Spirit Brother

When I was nine, my mother, younger sister and I moved from Nashville to the far eastern side of Knoxville. Land was bought, houses were built. My mother’s parents lived right next door way out there in the middle of nowhere. There was nothing but hills and forest; the perfect place for a boy to roam and ramble. There were trees to climb and fall out of, there creeks to play in and get soaked.

 

One weekend not long after school was out I rode with my grandfather to visit one of his cousins who lived a mile or so from what is now Oconaluftee Indian village (Cherokee, NC). This trip turned out to be one of the most defining times of my life.  As a 10 year old it was something of an adventure to visit an area where there were real Indians. The drive along the winding two-lane road thru the Great Smokies Mountains and Cherokee National Park was boring for a kid who had yet to learn to appreciate the beauty of Mother Nature.

 

Oh, there were the flashes of childish imagination here and there as the old Ford rounded yet another looping curve in the road that wound up mountains sides only minutes later to dip down into a valley. A calm pool in a stream so perfect for swimming or it was a large tree just right for a tree house, just so many of those “perfect” spots that a kid could imagine Indians, bears, all sorts of adventures.

 

There was the roadside picnic from the big, worn basket that Mam-maw had packed so early that morning, cold fried chicken, potato salad, and all the little things one might need. Then there was that brown paper bag that only a kid could appreciate: the Skippy peanut butter, the little jar of home-made grape jelly, and the thick slices of bread she had baked the night before.

 

Parked in one of the few gravel spots just off the road, we perched on a flat bolder at the edge of a cliff. Far below wound a deep stream that rushed furiously around the bend. We sat in silence eating and watching the water battle its way thru the army of impeding boulders and stone, then Pap-paw began to tell me about his cousin, an old mountain man who lived quietly. He spoke of him more as a brother than a cousin because this cousin was brought with Pap-paws family to America from Germany just before the First World War.

There was still an hour or so of driving to do so after packing up the old basket we were back on the road.

 

Not much later we left the paved road to take a rut-filled dirt track that climbed thru green forest up toward the top of a “hollow.” (For those of you “city folks” not familiar with the term, a hollow is the low point between two ridges. It is too small to be called a valley.) Several miles later the track ended just in front of a weather-beaten board house with a rusted tin roof that extended out to cover a wide porch.

 

Seated in rocking chairs on the porch were a large man and a much smaller woman. Oddly they both looked like Mam-maw and Pap-paw, at least they did to a foolish child. Introductions were made and the offer of something to drink but then it was if I was all forgotten as they began to “catch up” and reminisce.

 

Left to my own devices I was off to explore. Soon I was over the top of the ridge and down into the next hollow. Even from a distance I could hear the noisy sounds or rushing water, the one sound that calls out to little boys just as loudly as a mother’s call to a meal. Within minutes I had reached the wild little mountain stream and immediately became the world’s greatest explore. Oh, no, not even Cortez or Lewis and Clark were in the same class.

 

Off I went following the stream towards its source. Step by step, ever on the lookout for bears and Indians, I forged my way further and further. I imagined an Indian behind every tree. I imagined bears and mountain lions lurking in every shadow just waiting for a meal. Was I afraid? Oh, no! Not me, the worlds greatest explorer.

 

Over fallen trees, thru shallows, around boulders the size of old cars I went pausing only to inspect an odd rock or two which went into my pack. At last I came to on giant slab of gray rock which blocked both my view upstream and the path. The steam narrowed to a mere few feet as it rushed past this great obstruction and the other side. Scrambling up the side just as I reached the top that mammoth slab became a slippery slide. Suddenly gravity took over and I slid to the edge only to fall some feet below into the icy cold water.

 

Sputtering water from my mouth and gasping at the cold shock I quickly realized my feet did not reach the bottom. And then I heard the laughter! Standing a mere few yards away in the shallows on the other side was a boy. An Indian boy! The long black hair tied up to the sides of his head proved that fact. Yet he was not quite what I had in mind when I wanted to find an Indian, for he was just another kid, just like me except for the hair and the color of his skin.

 

Then I began to sink. The weight of all those “treasures” I had found was pulling me down. I panicked.

The current was forcing me back the way I had come but instead of over that boulder it held me hard against the side. No matter how hard I tried I could not get free.

 

Suddenly the end of a branch thrust in front of my face. Desperately grabbing hold I was slowly pulled along the boulder face toward the bank. At last, lying there in the shallows the coughing subsided. Looking up my rescuer stood silently waiting.

 

“Thanks” I said.

 

All I got in return was something of a grunt and then he walked away.

 

“Wait!” I yelled after him as I scrambled to my feet and rushed after him.

 

When I caught up he said “you scared him off.”

 

“Who?”

 

“The fish!” he said “Big one I’ve been trying to catch all day.”

 

Now I had considered myself something of a fisherman but I was stumped for I didn’t recall seeing a pole or line, no rod or reel. Then I noticed he still held the long branch in his hand.

 

Following along behind him neither of us spoke. At first I thought he was trying to escape my presence. The path he took was yards away from the path of the steam which to me seemed rather silly. After a hundred yards or so he stopped and then pointed to yet another gray slab jutting out into the stream.

 

“Move slow and stay low” was all he said, expecting me to understand.

 

Creeping forward behind him, I tried to mimic his every move. When we reached the edge of the slab he lay flat on his stomach and began crawling toward the edge that hung out into the water. Just as he reached the edge he reversed the limb which was maybe four and a half feet long and then I noticed that the narrow end was forked with about six inch prongs which had been sharpened.

 

As we lay there peering carefully into the water, he began to whisper quietly.

 

“They can see when we move.”

 

Then he slowly began to raise the branch like a spear as if he was ready to throw. Several minutes pasted as he remained poised to send it on its way. Suddenly he stabbed deep into the water and then quickly tried to swing it in an arc up over his shoulder. There on the end of the prongs was a trout of several pounds which went flying thru the air to land yards behind us on the bank. Yelling in delight, he jumped up and rushed to snatch it up with both hands.

 

Standing there with a great big grin, he beamed his delight and his accomplishment. Then with an excited “come on!” he dashed off. Dodging the limbs of bushes set swinging by his passage I ran hard to keep up.

I didn’t know where we were going but I knew I had to find out. Up over the ridge and down the far side, just as we reached the hollow below there was a big log house. Seated on an old bench against the front was an old man.

 

“Grandfather! Look, I did it!” the boy cried out. I thought was a bit strange because all grandfathers had a name like my own, Pap-paw.

 

A real live Indian! He looked exactly as I expected an Indian would look except that he was an old man.

His almost round face, the color of old leather, was wrinkled and weather-worn. His hair was mostly gray and white.

 

Silently I shyly held back a few steps away while the grandfather admired the boy’s catch. It was easy to see and hear the words of congratulations were filled with pride, but mostly they were filled with love.

 

And then the old man looked up at me with the most astonishing eyes; eyes startlingly clear; piercing eyes that seemed to know the answer before the question was ever asked. Shy and timid with all adults, I simply could not drag my own away.

 

“Who is this?” he asked. His tone was firm but very warm.

 

When the boy, whose name I had not learned nor did even know my own, respond by telling the tale of how we met yet could not tell him my name. The old man pulled him up close, looking straight at his face and told him “We must know a man’s name before we can call him friend!”

 

Then he sent the boy off to clean his catch. Turning his attention back to me, the old man motioned me close and asked who I was and from where I had come. Within a few short minutes he had it all out of me including my version of how we had met. His face wrinkled further with amusement and his eyes sparkled knowingly yet never once did I feel that he was laughing at me rather that he was laughing with me. And then he introduced himself, his Cherokee name, but needless to say I could not even begin to pronounce it correctly.

 

Our conversation must have taken longer than I realized because the boy came back. At that point he pulled his grandson to his side and introduced each of us to the other. Try as I might is simply could not make the proper sounds. Finally the boy said “Luke” but it came out sounding like “Luc”. (To this day I pronounce it as Luc.)

 

With that accomplished he sent us off with instructions for introductions to Luc’s parents. His mother was first and other than appearance was exactly what anyone would see in a loving mother. His father was off somewhere and I didn’t get to meet him until much later.

 

Thus began a friendship that has lasted a lifetime and has gone far beyond the confines of this world.

 

Reviews

[lilain]

What a meeting between lifelong friends! This is such a lovely story. Everything is so vivid. I remember driving through the Smokey Mountains. I remember their beauty and how they'd bring me awe. The smells, the sensations... they all came back with your story. But, what I loved most was the way you innocent curiosity introduced you to a new culture and new friends. Well done!!

[[untitled]]

Well, I am confused. I read and wrote a comment here last evening. Where is it? You write beautifully and share the wonders of your childhood. You also allow your reader a glimpse into your soul ... and what you are made of. This was a very rewarding read. ..........now stay comment stay...........

[Sam Freeland]

Your tale of love and friendship is the kind of beginning we can share,
and will remind us all to treat our efforts at finding friendship in the
manner that has given you so much meaning. Your story so perfectly
tells us what the Cafe is about, and it helps to make the Cafe such a wonderful
place to share our experiences and dreams.

[Blue Sky]

A very wonderful story you shared, the adventures, the trip and the expectations as a young lad who formed a lasting friendship, with some chuckles, took me right along to meeting SPIRIT BROTHER! I really enjoyed reading this heart warming story, pleasure!!