A single file line formed, us in the center, the leader at the head. Then we started toward the river. The lights had ceased moving and were simply there in the forest like whoever was using them had stopped due to the commotion and was waiting now to see what would happen next. Then I saw them. Tabby was right. They were female. Two girls actually. They held poles tipped with baskets in which were bunches of glowing orbs.
Tossing his hands in the air, the leader gesticulated angrily and yelled at the girls. They fled into the forest, their lights fading off after them.
A narrow log spanned the forty feet from bank to bank. The leader began to cross nimbly, the other Indians ahead of me following just as easily. When it came my turn, I hesitated a moment before I stepped on, feeling a slight quiver running the length of the log. I stole a quick glance at the river below, then started across, swaying back and forth a few times like a drunken tightrope walker, minus the pole and adoring fans. My arms would’ve helped but they were slowly going numb, cinched tightly behind me as they were. And my knee ached something fierce. The others followed across, and it wasn’t until I was on the other bank that I looked back to see both Tabby and Colby traversing the last quarter of the log bridge, doing surprisingly well.
The trail widened threefold, and we followed in single file, passing other intersecting trails as we went along. We’d been quietly walking for some time when Tabby whispered my name, and said, “Where do you think they’re taking us?”
“They’re not packing a lot of gear,” I whispered. “Can’t be too far from their home.”
“We gonna let this happen?” said Colby way too loudly, coming up beside us, so that we were in a tight cluster.
“First chance we get we lose them in the forest,” I whispered back.
“These guys look like they’re part of the forest,” whispered Tabby. She was surely right—they’d give chase if we made a break.
“I ain’t gonna let them roast me over a fire. No way, man. I ain’t no one’s dinner,” said Colby. “I want to see sunrise.”
Suddenly the leader whirled around and strode back toward us, causing us to disperse like guilty conspirators. He headed straight for Colby and said, “I prefer fish and berries.” And then just as quickly as he’d come, he returned to the front of the line.
The three of us looked at one another, the same shocked faces. He’d spoken perfect English, not broken, not accented, not slang. He’d spoken American English like the kind I’d been hearing all my life in malls, in schools, in theatres, in supermarkets. I didn’t even attempt trying to talk to Tabby and Colby again. But I could tell from their faces that they were as baffled as me. The alien Indian had spoken impeccable English. Who knew what was next?
Barking dogs and hints of woodsmoke told me that we were approaching a camp or settlement of some type. The sounds and smells increased as we neared. I wasn’t sure whether to feel relief or anxiety. In all the movies and stories I’d seen and read in which prisoners were taken to villages by their captors, it always seemed to end up with those prisoners being tortured, maimed, killed, and/or eaten. And I tried to remember if any ever walked away after, and none came to me in those nerve-racking moments as we got closer and closer to our destination.
Flames appeared through the trees up ahead, rearing up into the night sky. A pack of a dozen or so dogs that looked to be half-wolf, half-husky ran out to greet us. They dashed back and forth on either side of the line, barking, giving throaty growls, sniffing the air like they were unsure what to make of us prisoners.
The trees thinned out and the outline of a village began to form in the dark. There were no cars, no dumpsters, no streetlights, no houses. There were no sidewalks or parking lots. In the clearing, there stood hide-covered tepees and firepits with racks next to them on which hung strips of some type of meat. Men, women, and children walked around all dressed in the same hide outfits as our captors.
As we entered, Indians of all ages emerged from everywhere, children peering from around adults’ legs, adults staring with a mixture of wariness and curiosity. I wondered if they’d ever laid eyes on the likes of us before in their village. By the way they were acting, I figured they hadn’t.
“Look at that fish. He wasn’t lying,” said Colby, nodding at a drying rack draped in long fish fillets. He gave his toothy smile that I hadn’t seen since before the landslide, since before the game against St. Michael’s. I felt slightly eased, as if Colby’s smile made everything all right, because the only time he gave toothy was when things were all right. Then I thought how foolish that was. Basing my assessment of our situation on a smile, especially his. How desperately hopeful I was being.
Out of nowhere, a dog nipped my heel, then darted away to run parallel to me at about ten feet out. A mangy looking black-and-white mutt, that could’ve been a border collie crossed with a wiener dog. It was smaller than all the others, more brazen as well, or so it seemed. Its tongue lolled from the side of its mouth. One eye was missing. Its tail wagged as if it was playing a game: nipping me and running off. It looked like a homeless dog that you’d find scrounging around a dumpster in an inner-city alley. The kind that you felt sorry for, but would still never take home.
The farther we got into the village, the more Indians appeared. They formed a corridor, like a gauntlet, that we walked along. Two faces stood out as I passed by. Their skin was noticeably a lighter brown than the others, a mocha color. They were girls, identical looking, pretty, with almond eyes.
A mother emerged from a tepee cradling a whimpering baby to her chest. Then a round face appeared in the dark opening of another, and a girl began to call out to her mother. A group of young boys were sitting in a circle around one fire, sharpening sticks with black stones like obsidian that reflected in the firelight. An old Indian with long wavy gray hair was sitting beside them, speaking quietly, moving his hands gracefully through the air as though he was sharing a story. They fixed on us, joining the other onlookers. At the next fire sat ten or so women with long raven hair, weaving strips of bark and talking. They glanced at us briefly before going back to their weaving.
“They living like animals,” said Colby. “No bathrooms, no nothing.”
“That makes them animals?” said Tabby. “It’s like a pre-contact village.”
“A pre-what?” said Colby.
“A Native American village before Europeans arrived,” I said. “Two hundred years ago this was how people lived in North America. It’s similar to how your people lived in Africa.”
“Man, you talking that mumbo-jumbo like you a big know-it-all, just like Anna,” said Colby.
“I think they’re taking us there,” I said, and nodded to a large rustic-looking longhouse a short distance ahead. It was made from horizontal logs, gray and checked like they’d been exposed to the elements for many years. A dark fur draped half open in the doorway, revealing firelight flickering deep within.