1

It was mid-October when I awoke to the golden drape of an autumn moon across my bed. A glance at the clock confirmed what my circadian rhythm told me every morning at four, and I emerged from the warm cocoon of blankets, quickly exchanging my pajamas for jeans and a thermal. With more ritual than routine, I crept downstairs and started the coffee maker on my way out the door to collect our Idaho daily for Dad’s breakfast reading. The undisputed morning person of the house, I enjoyed the anonymity of the predawn hour, accompanied only by the crunch of gravel beneath my feet and, in this case, the brilliant moon that lit my way. The quiet trek down our third- of-a-mile driveway each morning served as a meditation and many times, I would find myself standing at the front gate without remembering the journey.

Some mornings I’d arrive before the Pole Pass Gazette’s night editor tossed the paper out on his way home from work. When I did, Eddie Night Raven would say he was handing me the morning and to take good care of it. But on that day, the fresh newsprint already lay inside the driveway gate, and I smiled, acknowledging that it took a combination of luck and skill to thread the needle between the vertical bars from his moving vehicle.

I grabbed the tightly rolled paper and started home, taking a longer side trail that bordered the aspen grove along the river. The yellow moonlight reflected a layer of mist covering the water, which gave an eerie, cauldron-like glow that bubbled with the underlying current. Wanting a closer look, I picked my way through the trees and scrub oak until I caught a game trail that led to the riverbank. Seconds later, the snap of a twig told me I wasn’t alone.

Confident in my ability to identify sounds in the woods, I cautiously moved ahead three steps at a time, and it echoed my pace. Then, I stepped only once, and it took two. Freezing in my tracks, I desperately wanted to deny my senses and press on unabated, but the gravity of my situation took hold, and a tingle up my spine only gave credence to my suspicion.

Growing up in these mountains of the Pacific Northwest, we were taught young about predators. I knew that mountain lions patiently stalked their prey until within striking distance, then ferociously attacked the neck from behind. There were two defense strategies: maintain eye contact and slowly move away while making myself look as large as possible, or quickly locate anything that might be used as a weapon to fight off the attacker. As a ten-year-old boy weighing no more than eighty pounds and armed with a rolled up newspaper, I had little chance against a hungry cat that could easily be twice my size.

The house was an impossible half-mile away from where I stood, petrified in my quandary. My best option for shelter was the sauna on the river bank, but that’s sev- enty-five yards ahead through the trees. I’m instantly snapped from my rumination by the rustle again, this time only about forty yards to my right and hidden among the shadows of the trees. Though I couldn’t see anything, my senses shifted into overdrive as I felt the cat’s eyes boring through me. Survival instincts finally overtook fear, and I coaxed my feet to move again.

Facing that direction, I raised my arms high to appear larger and began a slow retreat toward the river as my eyes scanned the brush separating us. Five steps later, I paused; all was quiet. A sense of relief washed over me, but that was premature. On the sixth step, I lifted my gaze, and there among the trunks of aspen and birch was a pale-white face with coal-black eyes staring back at me. I felt a cold stab shoot through my body, and its charge, like my terror, was immediate—it was not a cat!

With my heart in my throat, I screamed and put one foot in front of the other as fast as I could, deeper and deeper into the aspen grove. Weaving through the trees, I soon realized that I was cut off from getting back to the house, leaving a log crossing the river as my only chance of escape. When I was thirty yards away, the guttural sounds signaled that he was quickly closing the distance; just a little farther, I told myself, as the gap between us narrowed to only a few scant trees and underbrush.

I had just reached the riverbank when he caught hold of my trailing right wrist, and from that point on, everything happened in nightmarish slow motion. Squirming violently, I strained to yell at the top of my lungs, but nothing came out. I stretched my body away from him, leaning out over the water, desperately struggling to break free, but he was too strong and began dragging me back toward the woods. I bit into his hand, and he stopped for a second, only to slap me hard across the face, busting my lip with his heavy ring that raked over my teeth—and that’s when it happened.

In my despair, I heard a deep train-like roar rise from the river as the mist flashed up the embankment and lunged between us, severing my attacker’s arm at the elbow joint. I heard his throaty scream. I saw the dark fountain of spray silhouetted in the moonlight, and smelled the unforgettable metallic odor of what I now know was blood. The last thing I recall was a floating sensation as the sudden release of my adversary’s hold sent me flailing backward off the eight foot riverbank into the mist-covered water below.

A loud clap of thunder opened my eyes to the glow of the river sauna’s wood stove. My clothes hung on a towel peg, and a patch of fresh moss pillowed my head. Lying on the bench, I looked up through a small window to see daylight breaking across the sky and storm clouds rolling in. It took a minute to get my mind around what had happened, wondering if I had been sleepwalking again.

Sitting up in the hot room I felt the throb of my lip and the sting of several scratches as sweat rolled down my body, but the burning of my right wrist demanded the most attention. In the dim light of the stove, I saw the torn skin and finger-shaped bruises covering my lower arm. That’s when my bewilderment gave way to fear.

Until last night, I hadn’t dreamed about that predawn episode in the three years since it occurred. Other than smeared footprints at the riverbank and a puddle of coagulated blood that the rain didn’t wash away, no evidence of my assailant was ever found.

After an exhaustive search, investigators concluded that he must have met his demise falling into the quick moving river, and their reasoning was understandable. The rocky one-hundred-foot drop of Eagle Falls is just over a mile downstream, and from there, the water flows into a tributary of the Snake on its way toward the rugged terrain of Hells Canyon.

“He’s fish food. We’ll alert the hydroelectric authorities in Lewiston to be on the lookout for what’s left of him,” were the parting words of the Pass County Sheriff, Sam Waterson, as he and the deputies left our house that evening.

We have our own sheriff on tribal lands, but with the implications of an attempted kidnapping or worse, Sheriff Max Running Bear welcomed any resources the Pass County Sheriff’s Department could offer. Their official report claimed that I escaped my attacker by jumping into the river at the eddy so as not to get washed downstream, then, while in a state of shock climbed out and made it inside the sauna to get warm. That sounded good on paper, but it wasn’t accurate. I knew the event had happened exactly as I said and was confident that at least Dad, my sister, and our tribal sheriff believed me.

Native lands are full of mysteries that don’t translate well to a mainstream culture that tends to label them as impossible or supernatural at best. However, in First Nations communities throughout North America, we know such things to be in keeping with the natural law of a living and conscious Earth. I’m not sure one ever gets used to these occurrences, but I’ve found that it makes life much less complicated when you accept them as they’re presented.

My upcoming Weyekin may have been the catalyst for last night’s dream. The medicine man has just given his blessing for this Native rite of passage, and maybe the prospect of seven or more nights alone in the ancestral forest produced the incident from my subconscious. Well, impetus aside, I hope that last night’s reminder won’t become a thing of habit.

~

I’ve just released my mind from the memory, when Carol’s commanding voice rings out like a siren and pulls my eyes from the hypnotic swirls of our swimming pool: “And run, don’t walk!” She orders me across the deck to fetch a pitcher of iced tea for she and her friends. As their only staff member, it’s evident that my sister intends to get her moneys worth on the first day of summer vacation in 1973.

The predicament is entirely of my own making. Servitude was the price I agreed to pay Carol for letting me drive her car up the road when we returned from the grocery store yesterday. To make matters worse, she requires that I wear white jeans with an overly patterned Qiana shirt and an old Halloween moustache that looks like a caterpillar with mange.

Inside the pool house, I slowly fill the pitcher while enjoying the view of five bikini-clad girlfriends sunning themselves like royalty on poolside chaises, that is, until Carol intrudes on the moment.

“Ahhhhh, boy . . .” she croons, accompanied by a snicker.

Don’t push it, I say under my breath as I return to the pool deck, sans the ridiculous moustache—and carrying a large tray with the brightly colored tumblers.

As an awkwardly-bookish thirteen-year-old, I’m just beginning to appreciate the long legs and fine balance of the sixteen-year-old female physiques on parade before me, and I especially notice the new girl, Virginia Tecoi. A lean, athletic pedestal supports the mane of dark blonde hair tousled about her face, with sea-green eyes so deep and clear that making contact with them is like diving into a bottomless pool. She is far and away the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen.

This is her first summer in the mountain town of Pole Pass, as well as her first visit to our house. Today also marks the only time I stand speechless—stunned, actually—by the sight of a female. I guess I’m on the verge of gawking when Carol says, “Hey! Are you going to give her the tea or what?”

I reach toward Virginia’s outstretched hand with the lime-hued glass. Her voice, soft and permeating: “Thank you, Town . . . may I call you Town? Or do you prefer James?”

Other than the sound of Karen Carpenter singing “Close to You” over the static-filled AM radio and the heartbeat pounding in my head, I’m absolutely blank, too embarrassed to even answer her. The girls laugh at my outward appearance of dismay, but something inside me is changing. Somehow, in this moment, I’m transformed from a mere boy to one suddenly crushed under the weight of a greater knowledge. I find myself outside of the proverbial garden, wrapped only in a cloak of shame, but at the same time comforted by the revelation.

For teenage girls playing heiresses, they’ve always been friendly and even moderately considerate during their summer residencies at our pool. In seasons past, my friends were also coerced into the service ranks as an entry fee to the deck. Like jet-setters on the French Riviera, the troupe entertained our presence for a time, but in those days when the girls began any serious dialogue, we were given our leave. It’s always been a no-boyfriend zone, an exclusive sorority, with the exception of their harmless staff. A perfectly symbiotic arrangement as far as I’m concerned.

Today, their hot topic is a creepy secondhand tale that one of the girls had heard from another who lives down mountain in East Valley. This story is of an East Valley High School junior and her boyfriend who found a secluded make-out spot just off the mile-long gravel road that dead-ends at the gate of the old Title Mine. The abandoned mining camp had been shuttered in the 1870s and sits like a tomb on the northwest outskirts of Pole Pass.

Our town cemetery bears proof of its hazards, with too many monuments dedicated to adventurous children from each generation who perished exploring the old shafts, and after much public outcry, the mine was fenced off at its property line. Most locals heed the warnings and stay clear of the area, making it an ideal spot for a young couple in a nosy small town to gain a little privacy.

Over the past month, these lovebirds parked their car under the branches of a large cedar tree on a hillside above the mine’s gate, spreading out their blanket under the stars. Last week during a full moon, the couple saw several cars drive up the road without their lights on. Watching from their hidden perch, they witnessed the driver of the first car get out and unlock the gate before waving the others through; then he resecured it and followed the other vehicles up to the site of the old mining camp. It was now eleven thirty, and the girl had to get home or risk reprisals for breaking curfew, so the couple packed up and put the car in neutral, coasting all the way down to the highway without headlights or starting the engine.

“Wait a minute! That’s it? No murder? No guy with a hook for a hand, or a chainsaw?” I say, clearly disappointed by the lack of a gruesome punch line.

Virginia spews iced tea down her front with a burst of laughter at my disdain, and the girl relaying the story then adds, “Oh, but the gatekeeper was wearing a black hooded robe.”

“Well, why didn’t you say so?” I reply, tossing Virginia a towel from the stack I’m carrying across the deck.

Carol addresses me by my full name, James Townsend Lawe, and tells me to cool it, or she’ll find some less enjoyable chores for the remainder of my shift.

In spite of her proclivity to boss, she and I enjoy an unrivaled sibling relationship. Three years my senior, Carol takes naturally to the role of a doting big sister, especially in our mother’s absence from the time I was five. Although she possesses an extended patience, that doesn’t stop her from ordering me around if she feels I need to be straightened out. Nevertheless, I always know that she’s there for me, whether in search of a rigorous study partner, a confidential adviser, or just my big sister, who understands me better than anyone else.

At sixteen, she ticks all the boxes: 4.0 student, attractive, and a fine athlete. With varsity letters and academic accolades listed next to her name, she’s driven, and either excels in her pursuits or doesn’t waste her time with it. Fortunately, I’ve learned many of my study patterns from her remarkable ability to focus on the task at hand under pressure; of equal importance, I recognize the intrinsic value of time itself. Putting such lessons into practice has relegated me to a somewhat solitary childhood, but in the grander scheme, they’ve also helped me immeasurably.

My remaining hours of poolside service are split between catering to the girls’ whims and daydreaming about what’s going on up at the mine. I’m a sucker for a good mystery, and tonight before bed, I mark the calendar with the date of our next full moon and make a plan to satisfy my curiosity. I also can’t escape the electric sensation I felt around Virginia, and as I drift off to sleep, I hope she becomes a regular sight at our pool this summer.