(Hey readers, I’m breaking from the norm today with a short story. I’ve been working on a few of them, and this is sort of a “test run.” It could probably use a bit of editing, but who has editors just sitting around? It’s not my usual fare. It does not offer any suggestions nor spiritual advice. Just fiction with a few facts strewn throughout. I should warn you: it’s a bit dark and boarders on creepy. Hope you enjoy it. Let me know what you think.)
Black Indian
He was black, like he had just emerged from a coal mine. Eyes wild; the whites shimmered like a set of pearls, too large for a human skull to contain. Black irises set beneath a bony outcropping mimicking a brow. He peered at my 6 year old frame silently and then retreated behind a tree in a blink. When I had mustered the courage to walk a wide circle to inspect whomever it was who hid behind the tree, to my dismay, he had disappeared. He must have wormed his way silently through the lilacs. Had I imagined him?
The tree that he hid behind nearly every time he appeared was my tree; well, one of them. Reaching the first branch was hard work, not like the old apricot tree on the other side of the property. Her branches converged low, maybe 3 feet off the ground. The apricot tree was easy to climb. Grab two branches and swing your body up against the force of your arms. My favorite jelly came from this tree.
The other tree, the one we both laid claims to, bore no fruit. Young boys are unable to identify trees without fruit or flowers. This tree shot up into the sky like a skyscraper though it had a slight lean to the East. Its bark was hard and shiny. There were wrinkles around the knots. It must have been a 10 foot climb to reach the first branch. On most climbing days I was ill-dressed for such adventures in this tree; humid Minnesota summers require shorts and tee shirts.
Until a young climber can reach the first branch to perform more acrobatic moves, hugging and shimmying up the tree is his only option. This is brutal on the tender flesh surrounding biceps and inner thighs. Thin scrapes never hurt at the moment, but the red streaks formed by the abrasion hang around for quite some time. The slight tears of the flesh hurt most around bedtime.
I never saw him in the tree, just near it. I always figured the limbs were safe and especially the second and third tier of branches. From the upper branches you could see out over the lilac bushes. The groves of lilacs hedged my great-grandma and grandpa’s house from the field to the North of the house and the cemetery on the West. It seems it should have been a scarier backdrop, having a cemetery in the backyard. Now that I have seen a few horror films, I know that nothing good comes from them. But I was just an ignorant kid, who had grown up this close to the graveyard.
There was a fence between the cemetery and the house, but both the fence and the lilac grove that hid it had an intentional gaping hole. I was a frequent cemetery walker too. I had tried to ride my bike there on one occasion. This didn’t go over well with my great-grandparents, who warned me about the disrespect of stepping on, let alone riding on someone’s grave. I understood.
I saw him watching as I returned from the cemetery sometimes. Most little kids would have been frightened. His wild hair hanging down in two braids on each side of his head. He looked black; but I figure he is Sioux or something, and just really dirty. Not a chief, they’re easier to recognize with the big headdresses. Maybe a warrior or something. He is broad and old, and appears quite tired and maybe a little stupid. But then again, I’ve never gotten close enough to interview him. I think he is some kind of outcast. Indians don’t live on their own. They come in tribes.
When I was building stuff in the sandbox by myself he stood near the tree watching me. Never drawing near, escaping when I caught I glimpse of him. I couldn’t tell if he was a good guy or a bad guy. 6 year-olds have a way of assigning easy value to everything, even humans and dirty Indian warriors; but I struggled to pin a value on the Indian. I saw him often and he’d never threatened, nor spoke, nor let me near him. Our relationship existed on his terms. It involved no words, but a cold, lonely feeling.
When I was in the hard, wrinkly tree I could never see him. I’d whisper to him. Only the wind would reply. I wonder if that is his way, he shakes the trees just a little bit. From my high perch I wondered if he was real at all. I dreamed of dropping off a limb onto his back and getting some answers from him. I’d put him in a choke hold I learned from watching wrestling on Sunday mornings when we went to early church. Early church got me home before 11 and granted me an hour of cartoons and wrestling. Watching wrestling was a forbidden activity, but sometimes my mom was distracted, allowing me to learn moves 3 minutes at a time. She thought it was fake. Based on her erroneous supposition, I learned that moms did not know everything.
The drop would be stealthy, like a cowboy bounding off a building onto his horse. There could be no yelling and screaming, and if I managed to get him to the ground, I’d just stare into his black eyes until he told me his name. But the opportunity never presented itself. It was almost like he knew my plan.
Its not like I saw him all the time. Months would go by without a the slightest trace of him. Then I’d see him a few days in a row. Then nothing again. During his absences, I would create adventures for him. I’d imagine that he was off hunting or maybe trading with white men. The trading idea made a lot of sense. He was studying me to learn the ways of the white man. Of course I knew it was the early 1970′s and all wild Indians had long since been civilized. I had even learned of Reservations from books that my father had ordered from TV. They were colorful and rich. I read them with great conviction. Reservations made a lot of sense to my 6 year-old mind. I supposed my black Indian could have hidden out and preserved the ways of his people, the ways I had learned about in my dad’s books.
For 3 or 4 years he made appearances. When two of my grandfathers were buried in the cemetery to the west, he’d come around more frequently. When my parents split-up for good, he’d often slip from behind our tree. I wanted him to talk, but he just cast sad, dull stares at me.
After my great-grandpa had been laid to rest only a few yards from where he had lived my great-grandmother developed Alzheimer’s and was confined to a home, leaving the house empty. I had climbed the tree for my last time. In fact, I don’t recall climbing a tree since then. The house would soon be sold. The lucky owners would get an Indian. I forgot about him.
Sometime in my early 20′s I remembered him. When I saw a tree that leaned a bit, I’d look just a little more intently. Of course by this time I knew he was imaginary. Having studied Psychology in college, nearly majoring in it, I began to wonder why we never had a conversation. Most imaginary friends talk. I guess he was just a bad friend.
My adult thoughts of my black Indian were like my childhood relationship with my him. Sometimes the thoughts hung around for quite sometime. I’d remember him every day, sometimes a few times a day, only when I was alone and quiet. Then I’d shelve the idea of my imaginary childhood acquaintance for months.
I couldn’t find work in my field after I’d finished school, so instead I worked in a real field. I became a farmhand for Mr. Groesbeck, a widowed, Dutch dairy farmer, who also sold a fair amount of Sweet Corn to a national canned-vegetable chain out of Southern Minnesota. Mr. Groesbeck and I worked all day in the summers, and hired groups of migrant workers to harvest the sweet corn. Part of my pay for managing his corn operation was the small shack near the cornfield, which I occupied year-round.
Groesbeck was asleep by 9 most nights, and that night was no different. I broke his only rule with some frequency, sneaking a couple liters of Canadian Club whiskey into my shack. He had become a Baptist after his wife’s passing and strictly forbade drinking, though he attended church only once a month. I was a Lutheran, at least by birth, so a little whiskey didn’t affect my sensibilities. That night I had knocked out about a pint of the cheap whiskey and went outside to pee. It was a cool, breezy evening; no mosquitoes.
The sun had fairly escaped from its chores that evening, a bright, nearly full moon was trying to replace it. In the fading light, four rows into the corn field, I saw him. He watched me. I went cold. I finished my business and stared at him. Slowly I stepped closer to him, but he didn’t disappear as I had expected he would. Quietly, just above a whisper, I stated, “You’re a long way from home.” His expression didn’t change, and he didn’t offer a response. I had never tried speaking to him as a kid. He had always managed to elude my advances.
He held up a hand like Indians do in the old Westerns to say “How.” But I knew he meant for me to stop my approach. We stared at each other for several minutes. This became a routine. Nearly nightly we’d meet and say nothing. Always agreenig to his terms of silence. I became unhappy.
Shortly after he started showing up I stopped sleeping at night. I became worried about myself. Self-worry and doubt is something farmers save for winter. You worry about crops when there are crops to be worried about. I had no time to be thinking such thoughts. I owed nothing to anyone. I had a bank full of money in town. I had Mr. Groesbeck as a friend. I had enough food. Organizing the migrants provided some sense of purpose. The Chicago Ag Market was strong, and still I was an anxious farmhand. I stopped eating meals and quit sneaking whiskey.
I figured the Indian was my problem, so I avoided the outdoors in the evenings. In the mornings I stopped taking breakfast with Groesbeck, waiting for him to appear on his porch before venturing out of my shack. That’s when things got bad. Sleep became fitful. Dreams. Some mornings I’d wake to find him staring at me from the window, eventually at the humble table of my two room shack. I couldn’t wait to till the cornstalks into the earth, and daydreamed of kicking up the throttle when I spotted my Indian in the field. I had no more interest in the mysterious man. I just wanted him to be gone. But he never accepted my terms; only his.
The Fall of my 26th year was filled with oppressive insomnia. Groesbeck had noticed a change and demanded that I see a doctor, threatening me with unemployment. In early October I chose to speak to my Indian one last time. I left a chair out for him by the table. I explained it all to him, in his terms of course. I told him of the medicine man, and my Indian nodded. It was the first response I’d gotten from him in 2 decades. I’m not sure how he left only that he was indeed gone when i woke up. I had slept. Good sleep.
I still see him on occasion, always in the distance; on the top of a hill or in a grove of trees. I swear he waved once. I didn’t wave back.
. Bill Wade, the founder, artistic director and choreographer of Inlet is a great friend of mine. He has invited me to countless shows and we’ve always been unable to attend. We didn’t know what to expect. I had met a few of the dancers, so I guessed I would see them in tights doing things mortals might imagine to be fun if we weren’t hopelessly addicted to TV and always said “yes” to seconds and buffets. That would be that, I supposed.