Dances Naked (10 page)

Marty braided a pair of two-yard-
long reed switches, making sure he kept them the same width and density. He wound each whip into a long oval then set a rock on top of each to flatten and secure them. He hastily carved a needle out of a hardwood branch and used it with a length of tough grass as cording to stitch the concentric rows of braided reeds together. “Thank You, thank You, thank You,” he praised over and over again as he worked at his cobbler task. He glanced up at the sun and saw that it was almost evening. Should he leave now or wait until tomorrow? “Duh!” he said aloud. “Remember what taking a break did for you today!” he shuddered, recalling Grant. Something was definitely wrong with the man. Too bad his little sister and nephew had to tag along with him.

August 19, 178
1

Somewhere in North Carolina

“O

kay, I know this is the right road, I know this is the right road, I know this is the right road,” Marty chanted as he
trudged down the familiar path—
or so he thought. All the bushes, trees
,
and hills were beginning to look alike.

“This has to be the right road, this has to be the right road, please, Lord, let this be the right road,” he prayed, his lips cracked from thirst. He didn’t want to take a drink yet; he was conserving the water in his canteen. He had tanked up before leaving the creek
,
knew that his constant chattering was drying his mouth
,
but his soul and sanity needed his mantra more than his mouth and body needed water.

“So close, so close,” he babbled softly, suddenly unsure if he
was
on the right road.
The daylight was gone
,
but he knew the moon had been full three days ago and would be rising soon. Marty stopped where he was and debated with himself, wordlessly in order to save his saliva, about the wisdom of proceeding rather than resting. The afterglow of the sunset was gone. He knew how easy it would be to get turned around without his solar guide. It would be wise of h
im to sit and wait for moonrise:
wise
,
but not what he wanted to do. He pivoted in a tight circle to check the area one more time and suddenly became confused, disoriented
,
and afraid. “Okay, okay; I hear you, Lord. I’ll sit and wait for your lunar compass to come up.”

Marty plopped down right where he stood, too scared to venture even the scant ten yards to his left to sit beneath the trees. He would be more comfortable leaning up against one of the sturdy sentinels but he was afraid to venture from where he was. He didn’t want to chance heading the wrong direction, or walk in circles
,
or go back to where he had been robbed. He shuddered. O
r bump into Grant and that bone-
handled knife of his that he seemed so eager to employ.

Marty decided it was best to remain where
he was—
seated in between two stands of locust bushes, scrubby oversized weeds that looked just like
the
hundreds of others he had passed. Everything looked the same; it was no wonder he was lost.

He shifted his weight
,
but it didn’t do any good. His bony butt was painfully parked on the sharp, ro
cky gravel that was everywhere—
there was no way to get comfortable. He accepted his lot, sighed in temporary defeat
,
then carefully slipped off his sandals. He set them on the ground in front of him, pointing them, he hoped, in the direction he was to take when he resumed his journey. But
,
before he went any further, he
had
to take a short nap. He set his forehead down on his knobby knees and breathed deeply, trying to avert the panic that was sneaking in. “I’ll be okay, I’ll be okay,” he chanted until he
finally
fell asleep, his hands falling lax to his sides, his body gently tumbling sideways to slumber soundly in the fetal position.

Marty slept hard and dreamed of kisses on his cheek. His beloved Bibb was giving him quick little chicken pecks, gradually increasing her ardor until she was licking the entire side of his face, leaving his smiling cheek wet with slobber…

Marty sucked in a lungful of wet, dusty air
, awaking
from his surreal dream
,
and realized where he was:  lost.

The sky was rumbling, the growling thunder echoing against the low clouds that had rolled in while he slept. The firmament was a constantly changing pallet of blacks, grays
,
and whites. The lightning bolts streaked horizontally across the sky, rarely striking the earth, instead stretching and clawing their way across the pulsing panorama. The heavy rain was now coming in at him sideways, first one direction then suddenly changing course
s
. Marty looked over at the trees and briefly reconsidered seeking shelter under them. “Hmph,” he snorted and sho
ok his head, “that’s all I need:
to get struck by lightning.”

So
Marty, now rested and recharged, stayed where he was and made the best of his situation. He put a few more rocks on top of his sandals to make sure they weren’t turned
askew or blown away completely.
H
e’d need his woven reed direction indicators pointing in the right direction when daylight finally came.
H
e grabbed a few more stones and propped up his canteen, hoping to catch some of the sporadic
,
teaspoon-sized raindrops that were coming in at odd angles
,
not ‘dropping’ straight down.

Marty stood up
,
took off all of his clothes
,
a
nd employed his shirt as a wash
rag to scrub the stink of the past two-week’s journey off his body. He danced in the rain, glad that he could both stand and move. “Thanks for the shower, Lord,” he sang as he twirled. He gathered as much moisture as he could into the shirt and pants and rubbed them together in a vain attempt at cleaning them.

Marty danced
,
and washed
,
and sang until he was worn out with his praises. “Ah, a good attitude will get you through tough times and woe more than any amount of money,” he gloated. “And I’ll be a bit less gamey when I
do
get back into town!” he declared positively.

Marty grinned as he remembered that he still had some granola stashed in the pocket of his leather vest. “Thanks for the food, too,” he crowed as he grabbed a couple of morsels and popped them into his mouth.

The brief downpour was a warm summer cloudburst that hadn’t chilled the air. “Thanks again,” a worn out and satisfied Marty said softly as he snuggled his face and chest into his wadded up clothing, finding comfort in the warm, moist and musky cotton.

This time
,
it was a foot poking him in his backside that woke him. Marty was too at peace with himself to be frightened by the intrusion so
,
rather than panic, he stretched out his arms, grinned at the glow of sunrise visible in front of him
,
and slowly stood up. He totally ignored the fact that there had to be a person or animal attached to the fanny prod that had roused him. He looked away from the sunrise and turned around to see his wake up crew: three Indians and four ponies, one of them his stolen mare, complete with saddle.

“Looks like you found my horse,” he said, smiling and nodding to each of the men in greeting. “If you care to help me find my way home, I’ll be glad to let you keep her…”

Marty could tell that his words weren’t understood. He could just as easily been reciting the months of the year to these braves: they didn’t seem interested. What they were interested in, at least the tallest of the group, were his clothes.

Red Shirt tilted his head in confusion then kicked the bundle of clothing away from Marty’s feet. He picked up the shirt first, shook it out and examined it, sniffed it, made a face of disgust
,
then threw it back down. He squatted beside the pants, ran his fingers over the brass buttons on the fly
,
and smiled. He stood up with the tan, heavyweight cotton
,
work pants, held them in front of his hips to check the fit
,
and
then frowned. He poked the brass studs with his index finger, taken aback by the rivets at the pockets. He wanted to make sure they weren’t bugs
,
or so it seemed.

“Those are to reinforce the seams,” Marty volunteered
,
then employed sign language, pulling imaginary cloth to show how sturdy the stitching was.

Marty turned slightly to see what the other two braves were doing. “My shoes!” he screeched in panic. He had been distracted with Red Shirt and the jeans and now saw that the other two braves each h
eld one of his handmade sandals,
turning them over, examining the crude workmanship
,
chuckling at his primitive efforts. “Where were they?” he asked in dread. “I have to know which direction…oh, bother,” he finished in exasperation, “wh
at difference does it make now?
I don’t even know if I was going in the right direction to start with.”

Red Shirt was now smiling. He had fig
ured out that the pants weren’t insect
infested and would make sturdy wear for him. He bent over sideways and untied the knot on the thong holding up his loincloth. He ceremoniously pulled the thin strip of leather belting away, bowed apart his knees
,
letting
his breechclout drop to the ground. He took two steps away and sat on the ground, trying to put the pants on over his moccasins.

Marty pulled himself in emotionally and evaluated his current situation in a clinical, detached manner, seeing it as it really was. This could play out to his benefit or wind up with his death. The horse and clothes, or lack thereof, would only be a short-term inconvenience for him if the Indians ‘appropriated’ them. He could ‘give’ them to them and be on his way with maybe some good directions to The Trees. Or, he could make a big stink over a bit of cloth and horseflesh and wind up dead, laid out in itty bitty pieces as a fall feast for the crows. ‘No contest,’ he thought.

“Here, let me show you a trick,” Marty suggested as he walked over, still bare butt naked, to become the personal dresser to the Indian brave in charge.

Evidently
,
Marty’s good nature showed through because Red Shirt stopped his struggle and let his paleface valet take over. “Here, take off the moccasins first,” he instructed, pointing to Red Shirt’s moccasins
,
but not touching them lest he find out the hard way that it was an insult. Red Shirt kicked them off then looked up for instructions on what to do next. “Here, stand up,” Marty said, offering his hand to the charismatic red man.

Red Shirt didn’t accep
t the hand but stood up unaided—
cutting his eyes over to his men to make sure he hadn’t lost their respect in dealing with the white man. If they had, they sure weren’t showing it; both of them were stone-faced and intrigued with the metal studded trousers. “See, you get one foot in, pull it up a little then put the other foot in…there you go. Now just shimmy them up,” Marty pantomimed, causing all three of the braves to chuckle softly at his getting dressed without any clothes.

“Now the buttons—
be careful. You don’t want to get your bits and pieces caught in there.” Marty illustrated by holding his private parts behind one hand
,
pretending to fumble with imaginary button
s with the other. Now the men were laughing out
loud as Red Shirt stuffed his hand down his pants
,
making
sure he was all inside before pulling the stiff fabric buttonholes around the brass buttons. It took a full minute for him to get them all fastened but everyone cheered when he raised his head with a guttural shout of victory at his accomplishment.

“You look mighty fine there,” Marty complemented then bowed his head briefly to accentuate the remark. “Um, do you think that I might keep the shirt?” he asked, tentatively picking it up, sniffing it like Red Shirt had
,
and making his own exaggerate
d look of disgust at the smell—
it really was quite rank.

Red Shirt laughed at his antics and moved his hand as if he was shooing a bug off a biscuit: yes, Marty could keep the shirt; he didn’t want it. Marty said, “Thanks,” and donned the shirt quickly before anyone else could lay claim to it.

Red Shirt said something in his native language. Marty wasn’t an expert on American Indians but this was Bibb’s ancestor’s land. He was
probably speaking Cherokee. But,
knowing, or making an educated guess
,
at which tongue he was speaking, didn’t make understanding him any easier. Marty shrugged his shoulders in the universally understood, he hoped, gesture
of ‘I don’t know what you mean.’