Sorry it has been a while since I posted any stories or poems. I am proud to announce that I won second place in the
adult short story contest sponsored by the Writer's Guild of the
Okefenokee Heritage Center here in South Georgia in November 2017. The story is posted here for your enjoyment. If you enjoy it please go to the Amazon.com kindle store and download my eBook
"Huntin' Trouble". It has several similar stories in it. Enjoy!
A Touch of the Past
“Hey grandpa, what’s this?”
The old man slowly turned from his
work, his hand poised to drop the next few watermelon seeds into the freshly
turned Georgia soil.
His smiling face revealed clearly
his love for his ten year old grandson. “Looks like an old clay pipe, buddy,”
he answered as he drew near. “And look here!” the excited child almost shouted
in his excitement. His hand shot upwards with what was left of a small rusted
knife blade. “Well!”, his grandfather said, ”Looks like you have found a
treasure, for sure.”
Turning the knife over slowly, he
noted how rusted the blade was, the tip now long gone as was the handle.
Turning his attention to the simple clay pipe, he noted the roughly scratched
outline of what could have been a deer on the small bowl of the pipe. As he
slowly turned it in his hands, he suddenly realized where they was standing.
This was the spot, he remembered, where he had once cut down an old oak tree
which had long stood silent watch over this corner of his yard. He had worked
long and hard to first dig, then burn, then dig again to remove the tree’s
stubborn stump. The old tree had been long dying and hollowed out inside. Undoubtedly
the pipe and knife had been inside or underneath that old tree’s base. “Well
now,” he slowly said, as his very curious grandson kicked the clumps of soil
around, seeking more treasure.
“Grandpa, who do you think lost
these things?” he asked. “Well, buddy, I’m just not sure but this is the exact
spot where that old oak was standing. It may be that someone long ago hid them
in a hollow space at the base of the tree.” “Wow!” the excited child almost
shouted as he reached for the pipe. ”Reckon it was an Indian or like a bank
robber or somebody like that?”
His grandfather chuckled answering,
”Who knows? But in the very early 1800’s there was a little settlement a couple
of miles from here called Kettle Creek. It was named after that little creek
just down the road yonder. There was an old Indian trail which crossed the
creek there and the early settlers used it. Actually, there were Indian trails
all over these parts. That Kettle Creek settlement is where the first school
Ware County ever had was started by a man who was a surveyor.”
“Ah, I hate school,” his grandson muttered.
“Reckon the old school teacher lost this?” he asked. Again, the old man
chuckled. “I doubt it. This is more like something an Indian or a frontiersman
might use. A highly educated man probably would have had one a bit fancier, but
who knows? Sure is gettin’ hot here in the sun, let’s ease over to the shade
while we think about this treasure you’ve found. Think I’ve got a couple of
apples we can snack on.”
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
The old whitetail buck suddenly
lifted his head and froze in position. His ear twitched nervously as he
attempted to sort out the message his senses were bringing him. In a nearby
oak, two busy squirrels noted his sudden movement and sat up on their haunches
suddenly alert, noses twitching. A silent gray rat snake, making his way
quietly up the side of the oak searching for a meal, even seemed to hesitate.
Suddenly, the buck bolted away, tail held high! The squirrels began their
warning barks to the world and scampered up higher in the tree. The silent
snake continued on, oblivious to the goings on of the larger animals, his black
tongue flicking in and out gathering the scent of the squirrels. Soon, the
source of the buck’s alarm came slowly into view. An injured Creek warrior
limped through the scattered palmettos and pines.
Spying the oak, he limped toward it
and settled at its base, gently dropping his spear by his side. Slowly, he
removed the small bag hanging from his shoulder and let it fall beside the
spear. He still held tightly to his fighting knife as he leaned back,
exhausted. Gradually his eyes closed as sleep conquered his fevered mind and
body.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
“Be careful, buddy. You are about
to eat that sticker on the apple.” Laughing, the boy peeled the sticker from
the apple and replied, ”Hey, we can stick it on that old pipe for a
decoration.” The old man smiled and gently shook his head as he continued to
turn the pipe slowly in his hand as if he was willing it to tell its story.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
The afternoon passed quietly. The
rat snake, thwarted in his search for food in the oak, began his descent. The
squirrels hiding high above watched his retreat. Another pair of eyes peering
out of a well-built nest in a nearby pine also watched and then issued a
warning call to its mate. The large male red-headed woodpecker swooped to its
nest opening quickly, eyes alert for any danger. Soon, he spotted the large
snake descending the nearby oak and quickly resented his presence. The attack
was quick, loud, painful, and effective as the big male attacked his enemy. The
surprised snake jerked this way and that as he attempted to allude the pounding
beak and wings of his attacker. The violence of the attack caused the hunter to
lose his grip on the rough bark. As he fell, his long black and gray body
twisted wildly as he sought a secure grip to halt his fall. The big male flew
back to his perch atop the pine and again watched over his nesting mate.
The feverish warrior soon woke, his
mind troubled by the dream which had become so life-like that he actually
reached to brush away the hand of the young lady in his dream. His hand found
nothing to brush away as the retreating tale of the rat snake disappeared out
of reach around the side of the oak. The young warrior slowly regained full
consciousness. His mind registering the time of day as the pain of his injured
leg began to remind him of his need to reach his people soon. He had traveled
far and was very tired. And hungry. Very, very hungry.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
“Wonder why he put a picture of a
deer on his pipe?” the young boy asked, almost to himself. The way his
grandfather was looking at the pipe and slowly turning it in his hand, allowing
his fingers to feel the cool smoothness of the pipe’s surface, had had a
calming effect on the young boy. “Well,” his grandfather began, ”I guess it
depends on how old this pipe is as well as who made it. You see, buddy, long
before the white man’s priests and preachers came to these parts to teach
Christianity to the Native Americans, the Indians would often worship spirits
of different sorts and even ask for their help in life. Maybe the man who had
this was that away. Or if it is from after the time of the coming of the white
man then the Indian might have just been using the deer for a decoration and
not as a religious symbol. No way to know for sure.” “So maybe if he needed
help to run fast he might use that deer’s help?” asked the boy. “Maybe,”
replied the old man thoughtfully.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
The young warrior slowly got to his
feet. In the distance he heard the warning bark of a squirrel. He noticed the
quick darting flight of two doves as they fled through the pine tops. Someone
was coming. He reached for his spear and stood still pondering his situation.
Then, turning, he hobbled away from the oak and headed downhill. In his fevered
haste he forgot his small bag. In it were a few remaining dried grapes, a small
skinning knife, a piece of flint, his pipe and a bit of tobacco. Not much and
not anything to delay for as he fled for his life. He knew well, the white men
were coming.
They had deeply resented the raid
on the farm from which the young warrior and his companions had stolen two
horses and a hog which he soon after butchered. The warriors had believed that
the white men had gone to fight the Seminoles who were raiding along the trail
west of Waresboro. That assumption had spelled doom for their small
inexperienced band.
Word had traveled quickly and the
next morning the warriors had awakened to a hail of lead followed by slashing
knives as the settlers had their revenge.
Known by his peers as Kikikwawason (Lightening), he had used his speed
to quickly get out of sight among the nearby palmettos. The musket ball which
had hit him passed almost all the way through his thigh. It had been painful
and had slowed him down a good bit as he fled the campsite.
Now, two days later, he hobbled towards
the nearby Satilla River. He quietly entered slow moving, cool waters. The
river, a little high due to recent rains, helped carry him downstream as he
swam quietly. Gradually, he eased across the current and rounded a bend. There
he slowly hobbled out of the river onto a beautiful white sand bar. He entered
a small stand of trees growing against the somewhat higher bank on which stood
several towering oaks. Easing up the bank he headed southward. Soon, he would
be back with his small band of people. Soon he would be home.
The two white men eased carefully
through the palmettos, their horses at a walk. They knew the man they sought
was wounded. They also knew that to rush quickly through the pine forest was
unwise. Seminoles were about. Bands of them were using the nearby Okefenokee
Swamp as a base of operations as they raided the surrounding farming
settlements. As the two men moved carefully forward they stopped at the sound
of a gray squirrel’s warning bark. They saw him perched on a limb of a lone dead
pine standing in the midst of a large clump of palmettos. The two men slowly
edged closer, one nervously shifting his eyes here and there. The squirrel ran
higher up the tree. After a short fruitless search the two nervous men gave up
and turned their mounts homeward.
Up on the old dead pine, a flicking
black tongue signaled the presence of a gray rat snake as he emerged from an
empty hole in the tree long ago vacated by a woodpecker family. It was one of
several holes in the old tree. The squirrel grew frantic.
As evening fell, a hungry raccoon
emerged from a rotted out knothole high in the trunk of the oak. Climbing down
he quickly discovered a treasure of sorts, the young warrior’s small bag. The
smell of the dried grapes quickly drew his attention. Suddenly, noting the
sounds of other browsing and squabbling raccoons in the area, he picked the bag
up in his mouth and quickly returned to his hiding place in the oak to eat his
find.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
“So what will we do with them,
grandpa?” asked the boy. “Well buddy, I’m inclined to think that I’ll put them
up on the mantle above the fire place. That way folks can see them and we can
enjoy speculating on how they got in that old oak tree.” “Yeah, maybe we can
make up a good story to go with it, huh?” the boy replied. “Maybe so,” his
grandfather answered with a smile,” But now, we had better get to work planting
these watermelon seeds or grandma will skin us both.”
The little boy’s laughter drifted
across the yard as the springtime breeze rustled the leaves of the palmettos
shading a small and hungry gray rat snake busily nosing through the dead pine
needles and leaves on the ground.
The End
