The Brave Page 6

  Jake had news about Mom. “She ain’t been in the city for a while, but this art gallery sold some stuff for her and they say she’ll be checking in soon. Left a message for her to call us at the Res.”

  He hoped she wouldn’t call. Brooks had a plan for him. She could only spoil it.

  On his way out, Brooks squeezed his shoulder. It was the first friendly physical gesture he had ever made. “You listen to Jake now. He can get you strong. Those Running Braves must have been some studs.”

  “I don’t believe that stuff.”

  “I believe anything that works,” said Brooks. “Quicker you get into shape, quicker we can bring you back to the city to work out in Donatelli’s Gym.”

  “You’re serious.”

  “You think I’m blowing smoke?”

  He wanted to ask Brooks if he had used him to lead him to Stick, if he had expected him to hit Lieutenant Deeks and get into X-Men, but he didn’t want to risk an answer that would chill the warmth of the moment. So he said, “Don’t know.”

  “You’ll find out.” For an instant Brooks’ eyes seemed gentle. “I’m sorry how it’s worked out for you so far. A lot of it’s my fault.” Then the eyes hardened. “Got to go, young gentleman. Listen to Jake.”

  The drive back to the Reservation was long and hot. There was no air-conditioning in the tow truck. On the highway, with the windows open, it was too noisy to talk except in shouts. They were mostly silent until they pulled off at Sparta and headed toward the Res along back roads that became green tunnels boring through forest.

  “Tonight,” said Jake, “I want you to dream of hawks.”

  Sonny tried not to laugh. “How come?”

  “Give you vision. My grandfather was the last Running Brave. White man knew what powerful medicine it was, what it gave the Moscondaga. White man scared of it.”

  “Why?”

  “People need someone they can look up to. Just being there, the Running Braves gave people hope, strength. Gave ’em the message, You don’t have to feel bad about yourself, don’t have to drink yourself to death, don’t have to do everything the white man says. That’s why the white man broke up the Running Braves.”

  “How?”

  “Government men came, said the Running Braves was a secret society, against the law. Threatened the chiefs. Lose government money. Go to jail. And the chiefs got scared and banned the Braves.”

  He had never heard such a hard, bitter tone in Jake’s voice.

  “What happened to your grandfather?”

  “Your great-great-grandfather. Got killed by a hit-and-run driver. On the Res one morning while he was running. He never stopped running. Wanted to be ready when the Nation needed him again.” Jake began to chuckle. “Government men figured the Running Braves died with my grandfather. They didn’t know he told me all the secrets. And I been telling you.”

  11

  AN EARTHQUAKE WOKE him, a pounding that rattled his teeth, a booming “Up, get up, let’s go.” Sonny didn’t know where he was—solitary, the hospital, a dream?—until the dogs began howling at the noise.

  “LET’S GO!”

  He sat up too fast, which made him dizzy, and he jumped out of bed, which sent pain scraping down his scars. Stumbling to the window, he jammed a big toe against the wall. His brain was fogged and his eyes were blurred by sleepers.

  Jake was dancing in the moonlight.

  The old man wore only a loincloth. He waved a bunch of pine twigs in one hand. When he saw Sonny, he hollered, “Kick a stick.” He hopped lightly from bare foot to bare foot.

  “You drunk?”

  Jake tossed up a stick, caught it neatly on the instep of his left foot and kicked it to his right foot. As he hopped, he passed the stick from foot to foot. “A drunk do this? Come out.”

  Sonny climbed through the window. “What are you doing?”

  “Balance. Footwork. Concentration.” He didn’t miss a step. “First things a Running Brave learns.”

  “There are no more Running Braves.”

  “That’s what they think.” He flipped a twig at Sonny. “Here.” It bounced off Sonny’s left foot into the darkness. “’S okay. Got plenty.”

  Sonny managed to kick the next twig into the air, but he missed it coming down. He kept the third one going for two passes before he stepped on a stone and lost his rhythm.

  “This is dumb.”

  “Only if you can’t do it.” Jake kicked the twig to eye level and plucked it out of the air with his thumb and forefinger. “Take a mouthful.” He pointed the twig at a thermos on the ground. “Don’t swallow.”

  “What is it?”

  “Tea. Keep it in your mouth while you kick the stick.”

  “Why?”

  “Learn to breathe through your nose. No more questions.”

  Sonny unscrewed the thermos top. A whiff of bitter herbs raked the hairs of his nostrils. “Smells bad.”

  “Tastes bad, too. Can you hold it for three minutes? One round?”

  “Sure.” He took a slug. It burned his tongue.

  “Here.” The stick bounced away off his left foot. He got the rhythm on the next stick, nice and easy, a dance, two, three, I can do this, four, he forgot to breathe through his nose, five, he swallowed, six.

  The herb tea burned a furrow down his throat and sizzled in his stomach like molten lava.

  It erupted.

  Sonny folded forward, an uppercut to the gut, coughing and choking. Last night’s dinner bubbled up into his mouth and spilled out in a silvery pool between his feet. When he caught his breath and straightened up, Jake was juggling two sticks with his feet. He wasn’t even breathing hard.

  “Good exercise.” He kicked both sticks overhead and caught them behind his back, one-handed.

  Sonny held the second mouthful for more than a minute, kicking away six sticks before he got the timing again, eight passes before he lost the rhythm of breathing through his nose. This time he was braced for the fiery splashdown and the volcanic return, but the aftermath was worse. He retched on an empty stomach, spitting bile. He felt as though the dry heaves would split his scars open.

  “You gettin’ it,” Jake said. “Easier tomorrow.”

  The night wind prickled the sweat on Sonny’s bare skin, a sudden reminder he was wearing only the underwear briefs he had slept in. He must look as ridiculous as Jake did in his old-time leather diaper.

  “Try somethin’ else now.” Jake held his palms together, chest high, as if he were praying. “Arms out straight in front of you.”

  An old kids’ game. Sonny stretched his arms out, his hands on either side of Jake’s hands. Off to his left, first light edged the hills of Moscondaga with a pink icing. Dawn soon. Finish this stuff before people start waking up.

  “Clap your hands and squash old Jake’s paws.”

  Sonny thought of Brooks making him throw left hooks in the interrogation room. They’re always trying to show you up, humiliate you, prove older is better by putting you down. We’ll see about that. He felt a familiar feeling coming up his legs into his sore stomach.

  He started to dig his bare feet into the sandy soil for better leverage, but Jake was circling to his right with little shuffling sidesteps. The glass eyes of the auto junkyard winked back at the rising light.

  Clap.

  His palms stung. Jake had dropped his hands at the last instant.

  “Stand still.” Sonny dug in. Gonna squash your old paws.

  Clap.

  Another clean miss.

  “Ain’t just reflexes, ’cause yours are faster.”

  Clap.

  Thumbs collided, sending pain up his wrists.

  “Training. Look for the muscle twitch, eye shift, quick breath, some signal I’m gonna move my hands.”

  Clap.

  His hands felt hot.

  “Running Braves listen with their eyes, study people.” The light behind Jake rose into the sky. Sonny couldn’t see the old man’s eyes.

  Clap.

 
His arms and shoulders ached.

  “Keep ’em up,” said Jake. He was in silhouette. “Watch for signals.”

  It was dawn, the sky was a light blue and he couldn’t see Jake’s eyes. He could barely see his hands.

  Clap…clap…clap…

  His upper body was on fire, the scars had all torn open, his guts were slithering out into the dust and the rising sun blinded him.

  The monster said, Throw the hook, he’s right in front of you now, he deserves it. He swallowed the monster down and tasted his own vomit. He tricked you, he didn’t play fair, he didn’t tell you the key to the game was position. He maneuvered you into the sun.

  “Stop,” said Jake. “Learn anything?”

  “You always got to know where you are.”

  The old man grunted. “Maybe you ain’t as dumb as you look. One more little game.”

  He motioned Sonny to sit down on the ground, cross his legs. “Remember the animal alphabet?”

  “Heard it enough as a kid.”

  “Listen real close. When I’m done, I’m gonna ask you one question. Ready?”

  “Go.” He felt wide awake, his mind and body emptied and open.

  “The Creator gave the ant strength beyond its size, taught the beaver to build, the coyote to trick. The deer got speed and the elephant got a good memory. You remember all that, Sonny?”

  “Keep going.” He wasn’t going to let Jake distract him. He made a mental picture of each animal’s gift. He’d be ready when Jake asked his question.

  “Fox got slyness, goat don’t get discouraged, the hawk has vision, the iguana change color, the jackrabbit’s quick, the kangaroo got a baby pocket, the loon got a special voice, am I going too fast for you?”

  “No problem.”

  “Monkey smart, nightingale sings, owl is wise, possum can play dead, queen bee knows how to boss, the rattlesnake’s got poison, the snipe can go real deep with its bill, turtle’s steady, vulture eat anything, wolf’s got a pack, the X-ray eel can zap you good, yak’s strong and zebra’s got stripes.” Jake grinned triumphantly. “Ain’t done that in a while. So?”

  “So what’s the question?”

  “Just asked it. What didn’t you hear?” Jake chuckled and rocked on his bony haunches. “Something missing. What?”

  Another trick. Sonny felt suddenly small and stupid. “I don’t know.”

  “The letter u. No creature for u.” Jake slapped his knee. “People can only think of one thing at a time. You can confuse ’em, set ’em off in another direction. But a Running Brave got to be thinking everything all the time.”

  “I had enough.” Sonny stood up. What am I doing here in my underpants in the middle of this sad-ass slum with an old crazy? “This isn’t going to work.”

  “Running Braves concentrate, listen, think.”

  “You’re just getting off on me, Jake. Sticks and clapping and kids’ games. You’ve seen too many movies. Think this is some kind of Redskin Karate Kid?”

  “Japs smart, too,” said Jake. “Good fighters. Had to kill a few in the Big War. That’s why I couldn’t be a chief. Moscondaga chiefs can’t have human blood on their hands.”

  “You couldn’t be a chief because you live in the past, you believe in fairy tales.”

  Jake stood up. “What’s your excuse?”

  “Huh?”

  “For feeling sorry for yourself, for letting life happen to you ’stead of grabbing at it. You got a chance here, get in shape, learn to box, maybe be a fighter. Brooks thinks you can really do it. I’m not so sure. You got the worst of both sides.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “The white side thinks you’re too good to work hard, and the Indian side thinks you’re not good enough to make it.”

  Around them the Reservation stirred, cars growled to life, doors slammed, stoves clattered. Sonny felt naked.

  “Now you got to get the best of both sides.” Jake slapped his arm. “Get some clothes on. Make you breakfast.”

  Jake was waiting for him on the back porch with pitchers of water and orange juice and a large bowl of oatmeal. A golden coin of honey stared up from the center of the cereal. “Soothe your stomach. Start drinking eight glasses of water every day, two glasses of juice.”

  Jake watched him eat. “Walk around the house to digest, then go back to sleep. When you wake up, we’ll go for a little run.”

  He followed Jake’s pointing finger past the auto junkyard to the hills of Moscondaga, green in the morning sun, striped with twisting brown trails. “Each day we run a little more, carry more weight. One day we’ll run up to Stonebird. Leave you there.”

  The oatmeal soothed his stomach. Jake mixed water and juice in a glass. It went down easy. He felt better.

  “After the solo, you be ready.”

  “For Donatelli’s Gym?”

  “To follow the Hawk,” said Jake.

  12

  PAIN CHEWED AT every angle and crevice of his body. His toes hurt, his hips hurt, his eyelids. A hammer pounded his swollen red scars. But Jake pushed him through it. “’S okay, just pain,” he’d say, and they’d jog on along the trail, Jake humming, Sonny gasping. His hands ached from squeezing chunks of tire rubber from the junkyard to build up his wrists and forearms. His insteps were raw from the dawns’ bare-foot stick dances.

  The first week was a blur. Jake shook him awake at first light and dragged him outside to stretch and bend and twist until skin and muscle and tendon burned. Then they would kick the sticks from foot to foot and back and forth between them in ever more complicated patterns. After breakfast and a long walk, there would be word games and string games, then a run. The rising sun softened the edges of his mind, like a flame on wax. He thought only of his training now, each day denser, more difficult, more painful. He chopped wood to build up his shoulders and back. He leaped across the creek, from slippery stone to slippery stone, to improve his balance. He sensed they were being watched by others on the Res, he thought of the wolves and mountain lions of Whitmore. Jake didn’t seem to care. Once, when they both noticed the sudden glint of sunlight on the distant lenses of binoculars, Jake just chuckled and said, “Chiefs’ll send someone over soon, check us out.”

  He helped Jake in the junkyard. They prospected through the acres of crumpled cars for an odd part someone had called for, a dashboard gauge from a rare imported car, an antique hood ornament, the motor from a discontinued model. He enjoyed working with Jake, feeling useful. They didn’t talk much, pulling away rotting seat cushions, grunting as small animals leaped out to set the dogs barking ferociously in pursuit, straining together to lift out an engine.

  A good find meant they’d drive into Sparta to deliver the part, then use some of the cash for a load of meat and vegetables and fruit, and on the way back a video cassette, sometimes the karate movies Jake liked, often a boxing tape. They would watch until one of them began to yawn.

  At night Jake sat on the edge of Sonny’s bed, pressing his thumbs into the tender muscles of Sonny’s legs and back, kneading out the pain, crooning stories.

  “One time, on a mission for the Nation, my grandfather got bit on the leg by a rattler. Knew if he kept moving, poison go to his heart. So he shut himself down. Put himself into the ‘little death.’ Closed down his veins and arteries, slowed his breathing to just enough to keep his brain alive. Saw the suns rise and fall but he couldn’t count ’em. Lay there all alone ’cept for his spirit. The Hawk kept watch over him. Finally, his brother Running Braves found him, sucked out the poison and carried him to a medicine man.”

  “Fairy tale,” mumbled Sonny, sliding into sleep under Jake’s massaging fingers.

  And then it was time to get up again, to kick the stick and run, to chop wood, to leap from slippery stone to slippery stone along the creek.

  One of the younger subchiefs finally strolled into the yard, pretending to look for an engine part.

  “Seen you runnin’.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Got a fight?�
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  “Not right away.”

  “Watch yourself now.”

  “What’s that mean?” snapped Jake.

  “Heard about Hillcrest.”

  “Robbed his fight,” said Jake.

  “Don’t need no more enemies,” said the subchief.

  “Not with you for a friend,” said Jake.

  The dogs crowded around, growling at the harshness in their voices. The subchief shrugged and walked away.

  Jake raised his voice so the subchief could hear him. “His grandfather sat on the Council when they banned the Braves.”

  Sonny was surprised by the fury in Jake’s voice. “That was a long time ago.”

  “Some things don’t change,” said Jake. “That’s why this ain’t Onondaga or Mohawk, where they got strong chiefs.”

  Sonny laughed. “That’s why you live by yourself, nobody comes to visit.”

  Jake grinned. “Let ’em think I’m just a crazy old Redskin hearing footprints. Be real surprised one day.”

  That night they watched a video cassette of Muhammad Ali’s greatest fights. Sonny was surprised at the chances Ali took in the ring, leaning back from punches instead of letting them slip past him.

  “Hard to learn boxing from him,” said Jake. “He had his own special way. But you can learn from him outside the ring. He was of his people. White man gave him a hard time, tried to make him give up his religion, join the Army, say things he didn’t believe. Wouldn’t let him fight for a long time. But he stood up for what he thought was right.”

  Later, massaging Sonny’s legs in bed, Jake said, “Some black people gave Ali a hard time, too. Everybody’s got an idea what you should be, especially if you get big. Maybe you find out, Sonny.” He slapped his thigh. “Now sleep.”

  And then one morning he sat up in bed before Jake arrived. It was still dark, that cool, silent moment before dawn in the hour of the wolf.

  Something was different. He waited until his eyes cleared of sleep and adjusted to the moonlight streaming through the window before his eyes cut a path around the room and out into the yard. Nothing. He listened until the night sounds separated and became distinct, the chatter of the bird talk and the rhythm of insects and the rustle of grass and tree branch. Familiar. He felt the breeze lift the hairs on his arms and he tasted its moisture. He sniffed the scents of different firewoods. Nothing new there.