The Beat - Chapter 6 - Rated PG-13

[Penina Spinka]

The Beat – Chapter 6 by Penina Spinka


I didn’t know what I expected to see or overhear. Chances were everyone was fast asleep and I wouldn’t pick up anything, but I walked in the direction Sam indicated. If the Turtles were like the Birchtree Clan, one of their homes belonged to the elders of the family. Subsidiary families, most likely directed by the first, inhabited the other houses in the vicinity. Perhaps it was not the main Turtle house that was giving Mrs. Birchtree and Matthew cause for alarm. The intrigue might be coming from someone else.

I kept on the path walking in old footprints. The snow was soft enough to cushion the sound of my boots. A dog set to growling and barking. I flung myself up to a high branch of a tall oak tree and waited. Before someone came out to inspect or calm the dog, I growled back. The dog yelped at the perceived menace, and hurried to take shelter hunched up in the corner of a woodshed. The animal trembled in fright, but continued to bark out the alarm.

Its owner exited the house, closing a heavy storm door quietly behind him. He was a big man in a camouflage coat, and carrying a rifle. He looked around first, found his dog, and then pulled it out of the shed by its ruff. I heard him say, “I’m here now. What did you see? Was it a bear? What did you hear, boy? Is it still here?”

The dog continued to whine and bark, sniffing the air for my scent, while the man walked as silently as a man can walk. He checked the outbuildings and circled the yard, his rifle cocked and ready to fire at the first noise. I did not want to be on the wrong end of that rifle. The slug wouldn’t kill me, but it would knock me out of the tree and hurt like hell. Besides, I didn’t want to explain what I was doing up his tree.

The dog located me, lifted its nose to my perch and barked again. I stood on the branch and pressed myself against the trunk. The branch hid my eyes from the man’s sight which was good since they must have been glowing. I concentrated on just one thought and did my best to project it. If the man’s senses allowed it through, I hoped he would catch my suggestion and act on it. There’s nothing here, only squirrels.

“There’s nothing there,” said the man, looking directly at me. “You’re barking at squirrels again. Be quiet.” He dragged the dog inside and let the storm door slam loudly behind him.

When he was gone, I took an unneeded breath and exhaled my relief. As little as I wanted to be discovered, the dog had done me a favor. No one was sleeping quite so soundly any more. People were more likely to be annoyed and talking. I did not come down, but extended my hearing to pick up any voices speaking in the nearby houses. To my good fortune, I was rewarded with conversations.

“Sam’s back. I saw him drive up in that fancy car. He’s got a guest with him again, another White. He’s always bringing home those trashy musicians to show them the Native way of life.” It was the man’s voice.

“He thinks we’re a living museum. What else do you expect from him? He’s a bad influence to the young people,” an older woman said.

“He ought to say down there in New York City. It’s the right place for him,” another woman’s voice added. This one sounded answered younger, probably his wife. That was the gist of that conversation.

I was about to descend when I heard another voice from another house. My tree was kind of central to all of them. Again, I mentally thanked the dog. “I’ll bet his grandmother called him home. The Birchtree matriarch has to kick the bucket any time now. How long can an eighty-five your old hang on?” Hanging onto the tree, I wondered about that myself. As long as I need to, I told myself.

“Do you think she’s going to want Sam to take over for her?

“She’s wanted it for years, but he won’t do it, no matter what she wants. The trouble is, he’ll probably stay around to make sure Matthew is given the position.”

“He can’t if Matthew isn’t as strong as Jacques. The boy’s too young. If Sam wanted it, he could give Jacques a run for his money.”

“The old ways aren’t good enough for Sam. I say good riddance to him when he goes back to his other village, Greenwich Village. He’s a tourist attraction himself down there, and he likes it.”

Voices came from yet another house. “But what about the boy? What does he want to do?”

“It won’t matter. The kid isn’t up to the responsibility - too young and not completely trained. The old woman can’t stop hoping she’ll get Sam to come around. That’s why she waited too long to begin training Matthew. Jacques will know what to do. He’s good. They say he’s so good that when animals talk to each other, he knows what they’re saying.”

I refreshed my mental shield, not wanting my thoughts to be overheard. I never needed to know about such things in Los Angles, but this place was crawling with mind-listeners with varying degrees of ability. At least it seemed that way to me. If Jacques Turtle was trying, he might penetrate my thoughts. Sam might be accepting of me, and his grandmother didn’t ask questions. Whatever she knew or guessed, she trusted Sam. I could not count on that from the others.

The older woman left them and the couple settled down to sleep. I wondered where Jacques Turtle lived and what he might be scheming, if anything. I waited a while longer, but all I heard was snores. It seemed there was no more for me to learn tonight. I lowered myself through the branches until I was low enough to drop without making a sound. It was still dark, but the moon had set and the constellations were nearly through with their cycle. Dawn would come soon when I would have to find shelter.

I slipped into Sam’s window, left it open a little and pulled the drapes together in front of it. The back of the house faced east meaning the early morning light would seep through. I added the sheet to Sam’s curtain, since it was not as opaque as his drapes at the apartment, wrapped myself in my coat and slid under Sam’s bed, pressing myself close to his wall. The shade would give me enough protection. Before I slept, I thought about what I’d overheard. Was there actually a threat? Mrs. Birchtree seemed to think so. The council meeting was coming up shortly, now that Sam was back home. I didn’t have enough to go on to solve a premeditated ‘accident’ if that is what someone was planning. Nothing had happened yet.

Sam stirred uneasily on the mattress just above me. “Mick. Are you here?” he whispered.

“Yes,” I replied just as softly. He sat up and looked around, seeing nothing but darkness. The window was shaded more than normally. “Here I am.” I climbed out and sat beside him on the bed. “Dawn is coming,” I said to explain the window. “I was under your bed to avoid it.”

Sam took my arm in his warm hands, holding it to ascertain exactly where I was. He felt the cold of the outside on me although I didn’t. “Are you all right?” he asked. I told him not to worry; no one had seen me. “What did you hear?” His whisper was like the predawn breeze moving through dry leaves.

“The Turtle family wants someone named Jacques Turtle to be the next head shaman when your grandmother retires. They say you don’t want the position and Matthew is still too untrained, so there’s no choice.”

“They’re right. But why does my grandmother feel like there is danger brewing?”

“My guess is that people think your grandmother will try to foist Matthew on them. They don’t trust you or anyone from your family to do what’s right for this community. They want to make sure nothing stands in Jacque’s way. Some of them are afraid you’ll change your mind, get voted in, and set up the reservation like a tourist attraction, like the people here are displays in a museum.”

“Ah. I should have guessed,” Sam said. He covered his eyes and swayed like I imagined a Hindu mystic in a trance might do. “I see a gambling casino in our future, and a hotel. We can sell nasty souvenirs to remind visitors of our dark past. Maybe we’ll serve deer blood at the bar, with vodka - real Bloody Marys. Lots of neon lights would help; don’t you think?” I looked at him to see if he was serious. “I’m joking,” he said.

“Not funny, not funny at all,” I said. “I nearly believed you. The sun is up. I have to get into the dark.” I moved quickly. Sam opened the window to let in the cold air, then ducked down and tucked his quilt around the bottom of the bed to shield me better from any rays that might make it through the curtains. “Thank you,” I said. “I haven’t been tucked in lately.” He snickered, and then I was out.

It was late afternoon when my eyes opened. My cave-like shelter under the bed did not bring me the sound of Sam’s heartbeat. I was alone. I spread the quilt on the bed again, and then looked for my cooler. Only two bags of blood remained. Sam had my Freeze Paks frozen again and they were doing a fine job of keeping my supplies cold. The sheet and the curtains still blocked the daylight.

I removed the sheet from the window and folded it, laying it nearly over Sam’s quilt. Sunlight was more bearable this late in the day. I dressed before I walked out the door, looking for the bathroom. One of the Birchtree men was nearby. He wished me a good morning with a knowing smirk. “Musician’s hours?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said with an embarrassed smile. “It is okay if I use the shower?”

“The water will be cold,” he said. “We only heat it in the morning.”

“I don’t mind.”

Clean, shaved, and dressed, I walked into the kitchen. Sam was alone in there - finishing up a big breakfast of eggs, pancakes, and meat. The simmered deer meat had been sliced and fried, then drenched with maple syrup. “My mother spoils me when I’m home.” He looked up at me. “Anything I can get you?”

I looked around and listened to make sure no one was around. We were the only ones in the house. “Yes. There is something. I’ll get it myself.” I looked for the refrigerator and found it. The blood was in a jelly jar. I sniffed it, and lifted it before the window to see if there was any separation. There was, so I twirled the jar between my hands to mix the blood. Once I was satisfied, I drank without stopping until the jar was empty. “I was really thirsty.” I wiped my mouth and licked my knuckles clean, then rinsed out the glass and left it in the drain to dry. “I can survive on this if I have to. It’s actually pretty good. No preservatives. What did I miss while I was sleeping?”

“The council meeting is scheduled for sunset. After I wash the dishes, let’s poke around and see if we can find out what people are saying in the daylight.”

[wollstonecraft61]

I can see Mick doing all of these things. This is kind of like a Michael Gear novel, those being set in the Southwest, usually alternating between the past and the present. I love this kind of writing. Penina, I am glad I found this.

[Penina Spinka]

Thank you for your comments. I think I read a Gear book once. Doesn't he write with his wife about many Native cultures of the past? I have a Canadian Native friend who challenged me to write a story about a vampire and a Mohawk who drinks deer blood on occasion. He thought he was going to get me to stop obsessing about Mick. Fat chance.

[coco]

Still loving this Penina.

“Ah. I should have guessed,” Sam said. He covered his eyes and swayed like I imagined a Hindu mystic in a trance might do. “I see a gambling casino in our future, and a hotel. We can sell nasty souvenirs to remind visitors of our dark past. Maybe we’ll serve deer blood at the bar, with vodka - real Bloody Marys. Lots of neon lights would help; don’t you think?” I looked at him to see if he was serious. “I’m joking,” he said.

“Not funny, not funny at all,” I said. “I nearly believed you. The sun is up. I have to get into the dark.” I moved quickly. Sam opened the window to let in the cold air, then ducked down and tucked his quilt around the bottom of the bed to shield me better from any rays that might make it through the curtains. “Thank you,” I said. “I haven’t been tucked in lately.” He snickered, and then I was out.

[wollstonecraft61]

Thank you for your comments. I think I read a Gear book once. Doesn't he write with his wife about many Native cultures of the past? I have a Canadian Native friend who challenged me to write a story about a vampire and a Mohawk who drinks deer blood on occasion. He thought he was going to get me to stop obsessing about Mick. Fat chance.

Yes, he does, her name is Kathleen O'Neal. I love how they interweave modern stories in with the stories of the past, particularly in the Native tribes cultures. Also, Gear is an archaeologist, so his technical details on archaeology are fascinating. Don't stop writing about Mick. You're too good!

[Penina Spinka]

Thanks for saying so. I use research in both my professional and my fan writing, and history makes the best backdrop. Thank you for reading and commenting.
Penina

[darkstarrising]

So Mick has done a bit of reconnaissance and found a possible source of the threat Mrs. Birchtree spoke of. There's a great line in this chapter that had me chuckling

I was about to descend when I heard another voice from another house. My tree was kind of central to all of them. Again, I mentally thanked the dog. “I’ll bet his grandmother called him home. The Birchtree matriarch has to kick the bucket any time now. How long can an eighty-five your old hang on?” Hanging onto the tree, I wondered about that myself. As long as I need to, I told myself.

Pure Mick! Off to read more!