The Brave

by James Bird

  “Is Orenda really gonna be where we are going?” I ask, ignoring her question.

  She smiles and starts singing again. Ignoring my question. I guess if she doesn’t get an answer, I don’t either.

  As we cross the invisible line out of the reservation, the radio kicks in. And it happens to be the exact song she’s been singing since we started our drive. I don’t know how my mom does stuff like this. It’s either Native American magic, or she’s a descendant of one of those Salem witches. Either way, she’s pretty freakin’ cool.

  We drive through the forest, on a thin one-lane gravel road. As we head deeper and deeper into the thick of the trees, it becomes so dark that all we can see are the truck’s headlights and ten feet of gray road in front of us. It looks like we are headed straight into a black hole. I clutch the sides of my seat as the drive becomes more bumpy the farther we venture in.

  A good ten minutes later, my mom pulls off the road and into a hidden dirt lot. There is a faint source of light ahead of us, way off in the distance.

  As we drive closer, the light becomes more visible, and I can now make it out to be a large campfire. There are a dozen parked cars, even a few horses tied to wooden poles.

  “What is this place?” I ask her.

  “Like I said, it’s time for you to meet your ancestors.”

  She parks the truck, turns off the radio, and turns to me. “Give me your face.”

  “I don’t know what that means. It’s mine,” I say.

  She laughs, pulls out something small, encased in cloth, and carefully unwraps it. It’s a thin black piece of charcoal, I think. Maybe it’s chalk?

  “Closer,” she says, and I lean my face toward her.

  “What is that?”

  “What’s in it? Let’s see here. There’s clay, berries, plants, minerals, all wrapped in burnt tree bark. You’ll wear this for Aji,” she says, and with her index finger she rubs against the thing, coating her fingertip with a deep black paste. She then presses on my forehead and streaks her finger down toward my eye. I close them instinctively as she drags her finger farther down my face, stopping just below my cheekbones.

  “I feel like I’m going to battle.”

  “You’ve been in battle your entire life. This, my son, will help you win.”

  The air in here just got thick, like there’s a presence sitting in between us. She feels it too because she takes a deep breath and closes her eyes. It’s almost dizzying.

  “What is this?” I ask.

  “You feel it?” she asks.

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s our blood waking up,” she says, and gets out of the truck.

  I whisper, “Twenty-one,” to myself.

  Together, we walk through the dark dirt lot, passing the parked cars and stationed horses, lit only by the moon hanging above us. I’m hearing sounds I’ve never heard before. It’s like a concoction of voices: talking, screaming, laughing, and singing all at once. There’s a vibrating drumming that reminds me of the night I saw Orenda up in her tree house while I was freezing my naked butt off. It shakes my feet with every step, getting louder and stronger as we get nearer. Maybe this is the way all family gatherings sounded, before we made electronics and machines that covered up everything.

  When we finally arrive, there are a dozen people dancing around a large fire. They look like giant birds, feathers bouncing off their bodies as they dance. They never leave their feet on the ground for more than a second, as if the earth is too hot to stand on.

  Surrounding the dancers is an even larger outer circle of people sitting and clapping along. I hear their voices, but I can’t tell who is singing which parts. It all blends together like a symphony.

  In the outside circle, I see Orenda, sitting in her wheelchair. She hasn’t seen me yet. She has her eyes fixed to the fire-dancers.

  “I’ll be right back,” my mom says, and walks off into the darkness toward a few tents on the outskirts of the event. My eyes scan the crowd. Everyone here is Native American. I’ve never seen so many before—outside of a Western movie. I’m the palest person here, by far.

  I don’t know these people, and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I don’t know how Native Americans handled people like me, but if this was a couple hundred years ago in Europe, my numbers condition would be labeled as witchcraft and I’d be tossed into that enormous fire.

  “Who invited the white boy?” a voice says behind me.

  I turn around and see three teenagers walking toward me. The one that spoke is tall and thin, he wears a bandana around his head, and his hair is separated into two long braids that hang down to his chest. The second one is short and heavy. He actually looks pretty friendly, but I’m not going to count on it, literally. The third one, I can’t really tell if they’re a girl or a boy. Either way, their face is striking, and their hair is in tight black cornrows. I take a mental photograph of his or her face, because it’s definitely one I’d like to draw later.

  All three of them are dressed in vests covered in beads and what looks like bones. Most likely, I’m about to catch a beating, but I must admit, they do look really freaking cool.

  I don’t count his letters because technically they weren’t meant for me, although I know he said it loud enough for me to hear him. His chubby friend laughs as they get close enough to see my face.

  “Who are you?” the first one asks me.

  “Nine.”

  “Nine? Your name is Nine?” the third one says, and even hearing their voice, I still can’t be certain if they are a he or she.

  “Eighteen,” I reply.

  “Nine Eighteen? That’s a dumb-ass name,” the first guy says.

  “Twenty-nine. And what’s yours? Boy Who Steps in Horse Poop?” I say in return.

  He immediately looks down at his feet.

  “Made you look,” I say.

  Both his friends laugh, but not so much at my dumb joke. They laugh at the fact that I just talked crap (literally) to a guy who is clearly much bigger and stronger than I am.

  He steps forward and gets right in my face. I know what comes next. I’ve been here before. This is where I get punched. Usually, I’d close my eyes and hope it all happens quickly, but I’ll keep my eyes open this time. Maybe if he swings, I’ll swing too. I know how to throw a punch now. I’ve thrown thousands at a bag since my last beating. I don’t want to fight, but I’m not going to curl up in a ball and welcome a butt whupping either, especially with Orenda here. I guess what happens next all depends on this guy. I wait …

  But instead of shoving me, or punching me, or slamming me down onto the ground, his eyes focus on the black design my mom painted onto my face.

  “Wait … You knew Aji?” he says.

  “Fourteen. Knew him? He’s in my blood. I know him,” I say.

  They all look confused.

  “Hey, Joey! I wouldn’t mess with him,” says a voice behind the group.

  Joey turns around, as do his buddies. A guy is splitting the group in half as he approaches. Whoever this guy is, he commands respect. I immediately recognize him from the prom photo under Orenda’s bed. He was the guy standing with Aji.

  “Hey, Billy,” says Joey, whose body language dramatically changes now that Billy has arrived.

  “Don’t ‘Hey, Billy,’ me. This is Collin,” he says to the group.

  “And?” Joey says. “Are we supposed to know who he is?”

  “You should. He’s Aji’s brother,” Billy says as he puts his hand on my shoulder.

  After a long silence, Joey approaches me and offers his hand.

  “I meant no disrespect, Collin. Aji was good people.”

  “Forty. It’s okay,” I say, and shake his hand.

  “Why didn’t you say you were Aji’s brother, homie?” the chubby friend says, and gives me a bear hug, lifting my feet off the ground.

  “Thirty-seven.”

  “Is that, like, code or something?” he asks.

  I tally them up again. “Tw
enty-five. Something like that.”

  He catches on and pretends to zip his mouth shut with the invisible zipper in his hand, which is fine, but after he locks his mouth closed, he opens it and eats the invisible key. Then laughs at his own joke. I laugh too.

  “Nice to meet you, Collin,” the third friend says. “I’m Deo.”

  And by the look, the voice, and even the name—I still have no idea of his or her gender. I guess it doesn’t matter. I guess it’s just Deo.

  They walk off and leave me with Billy. He is maybe even more attractive than my brother was, if that’s possible. He has short black hair, a scruffy face, and green piercing eyes. He doesn’t share the same facial features and skin color as any of the people here, so I’m not sure if he’s Native American or not. If I had to guess, I’d say Egyptian or from somewhere far away like that.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “Don’t mention it,” he says. “You probably heard a lot about this town’s high school football legend, Billy the Bear, well, that’s me.”

  “Ninety-four. I don’t know about football stuff, sorry … So, you and Aji were friends?” I ask.

  He laughs. “You can say that. So you really do count everyone’s letters, huh?” he asks.

  “Fifty. Yeah, it’s my superpower. What’s yours?”

  “Me? I just kick butt and look good doing it,” he says, and laughs.

  “Thirty-three. Wanna trade?” I ask.

  “No thanks. I suck at math,” he says.

  As I count his letters, my mother sneaks up from behind and wraps her arms around me.

  “Making friends, I see,” she says.

  I look at Billy: “Nineteen to you.” And turn my face to my mom: “Seventeen to you.”

  “Hey, Billy,” she says, and hugs him. “How are you?”

  He squeezes her tightly. By their expressions, I can see they are both happy to see each other, but also, it’s not easy. Too many memories flooding back.

  “I’m good. Just trying to stay positive, you know?” he replies.

  “We all are. You can still come around, you know? We miss you.”

  He exhales a heavy breath. “I will. I’m just not ready to be back there yet.”

  While they talk, I look back at Orenda, smiling at me, from a distance.

  In the glow of the campfire, Orenda looks as if she set the world ablaze with her beauty. She wears a black Western hat, and her eyes shine through black paint covering her face like a bandit. Her sweatshirt is red with black sleeves; in the center, over her chest is a black painted handprint. She wears tight jeans and heavy brown boots.

  As she approaches me, I notice that even her wheelchair looks cooler; the two wheels have been upgraded to have tires much thicker than the originals, like a dirt bike’s tires, made for rough terrain.

  “I leave for a bit, and you’re already almost getting into fights?” she says.

  I tally up her letters. “He started it,” I say.

  She wheels herself even closer. “My rebel. Come on, let me feel those arms,” she says, and reaches out for me.

  “Thirty-one.”

  I bend down, and she grips my biceps. As she squeezes, her eyebrows rise very slightly. “You’ve been training hard!” she says excitedly.

  “I told you I would. Did you pick out your wings?” I ask.

  “I did. They’re beautiful. Speaking of beautiful, I see you met Billy.”

  “Yeah. He actually saved me from me getting my butt kicked,” I say, which causes her to laugh.

  “No. With those arms, my money’s on the Count.”

  “Were Aji and him close?” I ask.

  “As close as two can be,” she says with a smile.

  “Closer than you and Aji?” I ask.

  She looks at me strangely. Very strangely, like she’s examining my face, searching for the reason why I asked such an odd question.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” I ask.

  “Interesting.”

  “What is?”

  She traces my face with her finger. And her eyes focus on all my features, like an explorer studying a map before a great voyage. “Serious face. Sad eyes. Confused brows. Stubborn nose. Nervous lips. Ask me what you want to ask me before your face explodes,” she says, and drops her finger into her lap.

  “Were you in love with my brother?” I ask.

  She laughs the same way my mother did, although I still find no humor in my question.

  “He was like my older brother, you bozo,” she says.

  “But did you want to one day grow up and marry him?” I ask.

  Her eyes widen. “That would be impossible,” she says.

  “Why?” I ask.

  “You didn’t know?” she says. “Aji was gay.”

  Wait a minute. No way. My mom said all the girls loved him. She said everyone wanted to be him. She said he was the most popular kid at school … But she also said he had to work for it. She said he was bullied early on. That he had to fight and gain everyone’s respect.

  Now it all makes sense. Wow.

  “I had no idea.”

  “Clearly. And you met his boyfriend,” she says.

  “Who?” I ask.

  Orenda puts her hands on her wheels and thrusts forward. I follow her all the way until her wheel bumps into the back of Billy’s leg. The guy that just saved me from getting beat up was my brother’s boyfriend. Duh, they went to prom together. How did I not figure that out?

  “He didn’t know you and Aji were a thing,” Orenda says to him, and points to me.

  Billy smiles. “Was he shocked?”

  Orenda turns to me. “Are you shocked?”

  “Surprised, I guess.”

  She turns back to Billy. “He’s surprised, he guesses.”

  Billy walks up to me and puts his hand on my shoulder. “Aji was the best person I’ve ever met. Orenda here, maybe the second best. Keep an eye on her. She’s quick.”

  As I count his letters, Orenda sees her chance and takes off in her wheelchair, rolling through the crowd, maybe to prove how quick she really is.

  “Eighty!” I shout to Billy, and take off running.

  She weaves in and out of the crowd, maneuvering her wheelchair like a rocket ship avoiding asteroids in space. After a full sprint, three almost falls, and two near collisions, I finally catch up to her. I grab her wheelchair. We stop.

  We are alone at the very end of the dirt lot. We can still hear the drums and singing, but they are now joined by the crickets making their own music. How are crickets out when it’s this cold? I try to focus on the ground to see them, just to check if they are wearing tiny cricket coats and scarves, but it’s much too dark to see anything out here. I hear an owl too, but it’s impossible to tell where it is exactly because its hoos are echoing off of every one of the million trees.

  “Billy’s right. You are quick,” I say.

  “Like lightning,” she replies.

  “Thirteen. I miss you,” I tell her.

  I drop to my knees. Our eyes are level. I take both of her hands into mine.

  “You shouldn’t miss what’s right in front of you,” she says, and leans forward.

  “Thirty-seven.”

  “Thirty-seven nothing,” she says, and kisses me.

  I close my eyes. The crickets give us a standing ovation, cheering us on.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  SPIRIT QUESTING   (32)

  “Orenda!” her dad shouts.

  Our faces pull away from each other. I stand up and take a step back, hoping he’ll forget that he just saw me kissing his daughter.

  “It’s time,” Foxy says to her.

  Orenda’s eyes light up. “Yes!” she says excitedly.

  “Time for what?” I ask her.

  “You’ll see,” she says, and wheels herself toward her father.

  I take a few minutes to myself before I walk back toward the crowd. There are so many crickets around me, churning their legs to keep the moon aglow, whic
h is so big and yellow, it looks close enough to touch. I hear the owl still hooting from a tree. I hear branches swaying with the breeze. I’m not alone. I realize right then and there, that when you finally open your eyes and ears to nature, even when there’s no one around, you’ll never be alone.

  I bid adieu to all of earth’s hooters, crawlers, and swayers and walk back to the crowd of humans. Everyone is having such a good time that it feels nice just to watch them. I guess we are a part of nature too. We just forget that sometimes. But everyone here hasn’t forgotten it; in fact, they’re celebrating it. I watch them laugh, dance, and flirt with one another and have yet another realization: My people are really cool. They get it. Life is about finding your family, and once you find them, you stick together and dance along to this song that we call life.

  “There you are!” my mom says, and rushes up to me.

  “Hey, Mama.”

  “I was looking all over for you,” she says, and grabs my arm, pulling me toward the tented area.

  “I kissed Orenda. It was so—”

  “Magical?” She finishes my sentence.

  “Yeah. How’d you know?” I ask.

  “All the good ones are.”

  “Where are you taking me?”

  She walks me to the very last tent, which isn’t a tent at all, it’s an actual teepee. I’ve seen black-and-white photographs of them in history books, but I’ve never seen one in real life. And it’s much bigger than I imagined. A whole family can live in one, well, if you forgo the whole “needing privacy” thing.

  My mom pulls back the opening flap and leads me in. Inside is black as pitch, until a torch is suddenly lit and carried over to the center. A man that looks at least two hundred years old sits cross-legged and still. The fire is placed between him and me. My mom pushes my shoulders down, signaling me to sit, so I do.

  “I’ll be right outside,” she says.

  “Seventeen. Okay.”

  She leaves, and it’s just this old man and me. And silence. I wait for him to speak but he is too busy staring into the flame to be bothered, so I go first.

  “Um, should I just meditate or something?” I ask.

  Instead of speaking, he claps his hands together, just once, loudly.