THE YOUNG MAN WAITED in the woods, and he thought of it like destiny.
Indian men were supposed to be warriors, watchers, killers, the young man thought. Survivors. His own life was a testament to that. Five hundred years since the end, and there were still tribes. Still warriors. Still a young man in the woods, holding a knife.
He had never used it for its intended purpose of skinning and carving deer, or any animal in the north woods that had the honor of dying for another’s sustenance. The knife was clean, blade colored dark green and serrated like a birch leaf, and ready.
Another young man entered the forest. Just the two of us, he thought as he held the knife. Two survivors. Two living, breathing Ojibwe ogichidaag that the chi-mookomaanag had not killed yet.
Darkness hid the waiting warrior from the other, who did not see him approach or the knife as it entered his stomach, his chest, face, back. The young man felt as if he was painting, and each brushstroke ripped apart the tanned leather canvas in lines of sunset. This was art, and he was a flower. An Indian paintbrush. And his roots were being watered with blood.
One warrior walked out of the woods.