping quietly out from the woods, the circle was surrounded by the tribe of Bigfeet, shoulder to shoulder, all facing outward, backs to the campfire. They were standing guard around the group.

  They catch evil, he remembered Mikey saying of the woven ornaments. Can they keep evil at bay now?

  The fire dancers were at a near-frantic pace, chanting, torches spinning like windmills, fanning the flames from Abornazine’s finger tips, yet the flames did not go out.

  “He is keeper of the flame,” Raging Bull told him. “They dare not go out until He is gone.”

  “Who?”

  “He from the clouds. The Maker.”

  “Why is He coming?”

  “Shhhh. Watch. Learn.”

  Hunter tried to soak it all in, but it was hard. There was so much going on. The drums in the background pounded out an entrancing rhythmic beat. Hunter was hypnotized by the floating dream-catchers, the spinning flames, and the beating drums.

  Leaping over the back of one young Indian in the crowd, Abornazine landed in the middle of the group. All motion and noise stopped. The healer stood tall, arms outstretched toward the heavens and spoke in a voice so small the others could barely hear.

  Raging Bull leaned back over to Hunter. “You cannot complete your journey until you and the Maker touch.”

  “How do I do that?” Hunter asked.

  “You do not touch Him, He touches you. Abornazine asks Him to do that now.”

  Hunter’s heart raced. He broke out in a cold sweat, and tried as hard as he could to keep down the rising tide of panic fighting to control him.

  What am I doing here? His first instinct was to run, but where? I can’t do this, he told himself. I’m too scared.

  Scanning what he could see of the horizon through the thick mist, there was nowhere to run. Past the dream-catchers, through the line of Bigfeet and into the forest, Hunter counted dozens of red glaring eyes trained on him. Run, the voice inside him urged again.

  “Do not run!” Abornazine yelled. Turning and thrusting a burning fingertip at the end of Hunter’s deer snout, “Him!” he yelled.

  From over Abornazine’s head, a single thread descended from above. Silver in color, sleek and thin, it made a slow path down from the sky toward Hunter. Standing, Hunter backed away from the thread, fear churning up inside of him. “No,” he cried, unable to wipe the tears of fear from his eyes through the deer skull. Turning to run, he tripped over Mikey’s gigantic feet and landed face down in the dirt, antlers stuck in the ground. Rolling over to try and free his head, Hunter struggled with the mask. Sliding it off, he rolled over to see that he was completely surrounded by the tribe of Indians and Bigfeet. Lying on the ground, the string still hovered over his head. It wiggled for a second over his face, seeming to sniff him, then moved ever so slightly and touched the very tip of the thread on Hunter’s chest, over his heart.

  At once, the panic and fear that Hunter had known his whole life were gone. A calming peace that he had never thought possible washed over him. He felt washed clean. From the inside he felt white as snow. He closed his eyes and relished the feeling of complete serenity for the first time in his life.

  Filled with a joy and an indescribable peace, Hunter smiled and opened his eyes.

  He was alone.

  Chapter 10: Focus

  fo·cus: noun ˈfō-kəsa state or condition permitting clear perception

  or understanding

  The sky was gray and the ground cold and hard. Hunter felt as though he was in a dream— neither here nor there. Not really anywhere. He could not tell up from down through the thick fog surrounding him. The feelings of peace and comfort were still with him, although all sense of time and place were gone. Still lying on the ground, the only frame of reference he had for his location was the cold campfire surrounded by the log benches, now empty and devoid of all heat and flame, and the silvery string that still attached itself to Hunter’s heart.

  He tried to touch it, but his hand went right through, as though the string wasn’t even there. Almost like a ghost, but not. He could see it, and he could feel it, yet he could not grab it.

  You cannot touch the Maker; He must touch you. The words echoed in his head. Again he tried to grasp the silver attachment, and again his hand passed through the string in the mist as though it was water.

  Hunter stood. As he moved, the string moved with him. It passed through his body as he turned around to survey his surroundings. Turning a complete circle he saw the same thing. With a visual field of about ten feet in any single direction, beyond that, all was gray. Turning back to the fire, the buck skull was still at his feet, antlers stuck in the dirt. He bent forward and wrestled it loose. Lifting it from the ground, the mist revealed a pile of stones underneath. Hunter felt a chill. These were the very stones he’d used this afternoon to train on the tree. Recognizing the color and the size, he bent to grab one. It was the same smooth finish that fit perfectly into his small hand. Keeping it close, he took a step out into the mist. Walking only a few feet one direction, and then back again, Hunter was afraid to leave the fire pit. Stepping out into the mist, he changed his mind and turned back, panicked.

  Next to the fire where he’d just been was a large brown shape. A mound, low to the ground and very blurred, it moved slightly. It had not been there just a second before. Hunter tried to run. He turned back the opposite way, and was met with multiple sets of red glaring eyes. Frozen, he turned back to the fire. Clenching his ha
nds in fear, he gripped the stone harder. With the instinct of a trained huntsman, he raised his arm over his head ready to strike.

  The large brown mound made a sound. It wasn’t really a growl, more like a purr, then it moved again.

  “Mikey!”

  Hunter leapt through the mist and threw himself onto the mound on the ground, hugging his friend. He didn’t even bother to cover his nose this time.

  Mikey raised a finger to his lips in a quieting gesture. Hunter nodded and settled back down on the ground at his feet. Together, the two surveyed the multiple sets of glowing red eyes trained on them from every possible angle.

  “What are they?’ Hunter whispered. In his heart he already knew the answer.

  “Evil.”

  Hunter looked up into the air; the circle of dream catchers was gone. Around him, from every angle, was the dingy, thick, gray fog.

  “What do we do now?” he asked Mikey.

  “Be ready,” was the quick reply. Mikey was in the starter’s position to run. Hunter assumed the same crouching body position Mikey had. Low to the ground, hands out, buck head tucked under his arm, fingers spread as though he were on the starting block of a race.

  I wonder what we would have to —

  “Run!” came the command. Mikey sprinted through the darkened mist with Hunter on his heels. In their void, the eyes pounced, snarling and snapping at the spot that had once been the safety of the campfire only seconds before.

  Sprinting into the darkened forest, Mikey, Hunter on his enormous heels, searched the darkened forest for shelter and safety.

  Finding a small cave, the two ducked inside. It went back only a few feet, more like an indentation into the mountainside rather than a full-fledged cave. Hunter realized in a flash that this was a mistake. Now they were trapped. He turned back to the entrance to see dozens of red glaring eyes on them. Moisture dripped from the brush where they hid. Hunter’s stomach sickened at a thought, it might be drool, not rain.