We Stand in the Middle 13

The Center Cannot Hold

May 06, 2024

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While I’d been talking to Nigel and listening to D’s second tape the temperature had dropped dramatically and the sky had darkened to a muddy, sullen gray tinged with green. The air smelled of ozone and steaming earth and a great turbulence could be heard and felt tearing through the trees. It was as if the Aniyvtiqualosgi - the Thunder Beings I’d read so much about - were about to let everyone and everything know how pissed they were. “Angry at what? Angry at whom?” I wondered as I listened to the wind-whipped lake water crashing against the foundations of the house and heard the building begin to whistle and whine as eddies of air forced themselves into every crack and crevice. From what I’d learned so far, I was fairly certain the Cherokee had some ritual to deal with situations like this. They were masterful readers of signs and believed that if they lived their lives in balance - doing their best to honor the spirits of nature - catastrophic events could be avoided.

Failing a ritual, common sense told me I should get away from glass and into a room without windows. I closed D’s journal, tucked it into a desk drawer, and hurried downstairs to the bathroom. There I found Bentley and the cats curled together beneath the bottom shelf of the linen closet. Five sets of frightened eyes stared back at me. “No room for me in there, huh guys?” I said as I grabbed a pile of quilts and blankets to create a nest for myself in the tub. If a tornado was headed our way I wanted to be prepared. Then I returned to the kitchen to grab some water. I was on my way back to the bathroom when the storm broke. There was a brilliant flash followed instantly by a crack of thunder so loud my ears ached. My hands flew to cover my ears as I ran back to the bathroom, climbed into the tub, and pulled a quilt over my head.

The initial bolt was followed by a seemingly endless series of flashes and long, low rumbles that got less intense as the squall moved past. But the storm wasn’t done with us yet. The final burst of lightning was followed by the hissing sound of torrential rain and the sharp ping ping ping of hail hitting the glass and covering the ground with pieces of ice.

It was only as the storm finally started to abate that I began to wonder and worry about Evan. Had he stayed in town? Had he driven back and decided to wait out the storm in his truck? Or, in a worst case scenario, had he made it to the trailhead and tried to beat the storm? “Surely he’d have sense enough not to take the boat,” I told myself. I knew there were trails throughout the trees and underbrush lining both sides of the stream that he could take to get to the house. Walking would take longer, and I didn’t like the idea of him walking in trees that could be struck by lightning, but it was infinitely better sitting in a boat on water. “Evan is smart,” I reassured myself, “and he knows the property like the back of his hand.”

The animals and I stayed huddled in the bathroom until Bentley emerged and began asking to be let outside to pee. That’s how I knew the worst was over. “Boy you really have to go don’t you?” I asked as I threw the latch and pulled hard on the door handle. The moment there was enough room for him to squeeze through, he bolted out and down the front steps to the watchdog tree - his favorite spot for keeping track of the comings and goings on the property. There, leaning against its trunk and looking entirely too still was Evan. Instead of trying to jump into his arms, Bentley was whining and licking Evan’s face, which was covered in scraps and scratches.

“Evan?” I said, hurrying down the steps and grabbing Bentley’s collar to pull him away. In the gathering dusk it was hard to tell how badly Evan was hurt but what I could see I didn’t like.

“Had a bit of run in with the storm,” Evan said around a fat lip. “Had to abandon ship.”

“I can see that,” I said, taking in the cuts and scrapes on his face and the drenched and ripped clothing. “It looks like you lost. How bad are you hurt? Can you get up?” In my mind I was running through my options. Why oh why hadn’t I insisted on being shown alternate routes out of this place? Why didn’t I ask for the phone numbers of the local doctors? If I called Manuel could I arrange for a medevac helicopter?

“Don’t look so alarmed,” Evan said from the ground where he’d clearly been watching my face. “I took worse beatings at school. I’ll be alright. I just need some patching up. Can you help me stand?”

“Sure,” I said, taking his right hand and supporting his elbow as he tried to push himself upright.

“Ouch,” he groaned, sinking back onto the ground. “That branch must’ve cracked a rib.”

“Shit,” I said with alarm, releasing his arm. “Let’s call Manuel. He’ll send help.”

“No need, just give me a minute,” Evan said. Keeping his back straight against the tree, he bent his knees and began using them to push himself upright. When he was standing, he reached out for my help again. “Okay, slowly now let’s go in.”

Once inside the house, I guided him to the bathroom where I insisted he sit on the toilet. Then I turned on the water in the bathtub and fetched the first aid kit from the kitchen. “Okay, now you’re going to have to get out of your wet clothes and let me take a look at those cuts.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, looking unhappy. “There are clean clothes in the pack,” he said.

“They’ll be soaked too. I’ll grab some dry ones from upstairs, but in the meantime you need to get out of what’s left of yours and into the tub. The warm water will help.”

“It’s gonna sting like hell,” he complained.

“That too,” I acknowledge with a rueful smile. “Okay, now stand up and lift your arms.”

When he was on his feet again, I carefully lifted and slid the filthy t-shirt up and over his head. There was the bear tattoo again looking much the worse for wear and tear with a blooming bruise over one rib and several cuts. “Yikes, that has to hurt,” I said as I tossed the shirt into the corner. Next I unceremoniously unzipped his jeans and pulled them down around his ankles. He wasn’t wearing underwear so I had an up close and personal look at what Nigel likes to refer to as his package. “Lift your left foot,” I demanded. Evan put his hand on my shoulder for balance and lifted first his left and then his right foot out of his jeans.

“Not too impressed, eh?” Evan said from over my head, clearly embarrassed.

“Oh for god’s sake,” I said. “This is not the time to be modest.”

“Couldn’t do anything about it even if it was the time,” he chuckled. “I hurt too much.”

I stood up and rolled my eyes. “You’re such a guy.”

“That I am,” he grinned. Some color had returned to his face and he was looking less haggard. “Now what?”

“Into the bath with you,” I replied, helping him over to the clawfoot tub. “I’m going to go grab some dry clothes from upstairs. Try not to drown while I’m away.”

“Now you’re just being mean,” he said as he gingerly lowered himself into the hot water.

“And you’re finally looking like you might live,” I chuckled, handing him a washcloth. “I’ll help with the cuts on your back when I get back.”

Upstairs, I examined the contents of the dresser, pulled some of D’s old sweats and a t-shirt out, and carried them back downstairs stopping in the kitchen for a bottle of water. I wondered how long it had been since he’d eaten or drunk anything. Back in the bathroom, I found Evan fast asleep and snoring, the back of his neck curled over the edge of the tub and his mouth wide open. “Okay, sleepy head,” I said, gently jiggling his arm. “It’s time for you to get out of there.”

“Sure,” he mumbled, closing his mouth and looking blearily up at me. I helped him out of the tub, applied antibiotic ointment to the worst of the cuts on his chest and back, then helped him into the dry clothes.

“Let’s get you upstairs,” I said. We made our slow way up the stairs and into the loft where he sank with obvious relief onto the bed. I handed him the bottle of water and told him to be sure to take a drink or two before he fell asleep.

“Yes mam,” said with a weak salute.

“Okay, holler if you need anything,” I said.

Downstairs in the living room the sun was putting on a spectacular display as it set, turning the water of the lake a metallic turquoise and gold. I didn’t have much time to admire it before the cats appeared, demanding to be fed, and Bentley began playing soccer with his empty bowl. “All right all right,” I said. “Hold your horses. I still don’t know where anything is in this house.” That’s when I remembered the rucksack Evan had been carrying. “Better check that first,” I said, going back outside to retrieve it. Inside I found bags of dried pasta, beans, rice, cat and dog kibble, and a chew toy for Bentley. There was also a soft ball of goat cheese, and what I assumed had once been a loaf of bread, now melted into a glob of sticky gluten. After rinsing everything off and storing the perishables in the fridge, I opened the bags of kibble, filled everyone’s bowls, and put some black beans on to soak.

It was nearly dark now and I needed light. Evan had told me that electricity was provided by a generator but hadn’t shown me where it was or how to use it. “Mostly we use lanterns,” he’d said, pointing to the Colemans scattered throughout the room. “It’s easy,” he said, seeing the doubtful look on my face. “Here, let me show you.” He walked me through the process of adding fuel, checking the mantles, and actually lighting the oil and gas mixture, then insisted that I practice until I felt comfortable. Now I lit the lantern on the kitchen counter and carried it upstairs to check on Evan.

I found him sleeping soundly on his stomach with cats snoozing all around him. He’d removed the t-shirt and the ugly red cuts and scrapes were clearly visible. But what took my breath away was the amazing tattoo covering most of his back. Positioned just over his heart and lungs was a seven-pointed star with a fire burning in its center. Fire, I knew, was sacred to the Cherokee. It figured prominently in their yearly Green Corn Ceremony held at the end of summer to celebrate the harvest. The ritual involved fasting, dancing, and extinguishing all fires in the community other than the one at the heart of the ceremonial grounds. After its completion, each household’s fire was reignited with embers from the central fire, symbolizing renewal. The tattooist had managed to capture both the intensity of the fire and the way the flames glimmered as they burned.

The seven-pointed star encircling the fire bore the likenesses of each of the seven masks of the Cherokee clans. From my reading I knew that each clan had a particular focus, philosophy, and special role to play in the community. Although there were only seven clans at the moment, many historians believed there had once been as many as 12 or more. This explained the notion of sub-clans. A good example was the clan Evan and Richard had been born into - the Anitsiskwa. Officially called the “Small Bird clan,” it was often referred to as the Raven, Turtle Dove, or Eagle clan as well.

Setting the lantern on the floor by the bed, I moved closer to get a better look at each of the masks. Starting with the Wolf (Aniwaya) I moved clockwise around the circle to the Wild Potato (Anigadogewi), Long Haired (Anigilohi), Red Paint (Aniwodi), Birds (Anitsiskwa), and Deer (Aniawi) clans. However, when I came to the seventh mask of the Blue Clan (Anisahoni), I saw that the face of a bear had been superimposed on and almost obscured the Blue clan mask. Remembering the exquisite tattoo of the bear on Evan’s chest, I was willing to bet that he saw himself as a member of an eighth and entirely separate group - the Ani’- Tsa’guhi or Bear clan. According to legend, the Ani’- Tsa’guhi had chosen to abandon their human forms and become bears.

Of all the Cherokee myths I’d read so far, the myth of how bears came to exist intrigued me the most. Not only was the story fraught with magic and mystery but it celebrated a people’s ability to remake their lives into something they believed was better. It celebrated choice, and for someone like Evan who’d lost his choice at such an early age, the idea of becoming a bear must’ve been irresistible.

Hoping to get a better look, I picked up the lantern and held it high over Evan’s back. Somewhere deep in sleep he must’ve sensed the light because he sighed, groaned, and shifted position on the bed. The effect of the muscles moving beneath the tattoos was electrifying. For just a moment, the flames of the fire flickered, and six sets of eyes focused their attention on me - the tiny pinpoints at their centers dancing with life. As for the bear, its nostrils flared, inhaling loudly, then exhaled a warm stream of familiar scents - rain soaked earth, sun-warmed pines, and something embedded so deep in my bones that I could only call it home.

Then, just as quickly as it had opened, the door between spirit and flesh closed. Evan settled back into motionless sleep and the lovely images went back to being pinpricks of color on skin. “What just happened?” I asked as I stepped away from the bed. Memories of Ray Bradury’s Illustrated Man came to mind. I’d been as fascinated by Bradbury’s imagination as I’d been by the stories themselves. It seemed to me that his mind was like a half-cracked door - awake and open to the playful antics of the universe. I wasn’t sure I shared his curiosity and didn’t much relish being stared at by a bear.

Back down in the kitchen, I realized I’d moved past hunger and was now in that lightheaded state where my body felt like it might drift away. I dug around in the cupboards until I found a can of baked beans, a can opener, and a spoon. I ate the beans directly from the can standing at the counter then crawled into my makeshift bed on the couch. I couldn’t remember ever feeling more relieved to lie down and fall into sleep. “Enough,” I thought as I drifted away. “Enough for one day.”

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