I Drove Eastward

 

        I made that right turn onto Bear Creek Road. The further east I drove, the less I recognized by own home ground. The sense of a passage was profound. The trees, alders and maples here, closed in over the road. The day darkened. To my surprise, I saw that the reassuring new asphalt surface of the road with its brightly painted yellow lines, was gone. I hadn’t noticed when it changed. I was driving over gravel with dirt ruts ground into it. Soon, grass grew between the ruts. There wasn’t even gravel here now. I opened the driver’s side window and halted there, just to listen. It was silent. Not even a crow, or a robin. Back behind myself, I heard a long drawn out tone like a siren.  But maybe it wasn’t that, maybe some other sound. It was almost like a fog horn.

          I felt as if no one had driven this road, certainly not myself, in many a year.
          Eventually I could drive no further. The roadway had vanished, to become just a path such as my father’s people had used to move around through these dark forests. It was a well beaten path. But heavy vines and saplings shoved their way in to make passage a matter of determination. I pressed on.
          I noticed that a heavy, damp fog was forming. It hung in the tree tops like dismal banners. The air took effort to breathe. I felt as if I wasn’t wanted here. “Turn back,” was almost audible. I did not turn back.
          A pair of child’s blue canvas shoes appeared before me in the trail.  I felt taunted. I kept walking.
          “Who are you?” It wasn’t audible. But it was there. Who was I. I thought about that question as I took a few more steps.
          “I am Daniel Elliot Wilson,” I said aloud.  The air shook. Was that laughter? I kept walking deeper into the forest. The trees became large Douglas firs with trunks of three to six feet in girth. The underbrush changed to ferns and lichen covered forest duff. Very little sunlight reached the ground.
          “Who are you, man?” Again, not audible. Just a demanding thought.
          I stood in the trail and looked all around myself. My shades were gone. I didn’t remember dropping them. My hair was loose on my shoulders. I said, “I am my father’s son, I am the grandson of my grandfather. I am half Native.” I felt allowed to pass on. The trail began a slight incline. Not steep enough to bother a man of the forest.  I kept walking.
          I was walking up hill then.  Rocks emerged in the surface of my smooth pathway. The pressure of my seeking was intense. I began to be aware of a profound wrong that needed righting.
          Again, a question, “what is true, man?” I stopped walking and I wept.  I grieved. I was nearly bested. But no. “I will not say it to you,” I answered. “Who are you to question me?” I said. But I was covered in shame.
          My people call them things like Stick Indian, but they are much older and more cruel than those simple English words express. This one sipped my shame and tears as if it were the finest of drinks.
          But being a man of two worlds and cognizant of the Living God, I pressed on. Soon I came to a clearing where I rested. The sun broke through the fog and warmed my back as I sat on a fallen tree trunk. When I had composed my thoughts, I rose and walked on uphill. Near the path were three long poles placed together as if a teepee had fallen over and the point indicated the direction of my travel. I received this as if it were a message to myself.
          The raven appeared. She walked the path before me for a few minutes to show her approval. Then she flew on ahead. I saw her black form soar up high and then out of sight.
          At last, the path vanished. I was walking on plain stone. Great rounded mounds of it. I seemed to be at the summit of a small mountain. Here the sky was clear, blue and bright. The fog was all behind me. I came into an area of palpable peace, like a physical environment. In my heart I called out, “where are you? I’m here.”
          In a sheltered area, at the tree line, in a grove of young saplings I saw a sort of structure that caught my interest. I approached on small steps, quietly. It was a nest, cleverly woven of supple branches and dry grass. It was exactly like a bird’s nest, but much larger. The soft center was about six feet across. In this nest, sleeping, was a small Native girl in a red hoodie, but no shoes. She appeared to be fine in all respects, merely sleeping as tired children do. My raven lit on the outside of the nest and looked at me with a sharp eye, then ducked her head and flew away.
          I looked around myself in wonder. People drifted into view. Maybe a dozen large brown and reddish figures appeared and then faded. I had questions. I guess I always knew. But I hadn’t known with my heart’s knowledge.
          “Will you tell me what happened to cause her to be here?” I asked.
          “An evil one took her. We fought among the graves. I slew him with a large stone. I brought the child here,” said an inaudible voice.
          “But, why here? Why not her home?”
          “That was for you. You needed to walk that hard path.” He spoke to my heart again.
          Once more, I wept. And I felt their kindness around me like a warm breath.
          “Now, take her up in your arms and carry her back the way you came. The way will be easier this time Daniel. God is indeed your judge. You have something to attend to.” I sensed that he was done speaking to me. I silently gave them thanks.
          Then I picked up my sleeping daughter. On the way back down the path, I grabbed her little shoes and in no time we were at my truck and when she woke I told her we were going to go to her mom right now. She gave me a drowsy grin and dropped off to sleep again, as children do when riding in a warm vehicle.

The End

The whole story.