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Coosa Town

Coosa Town
By Rick Ready

Green LCD numbers flashed five-zero-zero against the gray background of the atomic clock above the door. Another day and another workweek passed into history. The fluorescent lights above my cubicle blinked twice as though warning me to get out now. I stared at black letters against the white background on the flat-panel screen, wondering why I thought they were so important, wondering why others thought so, too. My fingers tingled as my body discharged tension from my neck and shoulders. For several moments I felt drained of whatever energy kept me going. Black dots swam before my eyes as I exhaled exhaustion and my brain’s hard drive spun to a stop. Seconds later, the tingling stopped, my brain rebooted, and all body parts switched to functioning mode.

I saved the document, exited the program, and shut down the computer. I grabbed my coat, took off my tie, and joined the rush to temporary freedom through the glass doors that had held us captive. I returned several “have a nice weekend’s” with mumbled “you too’s” on the way to my sensible white Buick Regal. I suspected we shared like enthusiasm to get away. I liked most of my co-workers, but we were all ready for a break from each other.
I threw my coat and tie on the back seat, started the engine, and turned the air conditioner on high. Twenty minutes later I merged onto I-65, watching other drivers jockey for position with one hand while holding a cell phone to their ear with the other. The race was on to see who could get out of town first. Orange and white barrels formed a blurred picket fence as I maneuvered through the pack.

By the time I reached the 459 interchange, the road was filled with agitated manic depressives who’d forgotten to take their calming pills, their nerves frazzled after yet another week of stress from trying to do their jobs well enough so they’d have a job to return to on Monday. Even stray dogs and armadillos hid behind the pines and sweet gum trees that fenced the interstate as drivers weaved back and forth changing lanes without warning. Along with horns and screams held captive by rolled-up windows, several drivers used finger communication to indicate displeasure with the driving habits of others.

Cars in both lanes raced along carrying people hurrying from where they didn’t really want to be to where they didn’t necessarily want to go. The tired, unhappy faces of the drivers I passed echoed my own feelings of mental exhaustion and personal emptiness. Sadly, we repeated the same patterns day after day because that’s all we knew how to do.

The odometer clicked off thirty monotonous miles of roadwork, green signs, and weaving cars before an unexpected image flashed on the screen of my own internal computer. I needed to unwind and I knew exactly where I wanted to go.

Almost fifteen years had passed since I’d spent any time near the river. Images flooded my mind with the hot, humid summer days of my childhood. I smiled remembering the joy and excitement I’d felt whenever my friends and I pretended we were mighty hunters and brave explorers tracking game and fighting Indians in woods overlooking the Black Warrior River near the Gorgas Steam Plant.

Between the power company villages and the miners’ camps, we had enough kids to form our own armies and Indian tribes. When the word came down that a game was on, everyone showed up. Lynn, Bubba, Brother Charlie, Soup, and David were always first and got to choose whether they’d be the hunters or the Indians. The boys from the miners’ camps would straggle in and join the group that needed the next body. Every now and then we’d let some of the girls join in—Gayle, Bonita, Deborah, Donna, Hollis, and Jan. They always wanted to be Indians and we learned quickly that they were sneaky and played to win.

Some days we’d belong to Crockett’s Volunteers or Boone’s Blazers or Hawkeye’s Hunters. Other days we’d choose to be a warrior from one of the major Indian tribes—Choctaw, Cherokee, Chickasaw, or Creek. We cut branches for our flintlock rifles and used sticks for knives. We made our own bows from saplings and string and used imaginary quivers and arrows. Sometimes we’d wear coonskin caps and walk single file along the faint trails, always alert for the creatures and plants that shared our woods. Every now and then we’d step on a blacksnake or blue racer, which scared the snake more than us, and sometimes we found ourselves hiding in poison oak or poison ivy. For the most part we were pretty vigilant, our eyes searching for signs of intruders and wild animals like wolves and bears and attack squirrels. The scent of wild strawberries, honeysuckle, Black-eyed Susans, and Mimosa permeated the air we breathed.

I always liked being an Indian warrior. Our history books described how they lived off the land, taking only what they needed to survive, and how brave they were in battle. When we were the Indians, we’d paint our faces with mud from the riverbank and track the white eyes, looking for prime spots to launch surprise attacks and capture the enemy. We communicated with made-up words and invented our own sign language. We practiced making bird sounds so we could warn others of impending danger.
We’d play the game for hours, running through the woods, up and down hills, hiding behind rocks or beneath overhangs. When we tired of pretending, we’d rest against trees and rocks and talk about everything from the Yankees to algebra to cheerleaders wearing skimpy outfits. Our deepest discussions centered on what it must have been like when only the Indians roamed the hills and blazed trails before the white man ran them off. We all said how great it would’ve been to live back then. No school, no tests—hunting and fishing all day, staying up late telling stories around a campfire, and sleeping in until we felt like getting up. Whatever insignificant troubles we had melted away as the sun’s soothing rays worked their healing magic. Then we’d rinse off in the river and head home for lunch and to watch TV, and maybe put on some Calamine lotion.

I no longer lived near the Black Warrior, nor near any of my childhood friends. Most of us graduated, some of us got married, and a few even went to college. So far, my business degree from the University of Alabama kept me in front of a computer typing job proposals and reports for a man who was only concerned with bottom lines and profit margins. Job satisfaction was relegated to a personal problem, and right now I was having a serious problem performing mostly mindless tasks. I couldn’t climb the corporate ladder because he didn’t have one. The pay was good, though, and I’d been taught that a man went to work every day to support himself and his family. So, that’s what I did, except for the family part.

Thirty had come and gone, and thirty-five was speeding toward me. I had no girlfriend and no prospects. I tried looking for some, but they weren’t looking back, and I no longer looked all that hard. The bar scene had introduced me to the prowlers, the ones whose inhibitions decreased as alcohol consumption increased and whose loneliness and desperation surfaced as the clock ticked closer to last call. The church scene held its own traps. Besides sermons, hymns, and reading the Bible, matchmaking appeared to be a time-honored tradition. Older members of the congregation delighted in arranging dates between eligible young men and women, followed by a fair amount of gossiping when things didn’t work out as planned or anticipated.

I wasn’t giving up on love, but I wasn’t putting much energy into finding a mate either. I was still young and there was plenty of time. I just happened to be in the doldrums of social inactivity. I knew it was time to shake off the miasma and recharge, as pleasant memories of being near water surged through me.

The Coosa River flowed south about seventeen miles from where I live now. I’d driven over the bridge between Chilton and Coosa counties about twenty times in my life and knew there was a small strip of sandy beach on the Coosa County side. Somehow I knew that was where I’d been heading all along.

I daydreamed about taking off my shoes and socks, rolling my cuffs up to mid-calf, and wading around in the river’s edge. At the very least, I knew that I was going to park in the shade of one of those huge water oaks and let the stress of life leave on the wind.

The odometer clicked off the miles as I daydreamed and thirty-eight minutes passed in my split-mind state. Although a part of me was aware of all the traffic and road signs as I headed south, I experienced that frightening moment when the glaze covering my eyes lifted and all the parts of my brain merged to remind me that I was surrounded by maniacs who didn’t care if I lived or died as long as I didn’t slow down traffic.

Momentarily stunned, then frightened, I shivered as I looked around to see if any other drivers had noticed. Apparently, none had, for the drivers who passed me looked like they were lost in the ozone, too.

Five minutes later I left the interstate and headed for the Coosa River. After turning onto the two-lane that went through Rockville and all the way to Alexander City, I shut off the AC, and lowered the windows. Summer heat whooshed through the car, stealing my breath away and engulfing the car with the smells of summer and melting tar. My nasal passages plugged instantly as the humidity slapped my face, and my tongue felt like a cotton ball. The hot air shut down my lungs and I fought to catch my breath. Twenty seconds and a thousand heartbeats later, my lungs expanded and my nose opened enough to allow minimal airflow. The black creatures swimming before my eyes retreated to their hiding places, waiting for the next opportunity to cast me into permanent darkness. If my life flashed before my eyes, I missed it.

Two minutes later, my shirt was stuck to my skin and the backs of my arms were slick. Sweat from my forehead formed salt trails that ended with steady drips from my chin. A wet spot on my shirt grew larger with each drop. The temperature hovered around ninety-five, but the humidity made it seem like a hundred and twenty. The last forty-five days had been the wettest in Alabama history, and steam rose from the low-lying areas baked by the sun.

Just shy of fifteen minutes later, my tires touched the bridge that separated the two counties. After checking to make sure no cars were coming, I stopped in the middle of the bridge and stared at the swollen river. To the north, tons of water plunged down from the four open gates of Mitchell Dam to merge with the river below. I glanced at the banks on both sides of the river and knew I’d never seen the water so high. I watched in awe as the powerful current pushed its way downstream. On the right side of the bridge, the small, sandy beach where I wanted to walk was under water, and the top of an old wooden pier peeked out above the rushing whitecaps.
I’d almost decided to turn around and head for home when the lure of the water oaks covering the dirt-and-sand road leading down to the river captured me. The desire to relax in the cool, quiet shade of the trees washed away my disappointment about the beach.

I eased the car down the side road, my eyes searching for places where I could get stuck. Fifty feet farther, I saw a turn-around on my left shaded by the biggest water oak I’d ever seen. Bingo! This was it! I eased into the soothing shade provided by thick, leafy branches, shifted into park, and killed the engine.

A cool, gentle breeze blew across my face and arms. The scent of wild gardenia chased away the lingering smell of hot tar. Two squirrels played tag around the slender trunk of a young poplar. Dark green leaves formed a canopy of shade and the heat and humidity vanished in less than five minutes. The salt trails on my face dried quickly and I wiped away the residue with my handkerchief.

The dashboard clock read six-thirteen. I figured I’d relax for forty-five minutes or so before heading home. I stepped out of the car and stretched for several seconds, looking around to make sure I was alone before planting myself on the hood. I scooted back against the windshield and focused on the water oak I’d parked under.

I don’t know how long I’d been staring at the tree when I thought I heard a soft whisper. I cocked my head and listened but only heard leaves rustling in the breeze. Suddenly, I recognized a low hum that increased and decreased in pitch, fading in and out, before becoming constant. On top of the hum were other sounds, garbled and unintelligible, like the sounds you hear when someone twists a radio dial, pieces of words, squeals and static, then silence. The river calmed and the breeze became a whisper. I stopped breathing when I heard my name.

I swiveled around, searching for the source, looking for shapes and movement around the car. My eyes flew back to the water oak. The hair on the back of my neck jumped up and goosebumps dotted my arms and scalp. I took a deep breath as the sane part of me searched for a reasonable explanation. Trees don’t talk, nor do they hum. Wind whistles through trees, sometimes making eerie sounds, but the wind was gentle, barely there. My mind opened door after door, sorting through stored information, searching for answers. My senses reeled. I stared at the tree. I heard my name again, a whisper, a feminine voice calling me.
I slid off the hood, walked to the tree, and touched its rough, dark-gray bark. My fingertips sensed a gentle vibration and the hum started again. The longer I touched the bark, the louder the hum became. I backed away and stared into the branches and leaves. The hum went away, then started again, faint at first, then louder, but still not more than a soft whisper. I walked around the tree twice, examining the trunk and limbs in great detail. Crazy people do crazy things, I thought.

On my second tour, I stopped in front of a smooth knob just above eye-level. I stared at the knob, realizing that this was all that remained of a once living limb. Time and weather had smoothed the rough bark and softened and rounded the edges. I reached out and covered the knob with my palm, thinking that would muffle the hum. My fingers tightened around the knob and my palm became one with ancient wood. My arm tingled when the tree shimmered.

My mouth fell open and a cool draft rushed across my tongue and swirled around the roof of my mouth. Suddenly, fingers entwined with mine. My eyes bulged, threatening to burst from their sockets when I heard the laughter. Then a female face appeared through the shimmering curtain that used to be the rough bark of an old water oak.

I tried to jerk back, wanting to run, desperate to hide, but I couldn’t move. The only reason I didn’t wet myself was because that part of me was already hiding. When I realized I couldn’t move, I decided to act like a man. Just as my scream reached the back of my throat, she held up her hand, and the scream died as if it had never existed. A bubble of silence enveloped me and the tree stopped shimmering. An oval doorway appeared and her shadowy figure was framed in backlight that didn’t belong to my world.

She stepped to the edge of the doorway, clad in buckskins and moccasins with a large knife secured by rawhide resting on her right hip. My surprised stare noted copper-tinted skin and silky black hair parted in the middle. Animal drawings decorated her headband and a small, black, onyx dragonfly hung from her left ear. My gaze moved to her face and I saw dark eyes examining me. Startled, I blinked and pulled my head back. A quick, flashing smile touched the corners of her mouth. She reached out and touched my cheek with her fingers and the palm of her hand. Her touch was cool and soothing and my skin sensed an unspoken communication of excitement and tenderness.

“Hello, Sean Campbell. I’ve been waiting for you.”

I couldn’t think, I couldn’t blink, and my feet rooted in the earth like the roots of the great oak itself.

“Do not be afraid, Sean. You are here for a reason.” Her voice, soft but more than a whisper now, penetrated my consciousness. Her oval face, devoid of make-up, displayed beauty that mesmerized me. A smile touched her lips, providing a glimpse of white teeth contrasting with copper skin.
Suddenly, a surge of life-sustaining, much-needed chemicals and enzymes raced to my muscles, freeing them from whatever force had stripped them of their power to move. I reached out with my free hand to push her away and, instead, found myself touching her cheek. She was real! I felt her tug gently on my fingers, pulling me toward the doorway and closer, ever closer, to her. My traitorous left foot moved toward her. My right foot followed. Suddenly, our bodies were only inches apart. Her arms circled my neck, her fingers now touching the back of my hair. Then she kissed me.
This sudden intimacy startled me and my initial reaction was to push her away. Unbidden thoughts surfaced in my mind. Did she think I was just some easy conquest? Another notch on her headband? That because I’d allowed her to touch my cheek signaled permission to take liberties that I hadn’t granted?

She felt my push and disengaged our lips. Her head moved back and the deep blackness of her stare mesmerized me. She smiled and pulled me closer, then kissed me again. Instinctively, my arms circled her waist and my fingertips touched as I pulled her closer. All thoughts of permission and liberties vanished. When my hand slid up her back, she broke my grasp, turned, and walked away. I cocked my head and stared at her, confused and questioning. Was she playing with my emotions? Was she teasing me? I moved to catch her, determined to find out what her game was. That’s when I realized I was inside the tree.

I was stunned. Somewhere in the unexplored regions of my questioning mind I’d accepted all of this as real. I whirled around and saw my car parked in the shady turn-around. I reached out and pushed my hand and arm through shimmering bark. I wiggled my fingers and now felt the breeze that had kicked up again. An electric charge raced up my arm as I jerked my hand back. Behind me, I heard her laugh.

I turned and dropped into a crouch, hands extended, wondering what was coming next. The thought that maybe I was dead or soon to be dead raced through my brain. Still, dead or alive, I resolved to face this moment with all the courage I could summon.

She examined me as if I were some kind of laboratory experiment. Her smile broadened as she studied me from head to toe. How disconcerting to be stared at like that! I felt uncomfortable and wanted to turn away. Her dark eyes danced with a liveliness that I’d never seen in a woman before. She stepped forward and touched my cheek again.

“Welcome to Coosa Town, Sean. Welcome home.”
I was confused! She knew my name! I’ve been waiting for you? Welcome home? What was going on? I’d heard her voice, felt her touch, and tasted her lips. I’d been kissed more in the last five minutes than I had in the past three years. She was real—at least real in my mind. I placed my fingers on her cheek before touching her hair. I inhaled her scent, intoxicating, enticing, a mixture of strawberries and wild flowers. Then I caught myself. I needed answers.

“Who are you? Where am I? How do you know my name? Are you real? Am I dead?”

Her laugh echoed in the shadows. The quick flash of white teeth accented the sparkle in her eyes.

“I am Satchakomi. Yes, I am real and no, you’re not dead. As for where you are, aren’t you in a tree?” She laughed again as my eyes widened. “And how do I know your name? I have known your name since I was a child. Now, come with me.”

“What if I don’t want to?” I don’t know who she thought she was ordering around, but I’m not some dog who comes when whistled for.

She raised her left eyebrow and tilted her head. “Then stay here.”

She stepped away and made a sweeping motion with her arm. Another doorway appeared, leading into a tunnel streaked with the kind of light that one sees when the sun is trying to break through an overcast sky. She stepped into the tunnel and I raced forward to grab her hand.

I’d taken no more than five steps into the tunnel when I felt my skin tingle and discovered I was naked. How did that happen? I stopped, released her hand, and tried to cover my embarrassment. I stole a glance at her and saw her watching me. She laughed at the look on my face. I hoped it was the look on my face she was laughing at.

She grabbed my hand and started moving again. Three steps later, my skin tingled again. I looked down and discovered that I was wearing buckskins and moccasins! A bone-handled hunting knife that matched hers nestled in a sheath attached to a strip of rawhide that hung from my neck. How could this happen? How could we take a walk in the middle of a tree? How could clothes just disappear and other clothes take their place? Suddenly, I was no longer confused. People who have lost their minds don’t get confused.
Hand-in-hand we took about ten more steps. She squeezed my fingers as she lifted her free hand and made that sweeping motion again. Another doorway opened and I stared in disbelief at the group of rectangular dwellings about a quarter-mile away. There must have been thirty of them, maybe more. The huts were arranged in a circle with a large clearing in the center.

I focused on the nearest hut and saw that the walls were framed with sturdy wooden poles and plastered with red clay and grass. The roofs were covered with irregular-cut pieces of tree bark and grass. Light gray smoke rose from small holes in the top, drifting lazily toward a second encampment about two hundred yards beyond the first. A small garden nestled beside each hut, filled with short rows of tomatoes, corn, and other vegetables and fruit. More crops grew in a larger field that lay about two hundred yards west of the huts. More than two-dozen horses grazed on lush green plants between the two encampments and the river curved around and formed a natural beach between the two. Two young men were dragging a birch-bark canoe onto the beach. One wore a breechclout and the other sported what looked like blue woolen pants with a red sash. Several women gathered water in animal-skin bags while others scraped animal hides with knives and sharp rocks. Most of them wore deer-hide skirts that extended almost to their knees. A few in the central clearing used what looked like leg bones to pound something in large wooden bowls. Teenaged girls tended gardens next to each hut. A number of smaller children chased each other with sticks and paddles in the clearing.

I sensed her turning to face me and grabbed a quick look at her. I saw that beautiful face, her raven hair, and those dancing black eyes. As I reached to pull her closer, she held up her hand.

“All in good time, Sean,” she said. “There’s no hurry.” With graceful steps she stepped through the final doorway and strode toward the nearest village. For a moment I studied her form, sturdy yet graceful, feminine yet strong, before quick-stepping to catch her. Behind me the doorway closed.
Minutes later we stood in front of her hut. The entrance was deerskin held taut to an x-pattern of wooden poles by strips of rawhide. Red and yellow zigzag symbols formed a series of circles that decorated the hide. She lifted the rawhide loop holding the door closed and pushed inward. She stepped inside and motioned for me to follow. I looked around, took a deep breath, and entered her home.

The hut was bigger than I‘d thought and I saw four distinct areas separated by hide-covered walls. A walkway ran down one side all the way to the end where a smaller door stood. Animal skins covered the floor of the first area, except in the center where a small fire blazed inside a circle of smooth rocks. Burning mesquite wood masked the odor of what looked like bear and buffalo skins.

She pushed the door closed and gestured for me to sit. I chose a spot near the fire and sat cross-legged, like it was the most natural thing in the world to do. She picked up a bowl of pecans and walnuts and offered it to me. I shook my head and returned the bowl to its place. Then she sat beside me and motioned for me to face her. She made a point of scooting closer so that our knees almost touched. She looked into my eyes, waiting for me to ask questions. I crossed my arms and stared back. With a smile, she nodded.

“I told you that my name is Satchakomi. I am the daughter of Talaweka, who was the daughter of Shamala, who was the daughter of Amakee, and so on, all the way back nine generations to Coosawatami. You are an other-worlder. All of our fathers have been other-worlders. I am your guide in this world. I am also your companion. You will be the father of my daughter.”

I was startled at her words, but I was most certainly not shocked. After all, didn’t I just walk through a tree?

“Satchakomi.” I repeated the word exactly as she had said it. “Nice name. Now, where is the doctor? And how long have I been here?”

She laughed, and the light from the fire danced in her eyes. “Where do you think you are?”

“Some kind of hospital. The kind where they put you in a room with soft walls.”

She reached out and took my hand. The heat from her fingertips raced up my arm. My heart beat faster as she placed my hand between her breasts. Her heartbeat echoed through my own fingers. I wanted to move my hand and explore but was afraid she’d stab me. I returned my hand to my lap to avoid temptation.

“Are you really an Indian?”

“Yes. I am of the Muskogee tribe. You know us as the Creek Indians, or more specifically as the Upper Creek tribe. That was the name given to us by the Europeans.”

I nodded as though I understood what she was saying. I thought it best to humor her for the time being.

“From your history, you may recall that the Shawnee warrior Tecumseh met with many of the southern tribes at the Great Council Tree in Tukabatchi near Talisi. The Muscogees were part of what was called the Creek confederacy and inhabited a large portion of what later became Alabama and Georgia. Our area consisted of towns and villages along the Coosa and Tallapoosa rivers. My ancestors’ village nestled just north of where the Coosa and Tallapoosa joined to form the Alabama. We kept our canoes near the Coosa but could move them quickly to the Tallapoosa if needed. All Creek towns were based around a Mother town, and our chiefs limited the number that could live in each town. When a village reached 400 to 600 people, the chief asked for volunteers to move to a new area just outside the Mother town. There they would start a new village that maintained the same layout. Each village had a central plaza that was used for dancing, religious ceremonies, games, and war councils.”

“Wait a minute! Are you saying that the Indians of two hundred years ago had planned communities?”

Satchakomi looked at me and shook her head. “Why wouldn’t we? Do you think we were just savages?”

I realized I needed to tread carefully. “No, not at all. It’s just that there wasn’t any mention of that kind of behavior in our history books.”

“Do tell.” Ooh! She could be sarcastic, too. I liked that. “Pay attention and you might learn something.”

Now she was getting bossy again. I started to roll my eyes until I saw her hand move toward her knife. Paying attention seemed like a better choice.

“Do you have an eye problem?” she asked. Her left eyebrow was raised again as she waited for me to say something stupid. Instead, I took the liberty of rolling my head and stretching my arms.

“No, I just needed to loosen up a bit. I’m not used to sitting like this. We use chairs where I come from. Why don’t you tell me some more?”

“You’re a poor liar, Sean Campbell. Your face and body, and sometimes your words, give away your inner thoughts. You must learn to do better.”

“Whatever,” I said. “Why don’t we move past this and you continue telling your story.”

I swear her dark eyes looked into my soul. Then she nodded and continued.
“Our towns and villages were further divided into clans, and the clans were either White Sticks or Red Sticks. The White Sticks advocated peace and the Red Sticks danced for war. Even though the White Sticks wanted to pursue peace through diplomatic channels, they were expected to fight during wars. The White Sticks got their name from covering their war clubs in ashes to voice their opposition to war. The Red Sticks dipped their clubs into a fire and the flames glowed red against the night as they danced and yelled war chants.

“Tecumseh wanted to unite the tribes and fight the white man. As your history records, the white man became too numerous and had weapons that my ancestors could not match. This enflamed the Red Sticks and war became imminent. After the attack on the white settlement known as Ft. Mims, there was no turning back.

“My ancestors were members of the White Sticks, and the chief of the village, Weleetka, had a vision that the Creek nation would be scattered to faraway lands if we went to war. So, he instructed our hoporrene-este, or wise man, to find a way to save the essence of the tribe. The wise man, Estekene, relayed the stories from the Ancients about another world and Weleetka tasked him to find the passage. Estekene left the village and communed with the spirits of our Ancestors. When he returned, he provided Weleetka with specific instructions. Only two hundred could go, and Estekene would lead the group to the passage entrance.”

She closed her eyes and recalled the words as they had been passed down.

“They cannot return,” Estekene told Weleetka. “Once they have passed through, they will be lost to us. Generations will pass until one from the ninth generation will be allowed to return briefly to prepare the way for two from the tenth generation. What happens then has not been shown to me.”

“What kind of crap is that?” I asked. “Perhaps I wasn’t listening. Did this story start with ‘once upon a time?’ What do you mean ‘they will be lost to us?’”

Her eyes popped open. “Why do you interrupt me?”

“Do you expect me to just take what you say as the gospel according to Satchakomi?”

“No, I don’t!” she replied with an edge of irritation. “But this isn’t a fairy tale, either! Look around you! You’re sitting on animal skins in my home. You came through a tree to get here. You’re visiting a different world! And I’m telling you how we came to be here. Whether you choose to believe is your choice.”

“Acceptance doesn’t come easy for me, Satchakomi. My world is filled with cynicism, deceit, and lies. We are bombarded by politicians, television preachers, and even friends and family. We are angry and distrustful, except when we get old. Then we feel betrayed and abandoned. I live in a world where people will steal your money, your car, and even your identity. Sometimes it seems as though we’re all time bombs waiting to explode. So, pardon me if I need a moment to set aside my disillusionment and suspend my disbelief.”

“And you’re happy with this life?”

“No, but I’ve adapted.”

“I find that sad, Sean, and disturbing.”

“Don’t we all. We just won’t do anything about it. Christ! It’s depressing even talking about it. Your story is more interesting, so why don’t we get back to it? Why couldn’t they come back?”

Satchakomi paused, then nodded. “Fair enough. They couldn’t return because no one had the power to open the doorway from the other side. Remember that Estekene opened the doorway for them to pass through, but he didn’t come with them.”

“Then how come you can open the doorway?”

“Perhaps you will discover your answer when I tell the rest of the story.”

I wrinkled my nose and shook my head. I prefer to get my questions answered when asked but sensed that patience would serve me better for the moment.

“Please continue,” I said.

Her eyes seemed to flash as though she’d won some victory. She nodded to me and continued.

“So, Weleetka handpicked a group of two hundred men, women, and children to make the journey. He made his son, Samolati, the heneha, or second chief, and chose him to lead the group. Samolati’s wife, Erohokte, who was also Estekene’s sister, gathered supplies and learned about medicines. One moon later Samolati and Estekene led the two hundred from the village, traveling north along the Coosa. On the fourth day, Estekene stopped to pray. When he finished talking to the spirits, he walked fifty feet to an old water oak. When he touched the bark, it started humming. Seconds later the tree started shimmering. He’d found the sacred passage. Samolati entered first while the two hundred waited. Five minutes later he returned and motioned for the group to enter. Erohokte entered last, hugging her brother before stepping inside. Samolati held Erohokte’s hand and the two waved to Estekene before turning away. The two hundred passed between worlds.”

“What do you mean ‘passed between worlds’? Dead people pass between worlds. I didn’t see any white lights. Am I in some way station waiting to be called for judgment?”

“Have you always been this way?” I sensed a touch of exasperation. “You’re worse than a first-grader! Always interrupting! No, Sean, dead people pass between planes of existence, not between worlds.”

“If I’m not dead, Satchakomi, then where am I?” I decided to ignore her lack of patience. Perhaps she needed to work on some things, too. I saw her take a deep breath before she continued.

“You are in what you would call a parallel world, and one of the few whites who have the gift of being able to pass between. Perhaps in this world you also possess other gifts. Others who—.”

I held up my hand, interrupting her again. I pursed my lips and narrowed my eyes trying to give her my most menacing stare.

“Maybe you’re dead.”

“Did I feel dead to you, Sean? Could you not feel the life in my lips and my touch?”

“Yeah, but that could be a trick.”

“No tricks, Sean. This is real. In fact, I think I’ll slap you and then you can tell me if it felt real.”

I ignored her threat. “How do you know my name?”

“Talaweka gave me your name as soon as I was old enough to understand.”

“Now who was Tallywacker, again?”

“Talaweka! You stop that! I know what a tally—.”

“Whoa, Pocahontas! I didn’t mean to—.”

“Don’t call me Pocahontas! This isn’t a game! I told you my—.”

I held up my hand and couldn’t believe she actually shut up. I think it’s because she bit her tongue. I looked to see if her hand was inching toward her knife. The red in her cheeks flashed brightly in the small fire’s light.
“Sorry, Satchakomi. Sometimes I use unappreciated humor to get me back to sanity. Now, who is Talaweka?”

She poked her lips out, flared her nose, and eyed me. “I appreciate a sense of humor Sean—even yours. As I told you, Talaweka is my mother. She told me that you were my chosen one. When I had ten summers, she took me to see you. At the hour of the high moon, we stood at the foot of your bed and watched you.”

I froze at her words. I remembered that! I thought I’d been dreaming. I recalled seeing an older woman wearing Indian garb and holding the hand of a small, dark-haired girl. I remember the young girl walking around the bed and putting her hand on my face. Her words from that night caused goosebumps to break out on my arms and neck. “I’ll be waiting.” Then they were gone, and I thought I’d just been dreaming.

For several moments I looked at Satchakomi, then through her, until my eyes focused on nothing. I heard no sound as time stopped. My mind replayed the events since I parked in the shade of the big water oak. Were there events and occurrences and happenings that could not be explained by rational thought? She’d said I was one of the few with the gift to pass between worlds. I realized that she was right. My destiny lay ahead, not behind.

I came back slowly, savoring the images, and what might be. What troubled me was that suddenly I felt I might not be worthy. I blinked twice and she was still there.

“Trust me, Sean. You’re not dreaming. This is very real. Now, rest. Think with your mind and your heart while I prepare our meal. In time, you will know and understand.”

“Wait! One more question! Please?”

She gave me the same look that a parent sometimes gives a child who keeps on doing something after they are told to stop. Then she nodded and smiled.

“You’re an impatient man, Sean the Traveler. All right, one question.”
“You said ‘Welcome to Coosa Town’? Why do you call this place Coosa Town?”

“This place is called Coosa Town because this is where Coosawatami chose to live. She was the daughter of the great chief, Samolati. Coosawatami refused to share a teepee with any of the warriors who had asked for the right to mate with her. For a while, Samolati allowed her to have her way. Then, during her twenty-third summer, he ordered her to choose a warrior. She refused. In a fit of rage, Samolati banished her from the village. He allowed her to live near the tribe, but not among them. This is the site she chose and she built her own hut. She was allowed to have visitors but was not allowed to enter the main village. She was provided with food to eat and animal skins to make clothes. Two years later she bore the daughter of a strange white man who had seemed to appear from nowhere. One year after he arrived, the strange man became ill and died.

“Samolati still refused to let her join to the village. She never asked again, though she did take a warrior as a mate. He moved here with her. She bore other children, but only one by the strange white man. Each daughter in turn bore a daughter from a strange white man who appeared, then disappeared. None stayed for more than a year, except one. And so it has been for generation after generation, each daughter of Coosawatami choosing to live here and each having less Creek blood. In time, this area came to be known as Coosawatami’s Town. Soon, even that slipped away, and finally was just called Coosa Town. Now, no more questions until after we eat.”

“Sorry, but I have to ask one more. It’s the blood, isn’t it?”
The whiteness of her teeth against the copper skin when she smiled mesmerized me.

“See? You did figure it out. It was the mingling of the white blood with ours. The white man who became Coosawatami’s companion had the ability to pass through the doorway, as did the companion for each daughter. The stories handed down told us that the ninth and tenth generations would have the power to open the doorway from this side. And the stories were true.”
We continued to talk as Satchakomi prepared a simple meal. She called it venison stew and I took her word for it. The wooden spoons we ate with had totems etched in the handles. The sun set and the moon rose and we continued talking. Patiently, she explained all that she knew. When I asked her how she learned English, she told me she grew up speaking both Muscogee and English. Her grandmother had decided that her daughter, Satchakomi’s mother, should be fluent in both languages. Only Talaweka has more than one daughter by one from the other side and she carried on the new tradition with Satchakomi and her sister. Then she shocked me when she told me that she’d graduated from Florida State.

“What! Are you kidding me? You graduated from college? I thought this was your world? Can you pass through anytime you want? And why Florida State?”

She laughed. I think she liked surprising me. “Yes, Sean, I can pass through any time I want. Besides me, only my mother and sister can do that. And no, I’m not kidding. I did graduate from college with a degree in History. Why Florida State? Why does anyone choose a particular college? For its reputation? Academics? Sports programs? For me, well, I had two main reasons. The nickname of the sports teams is the Seminoles. The word Seminole comes from the Muscogee core language istî siminolî, which can mean either free people or runaway. The Seminole tribe contained many descendants of the Upper and Lower Creeks, as well as runaway slaves. So I felt a kinship with the school. Besides, I wanted to go to a college that had a good football team.”

Time ceased and a sense of belonging enveloped me. She enchanted me, enthralled me, excited me. I asked a million questions and she had a few of her own. The only thing she wouldn’t talk about was her sister, Tuffolope, which meant butterfly. When we both started to yawn, Satchakomi gave me a tour of the dwelling, showing me where the food was prepared, the room that would one day be for children, and the room where she slept. Later, we passed through the awkward moments of nakedness and intimacy before reveling in mutual exploration and riding the crest of unleashed passion. I was pretty sure I’d found a companion. Hours passed before we fell asleep, lying next to each other, covered only by soft animal furs.

I woke the next morning to the sound of birds chirping and found Satchakomi snuggled close to me. I leaned over and kissed her cheek. She woke instantly at my touch, a smile spreading across her beautiful face. She hugged me close, and covered my face with kisses. She didn’t seem to mind the whiskers that had grown overnight. Then she stretched languorously before jumping up to put on her buckskins and begin preparing the morning meal.

I dressed and stood behind her as she went about her task. She moved with the grace of a ballerina. She caught me watching her and pushed a smile my way. I couldn’t help returning the smile and found that I was thoroughly contented. I looked down at the buckskins I’d slipped into, still not believing that this was happening. All I could do was shake my head. Patience, she had said. All answers would come with time.
We sat cross-legged near the low fire, eating the feast of ground corn mixed with water and bits of mystery meat. I guess I was hungry because I ate two helpings of whatever it was. She laughed as she watched me eating with my fingers. I hadn’t really thought about it. It just seemed natural to eat that way.

When I had finished, she gathered up the wooden bowls and placed them outside the hut. Then she came back and sat in front of me, her knees touching mine.

“You must return now.”

I was stunned. I couldn’t believe what she’d said.

“What? What are you saying?”

“I said that you must return now. To your own world. And you must remain there until you choose to come back.”

“What if I don’t want to leave? What if I choose to stay now?”

“You will leave anyway. This time the choice is not yours. I opened this world to you. You came because I enticed you. That is not the way you must enter this world. You must come because you want to. Now, we must go.”

“But you said that you were my guide and my companion.”

“I am, but only when you let go of your other life.”

I stared at her as she stood and left the hut. For a moment I thought about just sitting there. The thought crossed my mind that I’d leave only when I wanted to, but I knew that she was right. I had to come back on my own terms.

She was waiting as I stepped out of the hut. I tried to look angry, but I knew, and she knew, that it was just a front. Then she laughed.

“I think that you and I will have great adventures, Sean. Now, follow me, please.”

This time she didn’t take my hand as we walked to the tree that was also in this world. I saw fish jumping in the river behind the tree. I looked up and down, but there was no bridge, no dam. She waved her hand and the mysterious door appeared. As she started to enter, I grabbed her arm and brought her close.

“Satchakomi? Will I remember all this? Will I come back?”

Suddenly, I was scared. I didn’t want it to end. Then I saw her smile.

“You will remember everything that has happened, Sean, but only you have the answer to your second question.”

“But if I make it back, will I only have a year? Isn’t that what happened to all the others?”

The tears sprang from the corners of those dark eyes. For the first time, I saw her hesitate. Her lips trembled as she tried to smile. The softness of her answer caused me to lean forward to hear her.

“Yes, Sean, that is what happened to all the others but one. Only my mother, Talaweka, bore more than one daughter from a white stranger. Tuffolope also waits her turn. Our father stayed for five years before he had to return. And before you ask, he had to return to stay alive. All before him had to leave to stay alive, all but the first, Coosawatami’s companion. On the anniversary of his first year, he complained of head pains. The next morning, he didn’t wake up. The companion of Coosawatami’s daughter also felt the head pain, but she got him through the shimmering tree in time. Only my father didn’t have the head pain at the end of the first year, but did get it on the anniversary of his fifth year. I saw him when I went to college, but he had a new family by then. Still, there was sadness in his eyes, as though he’d lost something precious.

“But I am the tenth generation of Coosawatami. The Ancient prophecy states that the companion of each tenth generation will have the power to stay, but only if the companion chooses to pass through the shimmering tree. This is a choice you must make with your heart and your mind.”

“And if I don’t make it back?”

“Then my sister becomes the tenth generation and she will seek her companion.”

“Is there something special about being the tenth generation?”

“All I know is that great changes will occur for my people.”

“What kind of changes?”

“Changes for my tribe and my world. Just as your world went through the Industrial Revolution, world wars, and entered the space age, our world has to move forward, too. Change is inevitable in all worlds.”

“What about your sister? What happens to her if I come back? Hey! What happens to you if I don’t come back? How long do I have to make a decision?”

Satchakomi shrugged. “Your heart will tell you what to do and when to do it. The decision is yours. Now, Sean, it’s time. You must leave.”
“Just one more question.”

She exhaled. “What?”

“Is this my destiny?

Satchakomi crossed her arms and looked down. I saw the furrows in her forehead as she thought about her answer. When she looked at me again, I sensed the sadness.

“Your destiny is the same as anyone else’s. We all have a destiny, whether we accept it or not, or whether we choose to believe in destiny or not. Our destiny is the path we choose to walk, either consciously or unconsciously, at any given point in our lives. As for you, if you return, then that will be the path you chose, and that will be your destiny.”

Her sadness touched me as she moved away and entered the doorway. I exhaled the breath I’d been holding and reluctantly followed. She waited just inside and reached down to take my hand. Five steps later I was naked. This time I didn’t try to hide my nakedness. I sensed her turning to look at me, and saw her smile. Five more steps and I was wearing the same clothes that I’d been wearing the day before. Three steps later I saw the doorway leading to the world I lived in.

She stopped just before we reached the entrance and turned to face me. I embraced her, passionately kissing lips that melded perfectly with mine, not wanting to leave, knowing I had to. Then she broke away and placed her hand on my cheek, telling me I had to go. With a sense of regret, I stepped through the doorway.

As soon as I stepped through, I turned to look at her. All I saw was an old water oak. I reached out to touch the knob, feeling the smoothness against my fingers. I knew that she could see me, though I couldn’t see her. With one last touch I turned and walked to the car.

I turned the key and started the engine. I pushed the electric buttons to raise the windows. I glanced at the dashboard clock. The time was six-forty-seven and dusk began to touch the top of the trees. For a moment I was startled. That couldn’t be right! I’d just left her, and it was morning! I thought that maybe the clock had stopped, but somehow knew that it hadn’t. I guessed that more time had passed than I had originally thought. Then I looked at the watch that was once again around my wrist. The date had not changed. Had time stood still?

I started driving up the hill to the main road. Just before I turned onto the highway to cross the bridge, I glanced in the rearview mirror and took one last look at an old water oak.

◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊

A month has passed since I crossed into that other world. The dog days of August make people irritable and sap the energy of everyone. I still don’t know whether or not it really happened. Was it all a dream? If it was a dream, then why do I have these images and questions constantly filling my mind? I do know that I haven’t told anyone about it.

I’m so glad it’s Friday afternoon. Another mindless week at the office is almost over. I stare at the words on the screen and shake my head. I save the work and shut down the computer. I grab my coat and walk into the boss’s office. He has that “What now?” look on his face. I smile and tell him I quit. He looks like he really doesn’t care, but neither do I.
I think I’ll take a drive down by the river, and maybe park in the shade of an old water oak for a while. This time it’s my choice. My destiny waits.

25 Aug 2004 by Rick

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