The Forest People

Chapter 1

Bill Taylor swore as the wrench slipped again. Skin tore off his cold fingers as his hand scraped down the rippled edge of the radiator. Sucking his knuckles, he kicked the fender of the old Ford truck. 

What a hell of a time for a water pump to go out, he swore at himself as if it was his fault. Above the whistle of the wind, he could hear his child crying, a soul tearing sound that had  been going on for two days and nights.

He buttoned his heavy jacket, pulled his shirt out and wrapped his hand in his shirttail, and headed for the house. Even in the short distance from the garage to the house, the cold wind burned his ears and pulled at the unbuttoned coat.

The door slammed behind him as he stomped the snow off his boots.

Any change, Honey? he asked, looking toward a frail woman rocking back and forth in an old rocker. She was holding a child of four who looked whiter than the snow outside.

Bill, if you don’t get that truck started, I don’t know what we’re going to do. We got to go get some help, she said, her voice breaking as it died into sobs.

The truck ain’t gonna start. I got the water pump half off and broke two bolts. Now I can’t get the damn thing on or off, he said. I may have to hike to Ray Perkins place and see if he can call a doctor.

That’s eighteen miles, his wife said in a strained voice, And looks like more weather coming down from the mountains.

I don’t know what else to do, he said. If we can hold out till morning, at least I’d have daylight. Maybe the weather might clear a little.

He warmed his hands over the stove, and damned the weather and his misfortune again. He removed his jacket, went into the bedroom and sat on the side of the bed.

Hours later Bill bolted upright. He had fallen asleep lulled by the warmth of the cabin. Something had awakened him from a fitful sleep. It was pitch black except for the sliver of light under the door The only sound was the wind wailing and snow hitting the glass window. He strained to hear the baby crying softly. His left hand throbbed from the cut knuckles.

Must have been the damn wind, he muttered, but uneasiness crept in and stayed with him.

BANG....BANG.....BANG.

By God, there’s someone at the door.

He jumped up and ran from the room; almost tripped over his wife asleep in the rocker waking her.

What is it Bill? What’s wrong? Panic rose in her voice.

Don’t worry, Honey. Must be someone lost to be out there this time of night.  Reaching the door, he unlatched it and pulled it part way open.

Who is it? he called

Before he could finish speaking, a big mittened hand grasped the edge of the door, pushed, forcing Bill away from the entrance.

What the hell?

The door swung open, and the biggest man Bill had ever seen stepped in and closed the door. He stood there, fur covering him from head to toe. A ring of dark fur all but hid his face. Two big hands reached up and pulled the parka hood off his head. The man was an Indian, a very big Indian.

What the hell do you want? Taylor finally found his voice, and what the hell are you doing out on a night like this anyway? 

The big Indian didn’t answer. He just stood and looked around the room. His gaze stopped on Mrs. Taylor holding her child. He just stared, with deep black eyes that didn’t seem to blink.

Bill, what does he want? the woman’s voice was a coarse whisper.

Baby is sick, said the Indian, in a voice like someone talking through a big drainpipe. Will die soon if not treated.

The woman clutched the young boy even closer. 

Oh Bill, what is he saying? Little Charlie ain’t gonna die. Tears flooded her eyes.  These were the very words she hadn’t wanted to say to her husband.

Before Bill could answer, the big man walked to the table. He moved his hand and everything seemed to slide altogether to one end. He took off the fur mittens and they hung from a cord around his neck. Lay boy here, he instructed. His voice was clear with a tone that was not to be questioned.

The woman looked to her husband, wanting to get up, but looked to him for approval to make sure it was all right.

Bill shrugged his shoulders and nodded his head, I guess it can’t hurt.

The man lifted the baby from his mother’s arms and placed him on the table. Big hands gently pulled up the night shirt and placed an index finger here and there along the boy’s chest and stomach. The large brown fingers were almost black against the boy’s white body. Going about his task as though he were alone with his patient he hummed. The sound pitched low and high as his hands skillfully examined the sick child. Taking both small feet in one hand and placing the other over them he hummed. Now the humming stayed on one note, filling the kitchen with an eerie sound that lasted a good minute.

Need boy to lie on bed, spoke the man.

The woman jumped, not because the voice was harsh, but it came unexpected as she watched the two at the table.

This way, Bill said pointing to a small bed just inside the bedroom door. 

The big man picked up the child as one might a piece of down. As gentle as any mother would her child. He carried the boy and placed him on the bed, covering him.  He then bent down and lifted the quilt off the boy’s feet.  From within his coat, still buttoned, he pulled out a small jar of white salve. He dipped a finger full, and smeared it on the palm of his hand, then rubbed his two hands together very fast, heating the white substance. The man applied the warm ointment to the boy’s feet. Again, the hand disappeared into the coat and came out with a small roll of white cloth. He wrapped the child’s feet and pulled the covers back over them. 

He held the white salve out to the woman. Wash feet tomorrow night, then put on medicine. Do same for three days. Now need good fire.

The stove still had a little warmth left, and Bill put kindling in to get it back to life. 

The man unbuttoned his coat and pulled it off, looking like a huge bird spreading its wings. Holding the collar in one hand, he pulled things out of the pockets with the other. A wooden bowl, a knife, and more white cloth. Small bottles, a big onion, dried leaves, an assortment of other things that were unidentifiable, and put everything on the table. The fire was burning nicely, warming up the kitchen. The mother opened the two bedroom doors to let some of the heat circulate.

Put some coffee on, dear, Bill said to his wife, and turned to their visitor. Would you care for a cup?

The man nodded once for yes, then sat down near the table.

I didn’t get your name. I’m Bill Taylor, and this is my wife Maryann, and the boy is our son Charlie.

The big man just nodded once and turned to the table. He picked up the knife, and cut the top part off the large onion, then cored it. He sat the onion in the bowl and opened several of the jars, pouring a little from each jar into the onion. Then he placed a half dozen or so of the leaves and other dried matter into his hands. Rubbing his two big hands together, a fine powder sifted out, and into the onion.

Stepping over to the stove, he opened the oven door, and placed the bowl on the oven rack. Satisfied, he closed the door, then walked back and sat at the table. 

Maryann looked at the big man at their table. Loose black hair hung down to his shoulders. He wore a deerskin jacket with beads that marked the chest and sleeves, buckskin pants with fringe, tucked into high top buckskin boots.  He looked very out of place sitting at their table.

The coffee began to perk, and the tiny plop, plop, plop, sounded like a drum roll in the stillness of the house.   

Maryann got mugs down from the cupboard and poured them full. No milk or sugar offered, and neither man asked for any. She gave each man a cup, and sat back down. With both hands wrapped around her cup, she began to sip the hot liquid. Without seeming to stare, Maryann studied their uninvited guest. She had questions, but didn’t want to ask. How did he know little Charlie was sick? They hadn’t seen anyone for ten days or more. What kind of medicine was he brewing? Could they trust this man?

As if her husband had read her thoughts, he looked at the man.

How did you know we needed help? he asked.

Heard crying in the wind, he answered, in the same strong, soft voice.

Heard it in the wind Bill thought to himself. Hell, it was blowing a gale out there, and I could hardly hear the baby when I was outside the door.

Whatever was cooking in the oven filled the kitchen with a pleasing aroma.

The guest downed the last of his coffee, then nodded to Maryann, stood, walked to the stove and opened the oven door. He inserted a small stick into the bowl, and then touched it to his lips. With a soft grunt, which they took as O.K. he carried it to the table. Spreading the white cloth out, he dumped the contents of the bowl in the center of it. Wrapping the onion very carefully, he twisted each end of the cloth, squeezing the onion as he twisted. A dark juice began to dribble into the bowl. When finished, he took another piece of cloth and stretched it across the mouth of an empty jar. The dark juice strained into the jar, filling it three quarters full. When he finished, he turned and went in where the boy lay, taking the jar with him. 

Gently, the big Indian folded back the quilt to the boy’s waist, he poured some of the medicine into his hand. He began to apply the dark mixture to the child’s white skin. The young face with sunken black eyes stared up at the big man and seemed to sense the goodness, or the power, and completely relaxed. When the man finished, he pulled the covers back over the boy. He bent down and placed a hand under the boy’s head, holding the jar to the boy’s lips. It sounded like he whispered, drink. The boy took a couple of small swallows, followed by a little cough. Again a whispered good. There seemed to be a small smile on the little white face. Getting up, the man stepped into the kitchen, and the couple followed him out. 

Give little every hour ‘till all gone.  No feed him ‘till medicine gone. Boy be fine, said the visitor, as he placed the jar in Maryann’s hands. 

He picked everything off the table and put them carefully in the pockets of the coat. Turning to the husband, he held out a small jar.

Wash hands. Put on thick. Cover for one day. Hand be good again. 

Thank you, Bill said, taking the jar in his good hand. I sure would like to pay you for what you done, or at least have you stay the night anyway. It’s colder than Hades out there.

Without replying, the Indian pulled the parka hood over his head. He stood there a moment and looked at the man and woman, nodded, gave a soft grunt,

then turned and went out into the night.  The door opened and closed somehow without the usual blast of cold air.

Bill and Maryann looked at each other wondering if everything that had happened in the past three hours really happened.  They stared at the little jars that each held.

The snow had turned to sleet, pounding on the roof and windows like thousands of small rocks. The two pair of tracks, one small and one very large leaving the Taylor’s cabin and would soon be covered, leaving no tales

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Chapter 2. 

Carl Watson, the chief ranger looked over at the young man getting coffee. Young and eager.

‘I can remember when I was just like that kid,’ he thought. He was fifty-three years old, punchy around the middle, and a face he couldn’t believe was his when he looked in the mirror. Two more years and I can do as I please. Oh well, one of these young bucks will take over, I guess. If they stick it out. 

Every couple of years he would get new people to teach about his part of the country.  The mountains to him were a special place,. Some of the new people had never been up here before, like William (Willie) Grant, his newest recruit. He was from the National Park in Florida. He was tall and willowy, with sandy hair, blue eyes, and an easy going manner. This meeting had been his three-month review.

Willie placed a cup of steaming coffee on the chief’s desk, and was about to ask some questions that concerned the afternoon work load, when Cedric Peters , the office manager opened the door and stuck his head in. 

"Scuse’ me, Sir, some boys out here got some problems with deer with broke necks or something. They seem riled up. Can you see them? I’m on the radio with Benson, up in section B.

Sure Ced, about through in here anyway, send them in, he said. Willie, you might as well stay and listen in on this. Hunting season is almost here and we’ll hear some of the damnest stories about these mountains and weird things that happen up here. We can start with those guys out there. 

Two men hurried into the room. Both wore hunter plaid jackets and jeans. Each had on a ball cap.  The taller one looked older, about forty five or so, six feet tall with a scrubby beard and a weathered face. The shorter fellow looked a few years younger and a little heavier, with a ruby tint to his skin, as if he’d been out in the sun too long or stood too close to a raging fire. Both seemed agitated.

Good day, gents. Want to have a seat and tell me what seems to be the problem?

Ain’t a problem, the tall one said, with a southern accent, just want to tell somebody what we saw up on that mountain, and figure out what the hell it was.

O.K. the ranger said, reaching for a pad and pen, Start with your names, where you’re from, and tell us what you saw. Something about a deer with a broke neck?

Twisted, damn it, not broke. Twisted like a heavy rope. 

Well, a bear will sometimes break a deer’s neck if he can get a hold of one.

Twirn’t no bear, plus ain’t no bear gonna sling a full grow’d deer over his shoulder and take off, said the tall man. The voice was a growl as he leaned forward aggressively on the ranger’s desk.

Whoa, whoa, Carl yelled, as he threw down the pen and got to his feet. How about starting from the start and tell me what the hell you are talking about. And sit down, for God’s sake.

Both men pulled chairs a