Alligator Park (21 page)

“Why the war paint?” I ask.

“It’s not war paint. The blue
stripe represents water and sky, the boundaries of our earthly existence, and
the white stripe is for peace.”

I approach him, offer my left
palm, as if it was cupping a liquid, and say: “Water.”

His eyes find my pupils and I
can sense he wants to say something, but doesn’t know quite what.

I take my free hand and gently
guide his left hand over my cupped hand, palm to palm, our thumbs interlocking,
as if we were about to shake hands.  

“Sky,” I say.

I detect confusion in his
stare and a certain nervousness in his touch, as if he is uncomfortable with
the situation, but his natural curiosity restrains him from poisoning the
moment. I place my free hand over his, cupping his hand firmly between my
palms. I feel the warmth and sweat of our hands coalesce into one entity, a
kind of meeting of the minds where our thoughts are no longer our own but have
become communal property.

“Peace,” I say.

We stand there, locked in a
gaze, neither of us having any inclination to be the first to pull away.

“I want to do it,” I say.

He looks at me disturbingly.
“Huh?” he says.

“I want to do what you did.”

“What?”

“The paint.”

He shakes his head slowly. “I
don’t know. It’s not something Indian women do.”

 “Is it against tribal rules?”

“No, it’s not against the
rules. It’s just not done.”

“Well, if it’s allowed, I
want to do it.”

“You sure?” he says
disbelievingly.

“Yes, I’m sure.”

He takes back his hand and
reaches for the white paste. Instinctively, I lean forward slightly giving him
unrestricted access to my cheeks.

“Hold still,” he says, and then,
with the most delicate touch, makes a white stripe on each side of my face,
just below my eyes.

My gaze is drawn to his
oversize biceps only inches away. If they looked formidable from a distance,
they are even more so up close. Curiosity tugs at my senses; I feel the urge to
cup my palm over the majestic protuberance, test the firmness of the muscle and
the smoothness of the skin.

But I restrain myself. A
gentle touch of the hand is one thing, an innocent gesture by any standard. But
this, well, this is different. Although well within the realm of scientific
investigation, my actions could be construed as something more than
intellectual empiricism and that would open a messy can of worms. The last
thing I need right now is for him to gain the illusion I have some romantic
interest in him, which I most emphatically do not! But if it is true that
illusion and reality sometimes intertwine, I certainly don’t want to do
anything that would encourage it.

He repeats the ritual with
the blue paste then stands back to admire his work.

“They match your hair,” he
says, referring to the blue stripes, “But it needs something.”

He unfastens a sea-shell
necklace around his own neck and carefully places it around my neck, fastening
it in the back. I place my hand over the necklace, embracing the texture of the
shells with the tips of my fingers.

“It’s nice,” I say. “Thank
you.”

“One more thing.”

He gently removes the rubber
band from my pony tail allowing my hair to fan out unrestrained over my
shoulders and down my back. He then reaches into his backpack and produces a feather
and a small piece of string. He slides the end of the feather into my hair just
above my ear and then ties it to a few strands of hair, allowing it to hang
down. He adjusts the feather so it flows in the same direction as my hair.

“That’s an eagle feather. It
brings good medicine.” 

I reach for the mirror in my
make-up kit and gaze at myself. The face I see is no longer that of a citified
woman from Philadelphia. It has been transformed into the likeness of one of those
Indian maidens seen in history books. A strange feeling envelops my entire
body. It’s as if I’ve suddenly earned the right to be here, on this sacred
land, but in the process have become burdened with all the responsibilities
that come with taking on the persona of a Native American. I wonder if I’m
worthy of it.

“Do you like it?” he says.

I study the image in the
mirror one more time, the blue and white stripes on my cheeks, my long blue hair
dangling wildly over my shoulders, the eagle feather weaved in among the
strands, and the sea-shell necklace gracefully adorning that long neglected region
of bare skin just below my neck.

“Yes, I do,” I say. “I most
certainly do.”

Fargo reaches into the canoe and once
again retrieves a pinch of tobacco holding it between his thumb and forefinger.
He raises it above his head, recites some Indian words, and then releases it to
the wind.

“Another offering?” I ask.

“A sign of respect,” he says.

“You have nice customs.”

“It was told to me when I was
young: ‘This land will never be your property, to do with whatever you wish.
You will merely borrow it from your grandchildren, and from their
grandchildren, and then you will return it as you have received it.’”

“Yes, I’ve heard a variation
of that.”

“But do you believe it?” he
says, and then peers at me with the most haunting stare. What does he want me
to do? Should I apologize for the legions of Europeans that scavenged Indian
land for whatever it would give up, and then, when it would give up no more,
extend their reach to even more Indian land? Is he holding me accountable, in
some strange way, for the actions of my great-great grandparents who came to
this country eons ago to make a better life?

But I am spared. Fargo swings
the quiver over his shoulder, picks up his bow, and then starts for the trail.

What about the canoe?” I ask.

He turns to face me.

“What about it?”

“Is it safe there, right out
in the open?”

“This is tribal land. No one
comes here except my brothers. See that mark,” he says, pointing to a symbol
near the front of the canoe which resembles a white snake with a zig-zag body
and its mouth wide open. “The entire tribe knows that mark and they know it
belongs to me. It could stay here a year and no one would even touch it.”

I nod in agreement and then
Fargo proceeds to walk down the trail at a brisk pace. I struggle to keep up,
putting to the test all the exercise I endured over the last decade sprinting
from class to class. We cover several miles and then the forest is replaced by
a grassy meadow. There are random clumps of trees scattered between the wide
open spaces but mostly knee-high grass. Another half mile of this and then
Fargo stops.

“Keep down,” he says, and
then crouches behind some tall grass. I follow his example.

“What is it?” I ask.

“Turkeys... over there,” he
whispers, pointing to a clump of trees.

I look, but don’t see
anything.

“Where?”

“Stay here,” he says.

I maintain my position behind
the tall grass as he works his way closer, crawling on his elbows. I peek
through gaps in the grass, try to keep him in sight. He is now about twenty
yards from the trees. I see him place an arrow in the bow keeping it parallel
with the ground, and then pulls back on the string. He sights down the arrow
and then lets it go.

A half-dozen large brown
birds, turkeys I guess, flutter noisily into the air disturbing the tranquility
of the meadow. In seconds the birds are gone, disappearing over the horizon.
That is, all except one. I stand up and can see it on the ground, frantically
flapping its wings, trying to get airborne, but without success.

And then I realize why;
there’s an arrow through its neck. Fargo sprints over to the struggling bird
and with one elegant stroke, slices off its head with the machete. The body
drops to the ground instantly. He then raises his outstretched arms to the sky,
pointing the machete at the clouds, and cries out some Indian words I don’t
understand. I rush to his side.

“What’s the matter?” I ask.

“It’s our custom to apologize
to the animal’s spirit for taking its life,” he says, and proceeds to pick up
the headless bird by the feet. He holds it at arm’s length allowing the blood
to drain into the soil. I shield my eyes and look away.

“This bothers you?” he asks.

“I don’t like blood. It
creeps me out.”

“You wouldn’t make a good
hunter,” he says with a smile.

The blood stops dripping, and
Fargo places the fowl onto a patch of dry grass. He gently eases the arrow out
of the neck. I notice this turkey is smaller than the ones you see up north and
the brown feathers blend in well with the dry vegetation. I would have never
noticed those turkeys if he hadn’t pointed them out, that is, until they
started flying. And it’s amazing how well they do fly, just like any other
large bird. Very different from the turkeys I’ve seen in captivity.

Fargo wipes the bloody arrow
on the grass to clean it off and then places it into the quiver. He walks over
and retrieves his bow which had been left where he was crouching in the high
grass. He returns the machete to the leather holder hanging from his belt, and
then, picks up the bird.

“We go back now,” he says.

We retrace our steps up the
same trail but in the opposite direction. After a short hike, we arrive at an
intersection. I hadn’t noticed the adjoining trail the first time through as it
was obscured by overgrowth, but from this angle, it was plainly in sight. Fargo
takes the new trail and I follow close behind.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“To get fruit.”

“And what about vegetables?”

“Vegetables too.”

We travel about a
quarter-mile and then Fargo leads me off the trail to a clearing. He puts down
the bird, drops to his knees, and then uses his Bowie knife to break up the
dirt. He digs a hole with a branch, clears the dirt away with his fingers, and
removes an orange-colored root. He hands the root to me.

“What is it?” I ask.

“Sweet potato.”

“These grow natural?”

“Some do. But these were
planted by my people during the dark days.”

“The dark days?”

“When they were hiding from
Federal troops,” he says. 

“What happened?”

“What happened was the Indian
Removal Act of 1830.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know much
about it,” I say.

“You’ve heard of the Trail of
Tears.”

“Yes.”

“When Andrew Jackson was
president, he ignored a ruling by the Supreme Court and instead, ordered
Federal troops to push my ancestors, the Creek, off their own beautiful lands
and onto barren reservations west of the Mississippi. It was a wasteland, so
poor we couldn’t even feed ourselves.”

“So how did they get here?”

“They escaped. Florida was ideal
because the swampland impeded the troops and provided places to hide. But they
came here mostly because there was nowhere else to go.”

“But if your ancestors were
Creek... why are they called Seminoles?”

“The word, ‘Seminole’ comes
from simanoli, a Creek word meaning the runaways. We see ourselves as the ‘free
people’ because we never surrendered to anyone or were forced to sign a treaty.”

“Good for your ancestors,” I
say.

“Life in Florida was tough in
the 1800’s. The heat and mosquitoes were relentless, but even more so for the
Federal troops. Their heavy uniforms slowed them down, made them easy targets.
The harsh environment is what kept us free.”

Fargo goes back to breaking
up the earth with his knife and pulls out three more roots. He hands me the
sweet potatoes and then pushes the loose dirt back into the hole.

“Is that all you’re getting?”

“We take only what we need,”
he says.

I place the roots into the
leather bag and then Fargo approaches a bush about six feet high with
quarter-sized dark green leaves. He picks a couple of the fruits, pops one in
his mouth and then hands one to me.

“Coco-Plum,” he says.

They look like Concord grapes
having a deep purple color and are about the same size. I study the fruit for a
few seconds then pop it in my mouth.

“Be careful of the pit,” he
says, as I crunch down and almost break a tooth.

“It’s almost all pit,” I say.

“Yeah, but worth it.”

I take the fruit out of my
mouth and use my teeth to scrape off the soft edible part. He’s right; it looks
and tastes like coconut, with a hint of almond, and I love both. I consume a
few more and place a dozen into the food bag for later.

Fargo leads me from bush to
bush and from tree to tree collecting fruits and vegetables until the leather
bag is completely filled up. Altogether, we’ve managed to accumulate, wild
oranges, mangos, avocados, blueberries, pine nuts, swamp apples, sea grapes,
tallow plums, arugula, passion fruit, dandelion roots, wild mustard, and
poor-man’s pepper. And this is in addition to the sweet potatoes and
coco-plums.

“I think we have enough,” I
say.

“Okay. We fish now.”

He hacks his way through the
underbrush with his machete until we encounter another trail, different from
the first one. We follow the trail for several miles and then I see the water’s
edge. The canoe is right where we left it. I place the leather bag with the
fruits and vegetables into the canoe and step aside giving Fargo all the space
he needs to drag the canoe into the water. He signals me to get in and then
wades into knee-deep water pulling the canoe behind him. He steps inside, then
pushes off with the oar.

Fargo paddles
through the swamp for about twenty minutes and then maneuvers the canoe between
two closely-spaced Cypress trees until it wedges between the trunks. He climbs
over the side and lowers himself into the water carefully, without making a
splash.
The water appears to
be about five feet deep and he is able to stand on the sandy bottom with his
shoulders just above the surface. I dip my hand into the water and swish it
around a bit testing the temperature. The water looks so inviting I was
thinking of joining him, but it’s just a bit too cold for me this time of year.

I’m just about to ask him
where he’s going when he holds his finger to his lips telling me to be quiet.

“Hand me the spear,” he says
in a whisper.

I slide the spear out of its
storage space at the bottom of the canoe and study it in fascination. The shaft
is thin, about the diameter of my finger, and perfectly smooth and straight. It
appears to be about seven feet long. At one end there’s a slender metal point
about six inches long tied to the shaft with thin strips of rawhide. The metal
end glistens in the sunlight as I rotate it back and forth. I flick my thumb
over the edge of the blade in several places testing the sharpness.

“Watch it. It’s as sharp as a
razor,” he says.

“I can see that,” I say, in
surprise.

I hand the spear to Fargo and
then he ducks under the crystal clear water swimming effortlessly toward a
group of Cypress about thirty feet away. I momentarily lose sight of him, but
then see him come up for air. He slips under water again, and then, a few
minutes later, stands up, holding the spear above his head. At the end of the
spear is a fish, about eighteen inches long, with the metal point clear through
its body. Fargo comes back to the canoe, pushes the fish off the spear, and
lets it drop right next to me. It flops around a bit at first, but then quiets
down. I’m no expert on fish, but it looks like a Largemouth Bass.

“Nice catch,” I say.

“Let’s make it three,” he
says, and then swims over to the same group of Cypress.

A few minutes later he’s back
with two more fish, drops them into the canoe, and then, climbs in himself. He
rinses off the spear, dries it with a rag, and places it in its storage space
at the bottom of the canoe.

He pushes the oar against the
tree trunk freeing the canoe, and then, paddles back through the swamp to the
place where we left the airboat. Up ahead I see the old gator we passed on the
way in and he’s still there on that same partially-submerged log basking in the
sun. We pass it without incident, but I do see his eyes open for a moment and
check us out. But Fargo was right; he’s not interested in us. He’s already had
his fill and just wants to be left alone to digest his meal.

Twenty minutes pass, and then
we come upon the same sandy bank we originally set out from. Fargo steers the
canoe towards the beach and lets it glide up onto the shoreline until it stops.
He hops into the water and then drags the canoe farther up the bank so I can
disembark without getting my feet wet. I grab the food bag and my own personal
stuff and step out of the canoe. Fargo slides the canoe into the bushes, rolls
it bottom-up so rain water can’t collect inside, and then places his spear, bow
and arrow, and a few other items under the canoe to keep them safe and dry.

I follow Fargo back to the
cove and then we both climb into the airboat. He uses the long pole to push it
through the branches and out into the lake. We get into open water and then he
climbs into his seat preparing to start the engine.

“Can I see the springs?” I
ask.

“Oh yeah, the springs. I
almost forgot,” he says.

Fargo starts the engine,
slams the throttle forward, and in seconds we’re skimming over the water at
sixty miles per hour in the direction of his cabin.