Twenty-Five —
Well, Once Upon a Time…

“There was a small band of roving Miccosukee who settled in the sand dunes on Gull Egg Key, which as you know is now uninhabitable except for short walking tours. The water had overtaken most of the island but at one time it was like a stepping stone from Tampa to Santa Maria Island, and stopover for the Miccosukee. It was the perfect place to rest between the large mainland where they gathered mangoes, bananas, and coconuts and Santa Maria where they camped when the hurricanes came and washed over Gull Egg. It was an ideal life,” Cappy began.

“The Miccosukee are a nomadic mix of southern Native American tribes who fled to the southern tip of Florida after the Spanish invaded Florida in the mid-sixteenth century. The natives were a handsome, talented lot and masters of living off the land and inventing ways to survive. They fled to the Everglades ahead of the Spanish and disappeared onto the hummocks—those tiny islands you see today where the white pelicans roost. The Spanish struggled in the chase, but they could not catch up. Most of those hummocks in the River of Grass are barely more than mounds of sand. Nothing grows on them but scrub, and they are great hiding places, unsuitable to foreign invaders.

“The tribes were able to divide and conquer, something that Caesar and Alexander the Great and later Napoleon mastered. The practice was cultivated among the Miccosukee who were survivors. And conquerors. The Spanish were never able to subdue them.

“The Indians vanished into the Everglades and other parts of Florida, living off the fish, alligator, snakes, and fruit. And they used everything they caught or harvested—skins for clothing, coconut shells for bowls, fish bones for utensils, shells and shark teeth for arrow heads, palm for shelter. Because the diet was so fresh and healthy, they grew strong and lived long lives, that is, if they could stay away from the Spanish who carried the insidious weapon of disease.”

Blanche knew some the Native American history, but Cappy filled in the blanks. “What about Gull Egg?”

“I’m getting to that.” Cappy’s clock was set on island time; he didn’t know the definition of hurry. Blanche sipped her beer.

“The Miccosukee worked and rested on Gull Egg. Half the year the heavy rain and hurricanes stayed away, so in the late fall and into early spring they planted and the harvest ripened fast. The small island had oaks and palms, kumquats and temples, and hibiscus for tea. The natives had taken care to insulate themselves in small huts and even plant gardens of flowers and keep pets of rabbits, lizards, and cats. They made clothing from woven plant fiber. They were among the first to grow oranges and lemons on the barrier islands after the Spanish brought citrus plants to Florida around 1500.

“And, so. It’s hard to keep a good thing a secret, and the Spanish and English settlers who had moved to Tampa and were developing the area came upon Gull Egg Key.

“One morning, the Miccosukee chief was paddling along in the Gulf, and a small ship of Tampa Bay buccaneers, of sorts, followed him. He must have known they were tracking him and to throw them off, he didn’t return to Gull Egg; he went instead to the northern point of Santa Maria Island. That’s probably how the island first came to be settled. The whole area was overlooked for a time. Until the chief ventured off in his canoe.

“One cloudy night, he returned to Gull Egg and moved his tribe off the key, hoping to avoid discovery. They didn’t get far. A terrible storm blew up and the canoes got caught in the current where the Gulf and bay meet. Most of the tribe capsized and perished, including his son, but the chief managed to save his wife and two of his children and some of the other natives. He took the survivors back to Gull Egg, and they recovered amid the oaks and palms.

“The trees, especially the mangrove, were particularly holy to the natives because they afforded protection, shade, fire wood, and beauty. After the disaster, when the growth was scarce, it became even more sacred. The chief carved the names of the lost natives on the trunks of the trees. With time, the names grew into the bark, the shapes curving and widening, the edges smoothing, as they became part of the trees. The chief and the other natives believed the lost members of the tribe talked and sang to them when the wind blew through the treetops. They would sit for hours and listen, and they learned chants to answer the singing in the trees. They had come to feel together again with those sisters and brothers they’d lost but now found in the comfort of the trees.

“Then one time near hurricane season, the chief led the tribe off the island for safer parts inland. They boarded canoes and headed south on a hunt toward the Everglades for food. They didn’t stay long; the weather was hot and the hurricanes had been silent, so the journey was calm and rewarding. They pulled rafts of alligator and croc skins and fruit with them. They were content.

“Until they arrived back at Gull Egg. Something was different. The island looked barren, open. That was it. Many of the trees were gone! They could hear the chopping. They crept closer to the devastating sound, and there they found men cutting down their trees.

“The chief and the others ran at them, trying to knock them off with blows and weapons, but the chopping continued. The chief could not communicate to the destroyers to stop, he could only cry out loud in anguish at the destruction and the monuments that had stood in honor of the tribe. Then he walked slowly up to the tallest tree, the one that had his son’s name carved deeply into the bark. He stood next to the tree and raised his hand to the invader. He stopped hacking at the bark, then waved the chief out of the way. The chief would not leave. He reached toward the high limbs of the trees. He sang again, and in that moment, a gale blew out of the Gulf. The wind was so powerful it caught all of them by surprise. It shook one of the tallest trees that had been chopped but not felled. Suddenly, the tree swung back and forth. The chief did not move. He chanted, and watched as the tree hesitated then toppled over on top of the invaders, killing two of them instantly.

“The chief dropped his arms and lowered his head. The members of the tribe gathered around him. The invaders cried out, threw down their axes, and fled. The chief raised his voice as they climbed into their boats and sailed away. They understood the message of the trees. It happened without warning, the perpetrators caught by surprise. They had devastated a holy place and the home of the tribe, and they came to realize the awful consequences. Punishment was swift.

“It’s an old story, Blanche, but the message is new all over again, that nothing good comes of the bad. It’s truer today than ever before.”

“And the girl on the beach? What do you think?”

“A warning? A harbinger.”